Its Still Fucking Tuesday

Hunter:

Hunter is clingiest after long/particularly intense missions. You soothe him a lot, and the first thing he does when he sees you again is pull you into his arms and bury his face in your neck, trying to engulf his senses in you

He really just wants to be as close as humanly possible to you. Particularly likes lying on his stomach with his arms around your waist and his face buried against your chest. Sometimes that's all he wants, just to rest/sleep like that, completely pressed against you

Other times, he gets handsy. His clinginess/neediness comes across like impatience, his hands slipping under your shirt to roam over your skin greedily. Presses his face into your neck, pressing hot, messy kisses along your skin as he groans "please, baby…"

In moments like this, he would do pretty much anything you asked of him. He just needs to be touching you, needs to fill his senses with you. There are a few things that drive him especially crazy though: playing with/pulling his hair, or dropping your voice to something really quiet/soft and giving him an instruction like "look at me" or "hands behind your back"

Occasionally really likes playing around with sensory deprivation specifically through blindfolding. It forces him to focus entirely on the feeling of your hands on him, the sound of your voice against his ear. He gets so worked up he visibly trembles, every touch feeling so much more intense when he can't see it coming

Gets really vocal when he's being dominated. At any other time, he keeps his noises to a minimum, more just like heavy breathing and quiet grunts. When he's feeling needy and submissive, though, he lets the whole stoic soldier thing slip entirely. Is a whimperer. Will moan so much he'll feel the need to try to stifle it against a pillow or your neck. Pull on his hair and force him to look you in the eye and he'll break. Might just sob and beg you for more :)

Loves giving you oral in general but if you're particularly demanding about it it drives him crazy. Wants you to tangle your hand in his hair and yank his head down. Mutters praises or pleas between your thighs: "you taste so good, baby" or a breathless "tell me to keep going, tell me you like it"

Lets you play with his knife with him, letting you drag the cold metal of the flat side along his overheated skin, tracing the lines of scars or tattoos along his chest. Turn the knife and use just a tiny bit of pressure, not enough to break skin but enough for him to feel the potential, and massage his cock with your other hand. He'll be a panting, moaning, whimpering mess

Tech:

Gets a little needy when he's mentally overstimulated or coming down from intense focus. Doesn't even really realize it, he just knows that he needs to be near you. Likes to pull you into his lap and hold you close with an arm around your waist. Wants the tactile input of your body to keep him from getting lost in his own head

Will get mildly annoyed if you try to get up/stop touching him, his grip on you tightening a little as he dryly asks if you're uncomfortable or require something

When Tech is feeling really clingy/needy, he likes when you tell him what to do. It's often when he's mentally exhausted so having you direct him is almost kinda soothing. Guide his hands to show him how you want him to hold you, tell him to kiss you, tell him to take his armor off, etc.

Having you boss him around is almost kind of an aphrodisiac for him tbh lol. It gets him all hot and bothered if you take on a really authoritative tone and tell him what to do. And when he's feeling particularly needy, he doesn't even talk back where he typically would. He just goes still, heart rate spiking, and then obeys whatever it is you told him to do

He's really linguistically driven tbh and dirty talk kinda almost hits him harder than some physical stimulation sometimes. Describe exactly what you're doing to him or what you want him to do and he loves it, but he especially loves when you use praise mixed with commands. Getting him so worked up that he finally stops talking for once and then telling him that he's being so good and quiet for you, or telling him specific things that you love about the way he's responding. His words will get all clippy and his voice goes up higher and breathier as he tries to respond

Gives a lot of attention to your neck and chest, kisses getting a little sloppy where they'd normally be very precise around your sensitive spots. His own need spikes significantly when you do the same because his chest and nipples are extremely sensitive. Pin his wrists down and focus your attention to his chest and he will lose all composure. Using your teeth or even just a firm rub of your palms over his chest will have him arching off the bed. Makes these small, high-pitched hitched sounds that he can't control

Sometimes he'll get so caught up in the sensations and your voice that he gets kinda sensory overloaded. But when he's in that submissive headspace he won't try to "fix" the problem, he'll just kinda whine and look at you for permission to let go. Likes when you tell him it's okay for him to cum

Is always pretty vocal about how much he loves you, telling you frequently and almost always addressing you as "love" or "darling", but when he's needy and submissive and trembling with pleasure sometimes all he can think to say is that he loves you, over and over and over in a shaky, broken voice

Generally after sex he's not overly affectionate but when he's feeling clingy he's like. Really clingy after. Holds you very firmly against him and again gets annoyed if you try to get up

Wrecker:

Wrecker is super physically affectionate, but that doesn't necessarily mean he's clingy, so when he actually does get all needy it's VERY noticeable. Doesn't just hug you, wants to lean his entire weight into you lol. He's careful cause he knows he's huge but he'll find ways to rest against you

Wants to just be kissed all over and told he's good/handsome/strong/whatever. Wants you to be super firm with him and hold him REALLY tight, like as tight as you possibly can like you're trying to crush him against you. He NEEDS it

Fucking loves when you praise him and craves it even more when he's feeling needy. Anything, from telling him he's doing some normal everyday thing well to during sex when you tell him how well he's taking it. Loves when you take charge and like ride him while telling him how good he feels and how big he is, he will literally start trembling, letting out really low, rough moans

Gets anxious if you're quiet and will literally beg for you to tell him how it feels. He wants to be told exactly how much he's pleasing you. Groans out "Is it good? Do you like when I do that? Tell me, baby, please tell me…"

Has insane stamina and his recovery time is almost nonexistent, and he LOVES when you take advantage of that. Wants you to use him till he's completely spent. He can handle a lot of intensity and he wants to see how many times you can make him cum. When you keep going even after he's finished, not stopping, not letting him gather himself, his voice breaks into breathless, gravelly sobs of pleasure. He WANTS to be completely overwhelmed by you

Likes when you use your authority to compensate for any size difference. Demand that he keep his hands behind his head or tell him he's not allowed to touch you while you use him, and just like the psychological weight of obeying you even though he's physically bigger/stronger makes him feel extremely needy. Will beg and beg and beg to touch you, babbling promises about fucking you harder or making you cum again if you just let him touch

Crosshair:

Crosshair is clingy/needy a lot, but would absolutely never admit it. You'd also never be able to guess if you were observing the two of you around other people. He keeps things pretty lowkey in public, doesn't cling, and touches are very subtle/not noticeable to other people. As soon as the two of you are alone, though, he is a BABY

He wants your attention on him in some way and he'll get it however he can. Anything from randomly poking you to literally just lying down and putting his head in your lap, waiting for you to touch him. Still acts like he's doing YOU a favor by letting you pet him

Wants you to hold him and kiss him and give him lots of praise even while he scoffs and rolls his eyes. He totally loses his edge when he's really needy though, just falls silent and lets you give him the affection he craves so badly

Still has a brat reflex, though. Will get pissy if you tease him and will sneer and tell you that your games aren't working even while he's trembling and leaking through his blacks. If you call his bluff and tell him that if he keeps talking like that he won't get anything at all he'll shut up instantly, jaw tight as he tries to swallow his pride

He will eventually lose his composure when the need outweighs his ego. He loses the sharp edge and actually gets messy. Pushes you down into the bed or crowds you against a wall, his kisses becoming deep and wet and desperate. Has a spit kink and makes a really strangled, needy sound if you spit into his mouth

Making Crosshair beg is, um. a feat of endurance. You have to get him right to the edge and keep him there till his brain shorts out. Deny him his orgasm till he's shaking, every muscle in his body tense, tears pricking the corners of his eyes, and then finally you might get a shaky, hissed, "just let me, please…"

Praise hits him even harder during sex. If you suddenly whisper something really sweet or praising or affectionate in his ear as you're fucking him his eyes will genuinely roll back and he'll struggle not to cum right then and there. Other times it makes him really emotional and he'll have to bury his face in your neck so you don't see his eyes get all glassy

Echo:

Generally very hesitant to be needy/clingy. He struggles sometimes to ask for comfort or touch but it helps him when you initiate. However, if he's been away on a mission or just hasn't seen you in a really long time, he can't help but get a little clingy

Kinda just hovers a lot when he's feeling needy, stealing little touches and little kisses whenever he sees an opportunity. This progresses as you indulge him though, and he gets a little bolder with his touches, hand tightening on your waist as he slants his mouth over yours and kisses you a little more insistently than usual

Lovessss your neck. When he's needy he'll press his face against it and just breathe. He'll leave soft, lingering butterfly kisses along your jawline, moving so slowly it's almost agonizing, just waiting for you to tilt your head back and give him better access so he can get to work on your neck

Could spend hours just exploring your body with his hand and mouth, treating every curve and mark like it's sacred. Loves worshipping your thighs in particular, trailing soft, wet kisses along your inner thighs, nipping at the sensitive skin to leave really faint marks

Cockwarming is a favorite of his since he loves the intimacy of being inside you and just staying there, but it's SO difficult for him when he's needy. Will try to keep still and be good for you, but you'll feel him trembling faintly, breath hitching as he tries not to thrust. Tries to grind his hips against yours for just a little friction and lets out a low, frustrated groan when you stop him, burying his face in your neck as he quietly begs for you to let him move

If Echo wakes up feeling touch-starved and you're into this, he'll put his mouth to work on you before you've even fully woken up. You'll wake up to him between your legs, his eyes shut as he indulges himself on you, letting out a muffled sound of satisfaction as you stir awake with a moan

Bad Batch

Hunter:

It wasn't that Hunter had totally missed all your hints, it was that he'd filed them all away under later. He wants to marry you, of course he does, but the desire just sort of gets pushed to the back of his mind as he focuses on other things. Still, he knows something is up the second you come walking through the door with that garment bag slung over your arm, your cheeks a little flushed. He glances up at you, raising his eyebrows.

"What'd you get?" he asks, casually.

You beam. "Hmm, nothing too exciting. You wanna see?"

He huffs a quiet chuckle. "Always."

You grin, and disappear into the other room. A few minutes later, you reemerge…and Hunter's throat goes dry. Because he knows what that dress is. He's seen enough holos, enough glimpses of civilian life to recognize it instantly, even if it feels surreal to have you suddenly standing in front of him looking like that.

"Mesh'la…" the word slips out before he can stop it, his voice lower than usual. His eyes drag over you again, drinking you in like he's trying to memorize every detail. "Is this…" he starts, then stops, jaw tightening. He steps closer, bringing his hand gently to your waist. "You look…" he trails off again. Words aren't enough. He huffs. "…You could've just said."

You just shrug, smiling, and loop your arms around his neck. "Do you like it?"

Hunter exhales, something soft and almost disbelieving leaving him as his forehead dips to rest against yours. "Like it?" he murmurs, a quiet huff of a laugh following. "I--" He cuts himself off, shaking his head, words failing him for the fourth time. "…If this is you asking," he finally murmurs, a smile tugging the corner of his mouth, "then the answer's yes. Been yes for a long time."

____________

Tech:

Tech barely looks up as you walk in, focused on whatever he's working on. "You were gone longer than I anticipated," he remarks absently. "Did you encounter--"

He stops mid-sentence when you step fully into view, and there is a long, long pause as he just…stares, his eyes flicking over you as you stand in front of him in a wedding dress. "…I believe," he finally starts slowly, brows knitting behind his goggles, "that…attire is associated with, ah, matrimonial ceremonies." His gaze lifts to your face, searching. "…I seem to have missed something."

You laugh, smoothing down the dress and then shrugging one shoulder. "Mhm. That's one way to put it."

Tech exhales through his nose, a faint frown pulling at his mouth as he sets his tools aside. "Yes, well," he mutters, almost to himself, "this implies a series of preceding conversational cues which evidently, I did not register." His gaze drops briefly, irritation flickering not at you, but his own oversight. But then he looks back at you, and his expression softens again, gaze travelling over your attire. "…However, the practical implications of my error are…not entirely negative."

You roll your eyes and step closer. "'Not entirely negative'?" you echo skeptically. "That doesn't sound like a ringing endorsement."

Tech's hands immediately find your hips as you step over to him, his eyes slowly travelling up to your face. "You look…exceptional," he finally says instead, a little quieter. "You are…strikingly well-suited to this particular garment."

There's another pause, his thumbs gently rubbing your hips where his hands are resting. "I would prefer," he adds after a moment, his gaze flicking over you again, "to observe you in it again under conditions that properly contextualize its intended purpose."

He swallows, and then, more plainly: "In other words, I'd very much like to marry you."

_______________

Wrecker:

Wrecker looks up the second you get back from your shopping, immediately grinning. "Hey, you're back! What'd you get?" His eyes drop curiously to the garment bag you're carrying as he insists that you let him see. You hesitate just enough to make it obvious you're being very intentional about this, and his grin just widens. "What, is it something secret?" he teases, already reaching for it.

When you show him the dress, he blinks…and then starts laughing, looking at you with bright, delighted disbelief. "Is…is that what I think it is?" he asks, a mixture of bewildered and amused. "You planning something I should know about?"

You just cross your arms, trying and failing to look unimpressed. "Maybe I am," you say playfully. "What about it?"

Wrecker just laughs again, shaking his head. "Well, I'm pretty sure that usually--" he starts, and then playfully drops down onto one knee in front of you. "--you're supposed to get me to do this before buying one of those."

You give an amused, fond huff. "Wrecker, I tried."

"Oh." He pauses, blinking up at you as all those hints you dropped that he missed start registering in his brain. "…Ohhhh." He scratches the back of his neck, a little sheepish, but still smiling. "Heh…guess I missed that."

He stays on his knee in front of you though, his hands skimming up your hips and sides. "But…you mean it?" he asks, a touch quieter. "You wanna marry me?"

You smile down at him, cupping his face in your hands. "Yeah, I wanna marry you," you say, like it's the most obvious thing in the galaxy.

Wrecker breaks into the biggest grin you've ever seen, shooting up to his feet and scooping you up in his arms in a crushing hug. Then, his gaze catches on the dress again, and he puts you down.

"…So, uh," he adds, nudging you toward the dress, "you gonna try it on for me or what? C'mon, I wanna see!"

____________________

Crosshair:

Crosshair barely glances up when you come in, rifle half-disassembled in his hands, attention fixed on the fine calibration of a component. "You're late," he mutters, tone absent, more observation than complaint.

You don't answer. You just hover in the doorway and shift your weight, fidgeting with the garment bag you're holding. Crosshair notices, his eyes flicking up to look at you, catching the way you're clearly waiting for him to ask something. "…You're being obvious," he drawls.

"Aren't you curious?" you ask innocently, rocking on your heels.

"No," Crosshair responds easily, looking back down. "Whatever you got, I'll see you in it eventually."

You huff at that, shifting the bag a little more pointedly. "Wow. Not even a little interested?"

Crosshair's lips twitch a little. He adjusts something on the rifle before giving a long-suffering sigh. "Spit it out, then. What is it?"

Your grin is immediate. "My wedding dress."

He freezes completely, his gaze snapping over to you a little suspiciously, like he's trying to figure out if you're messing with him. "…Your what?"

You lift your chin, unrepentent, unzipping the bag just enough for him to see you're serious. "My wedding dress."

Crosshair just…stares at you. Blinks a couple of times, gaze flicking between you and the dress, his hands gripping his rifle components a little tighter than before. Then, finally, he scoffs. "That's one way to do it," he says dryly. "Skips the part where I get to ask."

You tilt your head. "Oh? You were planning on it?"

His eyes narrow slightly. "Obviously," he mutters, setting his rifle aside and standing up. "But I suppose this saves me the trouble."

You soften a little as he steps close and places his hands on your shoulders, leaning down to kiss your forehead.

"Keep it," he murmurs. "You'll need it."

_____________________

Echo:

"Echo?" you call, like it's nothing, like you're not currently standing in a full wedding dress. "Can you come here a second?"

There's a brief pause, and then the sound of footsteps. "Yeah? What's--" He stops in the doorway, frozen. His eyes sweep over you like his brain is trying to catch up with what he's seeing, and then his mouth twitches. "…What-- did you-- is this--?" he stammers, bewildered. "Where in the galaxy did you find that?"

You shrug, smoothing your hands down the skirt. "Oh, you know. Just picked this up when I went shopping earlier."

Echo huffs a short, disbelieving breath, still frozen in the doorway. "Is this…some kind of joke?" he manages, eyeing you suspiciously.

You glance at him, raising an eyebrow. "Not a joke," you say, a little more softly now. "This is what I'm wearing when we get married."

That stops him cold, all the skepticism draining right out of his expression, replaced with something even more disoriented. "When we--" he repeats, blinking. His brow furrows, a little crease forming. "You bought a wedding dress," he says slowly, like he's trying to process each word individually, "before actually…talking to me about it?"

You shrug. "I figured we'd get around to that part."

Echo drags a hand over his face, a faint groan slipping out. "That seems…that seems a little backwards, sweetheart."

But he can't help the way his eyes drop over you again, nor the way he softens all at once as he really takes you in. He sighs, stepping closer, bringing his hand up to rest at your waist. "…And here I thought I wasn't supposed to see you in that before the wedding."

You snort softly. "Too late now."

"Yeah," he agrees gently, leaning in to press a brief, soft kiss to your lips. "Guess I'll just have to see it again when it counts."

_______________

Commanders

Cody:

Cody greets you as soon as you step through the door like he always does, his hand finding your jaw and tilting your face up just enough to press a brief kiss to your lips. "You're back," he murmurs, pulling away just enough to look at you. His gaze drops to the garment bag over your arm, and one brow lifts. "Get something fancy?"

You smile, a little too pleased with yourself. "Yeah. You could say that."

That's enough to hook his curiosity. "Well, can I see?" he asks, giving you a look.

You hum noncomittally, as if you're considering not letting him, but you pull the zipper down anyway so he can see…and he goes still.

"I--" he starts, his eyes snapping back up to yours like he's been caught completely off guard. "Is that--? You--" he exhales sharply, dragging a hand down his face. "You bought a wedding dress?"

You tilt your head, watching him spiral just a little. "Maybe."

Cody straightens, sucking in a breath like he's pulling himself back into command mode even if it's not quite sticking. "Right. Okay. No-- no, don't--" he gestures vaguely at the bag. "Don't show me. I shouldn't see it."

You blink. "You just did."

"We'll call that an accident," he insists quickly. "Doesn't count." He points at you, still a little flustered. "We're…we're pretending this didn't happen."

Your brow furrows a little, your turn to be confused. "We…are?"

"Yes," Cody says firmly. But then, softer, almost under his breath, "I had a plan."

You exhale slowly, catching on, as Cody's expression eases just a little as well. His hand returns to your jaw, tilting your face up towards his again. "…When I propose," he adds, quieter, a hint of a smile tugging at his mouth now, "it's gonna be a surprise. So…forget this conversation ever happened."

And then he kisses you again.

_____________________

Wolffe:

Wolffe barely spares the garment bag a glance when you walk in. His focus is on you as he steps in close, one hand coming up to cup your jaw while he presses a firm kiss to your lips. "You took longer than I thought," he mutters, almost a little accusatory, before pulling away just enough to look you over. His gaze flicks to the bag for a second. "What'd you get?" he asks, more out of habit than actual interest.

You shrug, just a little too casual. “Something nice.”

His eyes narrow slightly, tilting his head as he studies you, suspicion creeping into his expression. "…What did you do?"

You grin, shifting the bag just enough to make it obvious.

Wolffe exhales through his nose, reaching out and unzipping the bag just enough to reveal the dress. There's a moment where he just stares, and then his expression goes flat. "…You've got to be kidding me." He pinches the bridge of his nose. "A wedding dress," he mutters. "You went out and bought a wedding dress?"

"Yeah," you say lightly.

Wolffe frowns, his gaze flicking between you and the dress, as if agitated. "You couldn't wait?" he mutters, voice rougher than usual. "Couldn't have a conversation first? Let me do this properly?"

You blink at him. "Properly?"

"Yeah, properly," he repeats, like it should be obvious. There's a pause, and then his shoulders drop a little as he looks at you again. Something softer flickers for just a second. "You could've let me give you the ring first," he says, quieter but very pointedly.

Your eyes go wide with surprise. "…You have the ring? I thought that-- I thought you hadn't realized--"

He scoffs, cutting you off, his hands settling on your waist as he pulls you in. "Of course I have the ring. You really think I wasn't gonna ask?"

_____________________

Fox:

Fox steps into the bedroom with a tired exhale, helmet tucked under his arm, shoulders tense from his long day. "I'm back," he mutters automatically, running a hand through his hair as the door shuts behind him.

"Welcome home," you say lightly.

He hums, barely looking up as he starts unfastening his armor, walking past you. Then he stops. Freezes. Takes two steps back, blinking hard like his brain just lagged.

"…What are you wearing."

You turn to face him, smoothing your hands down the wedding dress you're trying on. "This old thing?"

Fox shoots you a glare, but it's softened by tired confusion. "…Why?" Is all he manages.

You hum, tilting your head. "What? You don't like it?"

"That's not the point," he snaps, setting the pieces of armor he was holding on the nearest surface. He drags a hand over his face. "Where did you get that? Why do you have that?"

You shrug, entirely too calm. "I bought it."

Fox stares at you, his jaw working. He almost looks pissed, but you know he isn't. "You bought a…you bought a wedding dress? Without…what, without telling me? Discussing it? Anything?"

You hesitate just long enough to annoy him more. He exhales sharply, stepping forward and tilting your chin up so you look at him. "What's going on?'

You finally crack, a smile tugging at your mouth. "It's for when we get married."

Fox exhales again, swallowing hard, his gaze traveling over you. His irritation doesn't disappear, but it turns into something more incredulous and maybe a little warmer. "You are unbelievable."

Then he cups your face in both hands and kisses you firmly, thoroughly, like he's trying to get you to make up for catching him off guard. It lingers just long enough to leave you both breathless when he finally pulls back. He presses his forehead briefly against yours. "You could've just said," he mutters.

Xavier: Found something. Thought it might look good on your bed.

You tap the link eagerly, expecting a picture of some ridiculously soft, oversized penguin or maybe a weirdly cute dragon. You’re already mentally carving out a space for it on your bed.

The link loads. You blink.

Then you blink again.

Your thumb freezes mid scroll. It is not a penguin. It is definitely not a dragon. It is an explicitVIDEO that makes your entire face turn red in approximately 0.5 seconds.

Just as the girl in the video lets out a soft moan, your phone vibrates again. This time, it’s a frantic succession of messages.

Xavier: Wait, did that go through?

Xavier: The link?

Xavier: Please tell me you didn't click that yet.

You look at the video one last time before quickly locking your phone and pressing the cool glass against your burning cheek.

🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟

He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. The look in his deep blue eyes is heavy, dark, and entirely unapologetic.

The transition from his accidental text to both of you completely naked in your bed happens in less than 10 minutes. Because you’ve only been intimate for a few weeks, there’s still this electric, terrifying novelty to it, the way your heart hammers against your ribs when his hands touch your skin.

He’s behind you, his body acting as a warm, solid anchor. His skin is hot against yours, a seamless fit that feels like it was designed by the universe itself. But it’s what he’s doing, the agonizing patience of it that is pushing you toward the edge of madness.

He isn't fucking you. Not yet.

He's doing exactly what you saw on that video. He’s sliding his cock between your thighs, the slick, heavy length of him dragging slowly against you. Every single time he thrusts, the tip of him catches the little hood of your clit before dragging the lenght of his cock across your most vulnerable spot with a precision that feels soooo good.

"Xavie..." you moan, your voice breaking, a plea you can't quite finish.

"Shh," his breath is hot, uneven, smelling faintly of mint. His lips brush the sensitive curve of your neck. "Just breathe, bunny. Let it build."

He pulls back, nearly losing contact entirely, only to slide forward again, with enough pressure to make your eyes roll back.

"I've been thinking about this," he whispers, his lips brushing your earlobe, sending a violent shiver down your spine. "For months"

You let out a choked sob, head falling back against his shoulder. "You're so beautiful when you're desperate, you’re close, aren't you?"

His voice vibrates against your skin and the smile you can feel against your pulse point is nothing short of predatory. He knows. He’s always known exactly where you are, even when you’re too lost in the haze of pleasure to find the words.

You try to answer, but your voice is trapped somewhere in the back of your throat, drowned out by the thrum of your heartbeat. You don't speak, and he thrives on that silence. To him, your quiet isn't an absence, it’s an admission. It’s the honest, raw truth of a body that has been pushed past its limit and is now screaming for a release it can't quite grasp.

His hand slides down from your ribs to settle firmly on your waist. His grip is certain, unyielding and controlled anchoring you to the mattress so you can’t squirm away.

He presses a kiss to your neck. Once. Slow. Then again, lower, his lips grazing the curve where your shoulder meets collarbone. The heat of it enough to make you arch backward, your spine curving into him, while the dirty intent of his touch makes you clench around the empty air.

"Ask me, bunny," you try to find your voice, but all that comes out is a breathless hitch in your lungs. Seeing your struggle, he doesn't let you off the hook. He reaches up, his fingers tangling in your hair to gently but firmly tilt your head back toward him. He never breaks the rhythm, he angles his hips with precision, pressing the length of his cock harder against your clit, forcing a loud moan from your lips directly into his mouth.

"Use your words," he insists, his eyes dark and hooded, watching the way your expression fractures.

The words tumble out of you, wrecked and desperate, "I want to cum, Xavie... please..."

His lips crash against yours, but the sweetness is gone. He kisses you like his patience has finally grown teeth, hungry and sharp. His hand moves to your thigh, pressing down firmly to maximizing the friction, ensuring every single nerve ending is on fire, making sure you feel every bit of what you asked for.

The world simply ceases to exist. You both break at the exact same moment. You’re gasping, your hands instinctively flying to your own breasts, squeezing them as you chase the peak, your fingers digging into your skin for any extra stimulation you can find.

"There you are..." he whispers against your lips as he spills over your thighs, your cunt, and the damp sheets beneath you. He holds you there, pinning you to the moment, letting the aftershocks roll through you until your muscles begin to tremble into stillness.

When the world begins to drift back into focus, a languid warmth settling over your limbs, a realization begins to dawn on you. He didn't just give you an orgasm. He found a hidden part of you, the part that craves to be unraveled, the part that wants to be ruined slowly and meticulously and he taught it to answer to him, and him alone.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz

Caleb [14:22]: Found a recipe for a honey glazed salmon. Reminded me of that place we went to last week.

You’re supposed to be working on a pile of halfway finished reports on your desk but he’s been rambling about dinner for the past hour.

Caleb [14:23]: Let's try it tonight. Let me know if it looks okay to you.❤️

A link follows.

You tap it, expecting a colorful food blog or maybe one of those YouTube tutorials with a soft acoustic soundtrack. Your brain practically short circuits.

A VIDEO loads instantly. It’s not salmon. It's a girl, sprawled out on a bed, and there’s a man, looming over her as he... well, he's fucking her face. The girl is looking straight up at him, eyes glazed and heavy lidded, completely lost in it. The sound of the video starts to play before you can find the volume button.

"Oh my god," you whisper, frantically trying to close the tab.

Was this a joke? Or maybe a very, very subtle hint? Did the great Colonel Caleb actually just fumble the most embarrassing mistake of his entire life?

Bzzzz

Caleb [14:26]: Pips. The link was wrong. Ignore that. It was supposed to be a cooking blog. Please delete it.

You could pretend you didn't see a single thing and let him stew in his own embarrassment all day. You could let him suffer.

But then again... he did say he wanted to try something new tonight.

You type out a quick reply, heart racing just a little bit.

“The recipe looks good. Do you think we have all the ingredients?😉"

🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎

The dim light of the bedroom catches the violet of his eyes, making them look entirely too satisfied. He’s hovering over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world, leaving you in a private universe where the only thing that exists is his weight and the heat of his cock.

His hands frame your face. "Look at me, baby,"

He guides himself to your lips and begins to slide in. He moves slowly, testing your limits, watching your eyes widen as you try to adjust.

"God, you look so good like this," he breathes, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. "With your mouth so full of me..."

The praise makes your head swim and your throat tighten.

"I should have done this sooner... I should have stopped playing the gentleman and just taken what's mine."

His slow pace breaks, and he thrusts deeper, a sudden surge that hits the back of your throat. Your eyes water instantly, an involuntary gag catching in your chest when your body tries to protest the sudden fullness.

"Silly girl," he coos, not pulling back. He stays right there, buried deep "Don't fight it. Just breathe through your nose"

He waits until he sees your nostrils flare, until you take a shaky, shallow breath through your nose, eyes locking onto his.

The moment you manage it, the tension in his shoulders melt "Theeeere we go," he whispers, giving you one more deep, slow slide, making sure you feel every inch of him. "Such a fast learner. My perfect... fuck... perfect girl."

The need to see just how far you can push him takes over and instead of just taking him, you begin to draw him in, sucking your cheeks in slowly, creating tight pressure around him.

A groan rips from his throat and his hands, which were previously just guiding your head, suddenly dig into your hair, fingers knotting into the strands with a force that almost hurts.

"Fuck, Pips..." his head falls back for a split second before he snaps his gaze back to yours "I didnt teach you that..."

He loses the battle with his own restraint and his hips begin to move with punishing speed. Every time the tip of his cock hits the very back of your throat you can feel the involuntary reflex of your throat tightening and saliva begins to pool at the corners of your lips. It’s messy but it’s exactly what he wants.

"Look at you," he pants, reaching down to catch a stray drop of saliva and smearing it across your chin "So messy for me. You're dripping all over yourself because you can't get enough. You want it all, don't you?."

Your lungs are screaming, your chest heaving in search for oxygen, but you don’t care. The burning in your throat is nothing compared to the sight of him right now, his eyes blown wide, his jaw locked, his face twisted with a kind of agony and ecstasy that he’d never show anyone else.

He’s on the edge. You can feel it in the way his thighs are trembling and he starts to pull away.

Your fingers dig into the hard, tensed muscles of his ass and with a sharp tug, you yank him back inside, slamming him against your face.

The sudden change in pressure snaps the last of his restraint. He doesn't fight you, he doesn't even try. He just collapses into the sensation, his entire body shuddering as he finally lets go.

You feel the first hot, thick burst of him erupt in the back of your throat, a sudden flood that makes you choke and gag, eyes watering.

"Fuck, I can't.. I... " he's shaking all over, his fingers bruising your scalp as he rides out the waves of release.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn't move far. He lingers, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his eyes searching yours.

 "You really won't let me have anything for myself, will you? he whispers, his voice rough and ruined. "You just have to take it all."

Your workday has been a total slog. Between the endless briefings at the Association and the exhaustion of keeping up with Wanderers, your brain feels like it’s been through a blender. All you can think about is getting home, kicking off your boots, and maybe if you’re lucky getting a moment of peace.

Until your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You pull it out, expecting a tactical update or maybe a nagging message from your supervisor, but it’s a text from Rafayel.

Rafayel: "My darling, my muse, my precious bodyguard, don't you dare go home and sleep yet”  the text reads, followed by a string of dramatic, pouting emojis. “Remember I have an exhibition today! It’s a secret location, very exclusive, very avant garde. You simply MUST come by after your shift. It’s going to be breathtaking, just like you. Don't be late, or I might actually die of loneliness. Here is the location!" 👇

LINK

You smile, a little warmth spreading through your chest despite the fatigue. He’s so much, truly, but he has a way of making the mundane parts of your life feel colorful. You tap the link, expecting a Google Maps pin or a sleek digital invite to a high end gallery in Linkon City.

Instead, your screen loads a video.

You aren't looking at a gallery. You are looking at a naked woman perched on a chair, looking entirely too comfortable, while a man, in front of her, puts on a very intense performance. The camera zooms in just as he reaches the grand finale, a messy orgasm that ends up all over the woman's legs, stomach and breasts.

You stare at the screen. You stare at the ceiling. You stare at the wall.

Did he... did he just send you a porn link?

Your phone vibrates again. A second text. Then a third. A fourth.

Rafayel: “Did you see it? The lighting is so evocative, don't you think?”

Rafayel: “The composition of the colors is quite striking.”

Rafayel: “Wait. Why aren't you responding? Are you mesmerized by the art? It's okay, take your time, it's quite a lot to take in"

Then, a final text arrives, and the tone shifts instantly from "pretentious artist" to "absolute disaster."

Rafayel:"Don't look at it! Close it! Close the tab! Throw the phone into the ocean! Forget everything you saw! It was a glitch! A spacetime anomaly! A Wanderer attack on my phone! "

You can’t help it. A snort escapes you, followed by a full blown fit of giggles that makes your coworkers glance over in confusion. You quickly type back a single, teasing reply.

You: “The lighting was lovely, Rafayel. Very... evocative.”

The "typing..." bubble appears immediately. It stays there for an agonizingly long time.

Rafayel: “I am literally dying. Bury me in the sand. Don't you dare come to the exhibition. Actually, come. But don't look at me. I'm never leaving my studio again.”

🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧

The exhibition was a triumph, of course. Rafayel was the star, basking in the praise of the elite, playing the part of the brilliant artist to perfection.

But now, the doors are locked, the lights are dimmed to a soft, amber glow and you aren't looking at his paintings anymore. You’re the centerpiece of a much more private gallery.

You’re perched on the edge of chair, your wrists pulled taut behind your back. He’d used a length of fine, crimson silk to bind them, tight enough to force your shoulders back and arch your spine, thrusting your chest forward, the cool air of the studio grazing your skin, making your nipples harden.

His hand is wrapped around himself, moving with a slow rhythm "You're staring, cutie," a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth "Is the view to your liking?"

You nod, looking up at him, licking your lips.

He lets out a shaky breath, his knuckles white as he grips himself. "I’ve spent my whole life trying to capture beauty on a flat surface. Trying to trap light and shadow and emotion in pigment and oil. But it's never enough. It’s always... static. It doesn't breathe. It doesn't react."

He moves closer, the heat from his body finally making contact with your open thighs. His gaze drops to your breasts, tracing the curve he’s forced you to present to him.

"But you..." He swallows hard, a low groan escaping his lips as he watches the way your chest heaves with every breath. "You are the only masterpiece that matters. I want to treat your skin like my finest silk and use your naked body as my own living canvas..."

He looks almost pained by need, his eyes wide and dark with a hunger that goes far beyond simple lust. He’s not just looking at a lover, he’s looking at his salvation.

"Every blush on your cheeks, every shiver that runs down your spine... that's the only art worth making."

His free hand moves to one of your breasts, thumb sweeping over your nipple with a pressure that is both worshipful and demanding. He watches the way your eyes flutter shut, memorizing the exact shade of your arousal.

"God, you're so beautiful it hurts," he whispers "Tell me you want it," the hand around his cock moves faster "Tell me you'll let me finish my work."

You don't make him wait. You lean forward as much as the silk allows, your voice a breathless rasp. "Fiinish it, Raf. Show me what you can do."

You can’t look away. You wouldn't even if you could.

A bead of translucent precum swells at the very tip of his cock, glistening like a misplaced jewel under the lights. The skin there is flushed a deep, angry rose, pulsing with the force of his arousal. His head is thrown back, his throat exposed and taut as he bites his lower lip to stifle the needy whimpers that threaten to spill from his lips.

He looks beautiful.

He’s close, so painfully close to the edge that you decide to push him. 

Even with your arms bound, you find a way to arch your back further, thrusting your chest toward him in an unspoken invitation. You offer yourself to him, presenting your bare skin as a landing site for his release. "Give it to me. All of it."

The sound of your voice, the invitation in your tone, is the final blow to his crumbling resolve. His body jolts with the force of his release and you watch as the heavy, hot ropes of him arc through the air, splattering across the expanse of your breasts. The heat of it is startling, a wet warmth that makes your skin tingle.

The moment the tension snaps, the strength drains right out of his legs. There is no grace in it just the heavy, unceremonious thud of his knees hitting the floorboards right between your thighs.

He stays there, head bowed, hair falling over his eyes in a dark, damp mess. But then, slowly, so slowly, he lifts his gaze.

His eyes, blown wide and shimmering with liquid heat, find yours at the exact same moment your tongue sweeps out to lick a drop of cum from the corner of your mouth.

When your eyes finally lock, you see the exact second his breath hitches again.

His pupils are so dilated they almost swallow the color of his irises, and a fresh wave of heat, a visible crimson surges up his neck and into his cheeks. He stares at your mouth, watching the way your tongue retreats, his gaze tracing the wet glisten you left behind.

"God..." he groans, the word a broken fragment of a thought "You're going to ruin me completely."

The vibration of your phone against the marble countertop is enough to make you jump. You’ve been nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee for the last twenty minutes, trying to shake off the lingering chill of the Linkon City winter, when the screen lights up with his name.

Sylus

[Sylus]: There’s a private auction tonight. High stakes. It starts in an hour. I’ve been tracking that specific protocore for weeks.

[Sylus] : I’ll send you the catalog link. Take a look. Tell me if the energy readings look as tempting to you as they do to me.

You tap the blue hyperlink, ready to nerd out a little and give him the professional opinion he wants from you.

The video player loads, and you nearly drop your phone.

It isn't a protocore.

It's a VIDEO of a man sprawled across rumpled sheets, his chest heaving as a woman jerks him off. She isn't looking at a camera, she’s looking at him.

The sounds hits you next, the wet friction of her hand, the groans the man lets out, overstimulated.

You bite your lip, a nervous, hysterical little laugh bubbling up in your throat. You can almost see his expression if he knew, that slight, elegant tilt of his head, the way he’d probably pinch the bridge of his nose in a rare moment of genuine embarrassment.

With trembling fingers, you start to type a reply.

You: Sylus... unless this protocore is incredibly well endowed and prone to making loud noises, I think you sent the wrong link.

The silence that follows is agonizing. You stare at the "read" receipt, your thumb hovering over the screen, half expecting the phone to burst into flames from the tension. You’ve spent months navigating his moods, his riddles, and his terrifyingly intense presence, but you’ve never quite known how to handle a moment where the power dynamic shifts so abruptly.

The little bubbles appear. He’s typing.

Is he going to ignore it? Is he going to double down with some devastatingly smooth line that will make you want to crawl under the rug?

A moment later, the notification pings.

Sylus:It seems my finger slipped. Or perhaps my subconscious is simply being more honest than my conscious mind intended.

A few seconds later, another message follows, one that feels much more like the man who watches you sleep with predatory tenderness.

Sylus: I'll be at your door in twenty minutes. Let's not bother with the protocore I think we've found something much more interesting to bid on.

🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛

You’ve been at this for thirty minutes and your already obsessed.

There is something intoxicating about the power you hold right now. You never realized that teasing a man like Sylus could be this much of a rush. His entire frame shudders, his muscles coiling like a spring about to snap. He’s right on the edge, his breath hitching and just when you think he’s about to break, you pull away.

Your leg is hooked firmly over one of his heavy thighs, a grounding weight that keeps his legs spread wide for you, exposing him completely to your whims. He’s using his Evol to wrap around his own wrists, binding his hands so he can’t reach out and grab you. He’s forcing himself to endure the torture you’re inflicting, all because he wants this. He wants to feel every second of the ache.

He also looks wrecked. It’s a sight you don't get to see often. Fine beads of sweat are beginning to glisten along his hairline and his eye is glowing a dangerous crimson, tracking your every move.

You lean forward, your hair brushing against his stomach, and as your mouth latches onto one of his nipples he throws his head back against the pillows, his entire body vibrating with the force of his loud groan.

You lift your hand, slowly, dragging your tongue across your entire palm in a long lick just to make him watch, just to make him feel the anticipation. Then, you slide your hand down, finally wrapping your fingers around his cock again.

His eyes roll back into his head when you return your mouth to his nipple, sucking with punishing pressure.

“Please... fuck... Please, kitten. Put me out of my misery.

You feel him tense again, his muscles turning to granite beneath your touch. You stop again.

The sudden absence of your warmth makes him let out a frustrated sound, but you aren't done playing yet. Instead of a full stroke, you just use your five fingers to tease the very tip of him, dragging your fingertips over the sensitive head, over and over again.

“You’ve been so good, Sy,” you coo, your voice a honeyed purr against his skin. “Do you think you deserve to cum?”

“Please, sweetie,” he chokes out. You can see his knuckles turning white as his fingernails dig deep into the palms of his hands “I’ve been... so good...”

He’s lost. The great Sylus, the man who sees everyone's deepest desires, is currently a slave to his own. He probably doesn't even realize he's begging.

"Should I keep you like this all night?" you ask, watching his eyes widen, pupils blown so large they swallow the iris. "It's what you wanted, after all, wasn't it?"

He opens his mouth, the words of a fresh plea already forming on his lips, but you don't give him the chance to speak. Your hand suddenly drops, gripping the thick base of his cock with a firm hold, and you begin to stroke him fast, hard, and relentless.

“I won’t, though,” you whisper, leaning in close so your breath fans over his ear, your voice dripping with a playful, dominant heat. “Because you've been such a good boy.”

The moment the praise leaves your lips, something in him snaps, his entire body arching off the bed in a violent, beautiful spasm.

Even when his muscles quiver with the aftershocks, you keep your hand moving, stroking him to overstimulation, pushing him right past the edge of pleasure.

The energy bindings that were holding his wrists apart simply vanish, dissolving into thin air when his willpower finally snaps.

The air is knocked from your lungs as your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, and suddenly, the man who was just begging is the man who is commanding.

He’s over you, his large hands pinning your wrists to the pillows on either side of your head.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" his nose brushes against yours, his breath smelling faintly of the cherry wine he loves so much. "Playing with me like a toy. Testing how much a man can take before he loses his mind."

His heavy, still sensitive cock slides between your thighs, a blunt reminder of exactly how much you just put him through. He looks absolutely lethal.

"You've had your fun, kitten," he murmurs, his grip on your wrists tightening just enough to let you know he's in total control now. "Now its my turn to see just how much you can take."

Zayne had been obsessing over that new bakery just a few blocks from your place, the kind of place that smells like heaven and costs way too much. He was mid text, rambling about the sourdough starter and the specific crumb structure of their croissants (of course he was), but he mentioned he’d send over the full menu link so you could decide on a weekend treat.

"Wait, let me send the link. They have a seasonal pastry list you'll love"

LINK

You tapped the blue link eagerly, expecting pictures of glazed danishes or maybe a list of gluten free muffins.

It was not a muffin.

It was a very loud, very explicit video of a man wrecking a woman with backshots, pulling out only for her to rip the condom off his cock so he could fuck her raw.

You: Zayne, there are no pastries in that link! There is only... a man. And a girl. And a very missing condom!

Zayne: ...

Zayne: Oh.

You: “Oh”? That’s all? You just sent me a full blown porn video in the middle of the afternoon!

Zayne: Stop. Please. I am currently in the middle of a ward round. A nurse just tried to look at my phone.

You: [Sends a laughing emoji]

Zayne: I'm coming over later. We are going to that bakery. And we are not talking about that "menu" until we have had at least two espressos. To settle my nerves.

You: Are you bringing the condom? Just kidding! Don't kill me!

Zayne: 🙄

🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺

The bakery was a lost cause. The sourdough was forgotten, the espresso was unbrewed, and the only thing "rising" in your apartment was Zayne's cock the moment he walked in and saw the way you were looking at him, flushed, eyes hazy, and, quite frankly, a mess.

Now, you were bent over the edge of your bed, your fingers digging into the mattress as he held you from behind.

"Zaynie, please!" you whimpered, your voice cracking. You were desperate, begging him to just stop being so careful, to just let go and give you what that video had promised. "Just... Take it off, Please!"

His hands gripped your hips with a strength that promised bruises. "Just because you’re on the pill doesn't mean the statistical probability of a mishap is zero. It’s... fuck... it's about risk management."

"Even in a committed relationship," he continued, his words punctuated by the rhythmic, wet slap of skin on skin, "one must account for... ah, god... hormonal fluctuations and the ... the unpredictability of the human reproductive system. It's not just about pregnancy, it's about...shit...it's about hygiene, and the prevention of... of unnecessary... fuck, you feel so good."

He was losing it. The doctor was losing the battle against the man. He was supposed to be lecturing you on biological safeguards, but the way he was cursing under his breath low, dirty words that he’d never say in the hospital halls told a different story.

"You're being... so difficult," he groaned, his fingers moving to your waist, pulling you back harder against him. "Trying to... to bypass all the... damn it... the precautions. Do you have any idea what you're doing to my concentration?."

He leaned forward, his teeth grazing the nape of your neck, his voice dropping to a commanding whisper. "Stay still. Let me... let me take care of this properly. Fuck, if you keep making those sounds, the condom is going to be the least of our worries."

"Who cares about the... the statistics, Zayne!" you gasped, your forehead pressed against the cool sheets. "Just... fuck, just give it to me! It’s just us, isn't it?

You were rambling, throwing out half baked excuses about how you will feel "more connected" or how the latex was a "distracting from the sensory input" basically using his own medical vocabulary against him just to get what you wanted. You were cursing, too, your language losing all its usual politeness as the friction and the heat drove you toward a breaking point.

Then, suddenly, the fullness vanished.

"Why did you stop?" you demanded, your voice small and wounded, eyes searching his. "Zayne, why did you... "

He was hovering over you, his chest heaving, his hair mussed in a way that was entirely uncharacteristic of the composed man you knew. He looked down at you with an expression that was almost exasperated, that specific, "are you actually serious right now?" look he gave you when you forgot your keys or ignored his health advice.

He didn't need to say the words. You lunged for it, your fingers trembling as you gripped him, ripping the condom off.

The moment he slid back into you, skin on skin, the sensation was nothing short of transcendental.

" Fuck!" you breathed out.

"God, finally," he growled back.

The sight of your cunt clinging to his cock was enough to shatter even the most disciplined mind. Zayne, the man who could maintain a steady hand while repairing a human heart, lost his grip on reality. The friction, the warmth, and the intimacy of being inside you without any barrier sent him over the edge far faster than he ever thought possible.

He stiffened and with a few deep thrusts that felt like they were reaching your throat he broke. A sound between a moan and a curse escaped him as he collapsed against you, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your neck.

When he pulled out Zayne wasn't looking at your face. He was staring, almost hypnotically, downward. His gaze was fixed on the junction of your thighs, watching with a quiet, intense fascination as the evidence of his release, thick and pearly, slowly leaked from your plump pussy, tracing a slow path down your skin. He looked mesmerized.

"You know," you said, voice dripping with playful sarcasm, "for a man so obsessed with 'risk management' and 'preventative measures'..." You paused looking at his flushed face. "Your breeding kink is really showing, Doctor."

He cried out, a raw, ragged sound as his orgasm tore through him, his body arching off the bed. Cum painted his stomach, and the sight of him completely wrecked and lost in pleasure, was enough to push you over the edge. You buried your face in Tony's neck, groaning his name as you cummed inside him.

Tony lay motionless, chest rising and falling in a rapid, shallow rhythm. His eyes were closed, his face pale.

"Tony?" You reached out and brushed a damp strand of hair from his forehead.

He didn't open his eyes. "I think…I think I saw the afterlife for a second there. It was surprisingly boring."

A small smile touched your lips. "You okay?"

"Peachy," he breathed, the word barely a whisper. "Just need a minute. Or a week. Definitely a week."

You watched him, your chest swelling with a fierce, protective love. He was so beautiful like this. Vulnerable, sated, and completely yours. But you also knew the look that was beginning to settle on his face.

You shifted onto your side, propping your head up on your hand. "Don't start."

One eye cracked open. "Start what? I'm not starting anything. I'm just decompressing. A man is allowed to decompress after being practically fucked into a new dimension."

"I can hear the gears turning from here. You're thinking about how you're in your fifties and I'm, well, this." You gestured vaguely to your own still perfect physique.

He finally opened both eyes and the vulnerability there made your heart ache. "Can you blame me? I feel like I've been hit by a truck. A very persistent, very well endowed truck. And you look like you could go for round three right now."

You leaned in, kissing him softly, a stark contrast to the raw intensity from moments before. "But I want you."

"You have me," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly. "But for how long? One day you're going to wake up and realize you're shacked up with a relic. An old man who can't even keep up with his boyfriends stamina."

You felt a surge of anger, not at him, but at the cruel voice in his head that told him these lies.

You moved then, shifting to hover over him. You framed his face with your hands, forcing him to look at you, to see the truth in your eyes.

"Listen to me, Tony Stark. I don't care about how long you last during sex. I don't care if we do it everyday or only once every month. You know why?"

He shook his head.

"Because I care about this. I care about you. Every laugh line, every gray hair, every scar. I want the man who built an arc reactor in a cave. I want the man who saved the world half a dozen times and still burns his pop tarts. I want Tony Stark. All of him."

You kissed him then, a deep kiss that wasn't about starting another round, but about reminding him exactly who he was to you.

When you finally pulled back, his eyes were shining. The self doubt had been replaced by awe or just the profound, overwhelming reality of being loved. "You're too much."

"Good," you growled, nipping at his jaw. "You deserve too much. You deserve everything."

You settled back beside him, pulling his body flush against yours. He was still trembling, overstimulated and exhausted, but he melted into your embrace. His head found its place on your chest, right over your heartbeat.

"Just give me a minute," he mumbled into your skin. "Or ten. Maybe twenty. And some Gatorade. And possibly a full IV drip."

You laughed. "Whatever you need old man."

Tony pinched your side, but there was no heat in it. "Watch it, supersoldier. Even if I'm older, I still know how to pack a punch." Silence befell the room, but when you thought he might have drifted off, he spoke so softly you almost missed it.

"I love you."

You don't remember the exact moment they pulled you out.

That's the first thing you'll tell Ryland and Simon much, much later. You'll tell them that the memory is a hole in your head, a black spot where a chunk of your life used to be. One moment you were in the escape pod after three days without sleep, without food, without anything except the sounds of screams and murder and cries and howls echoing in the mothership you'd left behind, and the next moment you were surrounded by light.

Not human light. Not the harsh, flickering fluorescents of the space stations you'd grown up on. This light was warm, almost organic, pulsing in frequencies your eyes hadn't evolved to process. And the shapes moving through it —Eridians, you'd learn later, though at the time you thought you were dead and this was some kind of alien afterlife—were so incomprehensible that your brain simply refused to process them.

You passed out.

When you woke up, you were inside a transparent ball. Xenonite. Though you didn't know that yet.

The Eridians had been gentle. That's the part that fucks with your head the most, looking back. They had no reason to be gentle. You were a strange, soft, small creature that had drifted into their territory in a piece of salvage that was barely holding together. They could have ignored you. They could have dissected you. Instead, they'd built you a climate-controlled bubble: warm, pressurized, filled with a thin but breathable atmosphere. Instead they'd transported you across however many light-years to their homeworld.

You don't remember the journey. You remember dreams. Fragments. Your crewmates' faces, one by one. The thing that moved through the corridors of the Gethsemane, a smell like copper and rot and something else, something wrong. You remember being the last one. Not because you were brave. Not because you were smart. Just because the creature had to kill someone first, and then someone second, and then someone third, and then someone fourth, and you were the fifth.

Someone always has to be last.

It had been your turn to be last.

You open your eyes.

Ryland Grace has been living on Erid for approximately two weeks when he hears the news.

He's sitting on the warm sand and he's staring at the stars through the curved xenonite wall of his habitat. It's a dome, massive and circular, built specifically to house a single fragile human being on a planet where the atmosphere would liquefy his lungs and the gravity would crush his spine. Rocky designed it. Rocky built it. Rocky checks on him every few hours, despite Grace's protests that he's fine, he's okay, he doesn't need a babysitter.

"I am not a babysitter. statement." Rocky says, his voice translating through the device they built together, the harmonic bridge between Eridian chirps and human phonemes. "I am a friend. Are you eating. Question."

"I'm eating."

"You are not eating. I am observing. You are pushing the food around."

Grace sighs and looks down at the bowl of algae-paste in his hands. Rocky is right. He's been pushing it around for twenty minutes, not because it tastes bad but because he's been thinking about Earth. About Stratt. About the Petrova line and the astrophage and the billions of people who are, by now, either dead or alive or something in between.

He doesn't know. He'll never know. That's the part he can't accept.

"Rocky," he says. "can I ask you something?"

"You are asking. Statement. I am listening."

"Do you ever think about—"

The door to the habitat opens.

Grace flinches. The door isn't supposed to open. Not without warning. Not without his say-so. He's the only human on Erid. He's the only human within fifteen light-years, at least, probably more, unless there are other survivors out there, which there aren't, because the Hail Mary was the only ship and he was the only—

But the door is open.

And through it, pushed by a team of Eridian scientists whose segmented bodies are pulsing with what Grace has learned to recognize as excitement, come two xenonite spheres.

They're smaller than the one he arrived in. Transport pods, maybe. Temporary housing. Each one is filled with a breathable atmosphere, and each one contains-

Oh no.

Grace stands up so fast he drops his bowl. The algae-paste spills onto the sand. He doesn't care.

"Rocky." he says, his voice very quiet. "Rocky, what is that."

The translation device crackles. "Those are humans. Statement. Two humans."

"I can see that they're humans, Rocky. Why are there two humans in my habitat."

"They were rescued. Statement. One human was found in a damaged submersible vessel in the blood ocean of a moon in a nearby system. Second human was found in an emergency escape pod. Both humans were recovered by Eridian science vessels. Statement. Both humans require an environment suitable to human biology. Statement. This is the only environment on Erid suitable to human biology. Therefore-"

"Therefore they're staying here?" Grace's voice cracks. He can hear it. He doesn't care. "Rocky, you can't just- you can't just drop two random humans into my habitat without asking me first! I'm not—I'm not equipped for this! I'm not a zookeeper!"

"You are not a zookeeper. Statement. You are a human. They are humans. They require-"

"I know what they require! They require oxygen and warmth and- and therapy, probably, look at them, Rocky, look at them!"

He points at the two xenonite spheres, which the Eridian scientists are now gently positioning onto the sand with one of their huge transportation claws that they use to put things inside his habitat without entering. Inside the first sphere, a man. He's huge, muscular. His hair is dark and matted, hanging over a face that's all sharp angles and shadows. He's wearing what looks like a prison uniform, faded and torn, and his hands are scarred. Knuckles broken and healed, broken and healed, broken and healed until they look like knots on a tree.

The man is sitting in the center of his sphere with his knees drawn up to his chest, and he's staring. Not at anything specific. Just staring. His eyes are dark and flat and wrong in a way that makes Grace's hindbrain start screaming predator.

Inside the second sphere, a woman. You are that woman.

You're younger than the man, he notes. Early twenties, maybe. You're wearing the remnants of a uniform: a patch on the shoulder that Grace can't quite read from this distance, a name tag that's been scratched out. You're not curled up like the man. You're standing. Standing still, your arms at your sides, your head tilted slightly to one side.

And you're looking.

Not staring like the other man. Looking. Your eyes are moving, tracking, cataloging. Every few seconds, your gaze flicks to the xenonite walls, then to the sand, then to the artificial sun-lamp in the ceiling, then to Grace, then back to the man, then to the Eridian scientists outside the dome. You're not blinking enough.

You looks like an animal that's been cornered and has given up on running and is now waiting to see which direction the killing blow will come from.

"Rocky." Grace says, his voice barely a whisper. "Rocky, no."

"Explanation. They are your same species. Statement. They need the same environment. Therefore-"

"Rocky. Look at them. They don't look- they don't look civilized. That one" He points at the man "looks like he's going to murder someone. He looks like he's done murder."

"Humans are a violent species. Question. You are also a human. Does that mean Grace is violent. Question."

"I'm cuddly compared to that guy, Rocky! I'm a teddy bear! I'm- I'm a middle school science teacher who makes beanbag toss jokes! I'm not equipped to handle whatever that is!"

Grace doesn't like this.

His hands are raised. His palms are facing you and Simon. It is a universal sign of peace, of I am not a threat, but his face tells a different story.

His face says: What the fuck have they dropped into my living room.

"Rocky." he says, trying a different angle, "some humans don't like other humans. Some humans are dangerous. I'm not- I'm not comfortable with this. I didn't sign up for roommates. I didn't sign up for- for whatever this is."

Rocky is quiet for a long moment. Grace can see him through the xenonite suit, his clawed hands twitching in that way they do when he's thinking hard.

Then Rocky says. "They are same species. Statement. They need a suitable habitat. Statement. You are not allowed to refuse."

"I'm not allowed?"

"Clarification. The habitat is Eridian property. The Eridian science council has authorized the placement of these humans in this habitat. Statement. You do not have veto power. Statement. I am sorry."

Grace opens his mouth to argue. Closes it. Opens it again.

"Rocky-" he says, very quietly, "I'm going to say something, and I need you to listen very carefully. Those two humans are not normal. They are not okay. Something has happened to them. Something bad. And I don't know how to help them. I don't know how to be around them. I'm a science teacher, Rocky. I teach kids about photosynthesis. I don't- I don't do trauma. I don't do whatever that is."

Rocky's claws twitch again. "Observation. You also experienced trauma. You also were not normal when you arrived. Statement. I helped you. You helped me. Statement. You will help them. Or they will help you. Or you will help each other. Statement. This is what living beings do."

"That's not—"

But Rocky is already turning away to approach the wall of the dome, speaking to the other Eridian scientists through the wall in a rapid series of chirps and clicks that the translation device doesn't catch. And the scientists are moving, their claws reaching for controls.

They're going to open the xenonite balls.

They're going to open them right now.

"Rocky!" Grace says, panic rising in his throat. "Rocky, wait! Rocky, please. At least give me a warning. At least give me- give me a heads-up or something so I can—I don't know, prepare mentally???"

The spheres open.

The xenonite spheres retract like flower petals, dissolving into the sand.

For a moment, nothing happens.

The man (Simon, Grace will learn later) doesn't move. He stays curled up, his knees to his chest, his head down. He looks like a spring that's been compressed too tight, waiting for the pressure to release.

You don't move either. You stand exactly where the sphere deposited you, your arms at your sides, your breathing shallow and controlled.

Grace raises his hands higher. He's not sure why.

"Hi-" he says. His voice comes out too high. He clears his throat and tries again. "Hi. Hello. Um, Welcome. I'm- I'm Ryland. Ryland Grace. I'm a—I'm a human. Obviously. You can see that. I'm human. We're all human here. Ha. That's- that was a joke. Because we're all human. In this habitat. Which is for humans."

Simon looks up.

Oh, Grace thinks. Oh no.

Simon's eyes are wrong. They're not just flat, they're burning. There's something behind them, something hot and hungry and angry, and it's looking at Grace like he's a problem to be solved. Like he's an obstacle. Like he's prey.

Simon stands up.

He doesn't do it slowly. He doesn't do it gracefully. He unfolds, all at once, like a trap being sprung. One moment he's curled on the sand, and the next moment he's on his feet, his shoulders hunched, his hands curled into fists, his head low.

He's looking at Grace.

No, he's looking past Grace. He's looking at the xenonite walls. At the artificial sun. At the sand. At the stars beyond the dome. His lips are moving, but no sound is coming out. He's mouthing something.

"This is- this is my home. Sort of. The Eridians built it for me. And I'm sure you're both very—" He stops. His eyes dart between you and Simon. "...very.. something. But I need you to just. Take a breath. Both of you. Nobody here is going to hurt anybody."

You do not move.

You have learned not to trust people who tell you that nobody is going to hurt you. The last person who said that was your captain, three hours before the thing ripped him in half.

Your eyes seem to convey your distrust.

Grace takes a step back. "Okay," he says. "Okay. Let's all just- let's all just take a breath. Nobody needs to- nobody needs to do anything rash. We're all friends here. We're all-"

Simon turns his head.

He's not looking at Grace anymore. He's looking at you.

His head turns. The motion is slow, mechanical, like a turret swiveling to acquire a target. His eyes find yours. And you see it: the shift, the calculation, the recognition. A potential threat. A variable he did not account for, and variables get people killed.

And you're looking back at him.

Something passes between you. Grace doesn't know what it is. He doesn't want to know what it is. All he knows is that Simon's posture changes: his weight shifts, his center of gravity drops, his hands flex, and your posture changes too. Your shoulders square. Your chin lifts. Your trembling hands stop trembling.

"Okay," Grace says, backing up another step. "Okay. That's- that's a look. That's a look you're giving each other. That's a concerning look. Can we talk about the look? Can we just- can we just use our words—"

You do not know what your face is doing. You have lost the ability to control your face. Somewhere in the three days you spent hiding in the Gethsemane's air vents, listening to the creature drag your crewmates' bodies through the corridors, your face stopped being yours. It became a mask. A flat, wide-eyed, unblinking thing that sees everything and betrays nothing.

Grace sees this. His hands go higher.

Simon moves.

It's not a charge. It's not an attack. It's something more akin to a lunge, a leap, a launch. He crosses the distance between himself and you in less than a second, his arms outstretched, his hands reaching for your throat, your shoulders, your face, anything.

It happens too fast for Grace to react. One moment Simon is standing still, his head turned toward you, his breathing shallow. The next, he is on you. His body crashing into yours, you both hit the sand hard, the wind knocked out of you, and then instinct takes over.

You do not scream.

You have not screamed since the Gethsemane. Screaming attracts things.

But you fight.

Your knee comes up between you and Simon, catching him in the stomach. He grunts but doesn't stop. His fist connects with your jaw, not hard enough to break bone, but hard enough to make your vision white out for a split second. You twist, using the leverage of the sand, and suddenly you are on top of him, your forearm pressed against his throat.

He roars.

It is not a human sound. It is something primal, something scraped out of a throat that has forgotten how to speak. He throws you off with a strength that scares Grace shitless, and now you are both scrambling, both clawing, both grappling. Silent on your end, vocal on his, a symphony of rage and survival and something that sounds like prayer.

Grace is frozen.

He's standing ten feet away, his hands still raised in that useless gesture of peace, his mouth hanging open, his brain refusing to process what he's seeing.

"Rocky." Grace hisses, his voice cracking. "Rocky, do something!"

Outside the xenonite dome, having went out just before the spheres dissolved, Rocky is watching.

His claws are twitching in a pattern that Grace has learned to recognize as excitement. He's chirping to the other Eridian scientists, his voice rapid and almost joyful.

"Rocky!"

"Is this the human mating ritual. Question."

What.

"Rocky, this is NOT a mating ritual!"

"Statement. I am observing. They are gripping each other. They are making sounds. They are exchanging physical contact. Question. Is this not how humans reproduce."

"Rocky!"

"Clarification. I am not understanding the problem. They are mating. This is good."

Grace wants to scream. He wants to tear his hair out. He wants to shake Rocky until his faceted eyes fall out of his head.

"They are not-" Grace chokes on his own words. "They are not doing a mating ritual! They're fighting! They're hurting each other! This is bad, Rocky! This is the opposite of good!"

Rocky's claws stop twitching.

"Oh." he says.

Silence.

"Oh." he says again. "Statement. I may have made a miscalculation."

"You think?"

"BUT THEY ARE SAME SPECIES. EXPLANATION. WHY DO SAME SPECIES TRY TO KILL."

"Because humans are-" Grace stops. Rethinks. "Actually, no, that's a fair question. I don't have a good answer. We just do that sometimes."

"THAT IS BAD. STATEMENT. VERY BAD. BADBADBADBADBAD." Rocky's legs move in an agitated pattern. "THEY ALONE. THEY NEED COMPANY. GRACE DO SOMETHING. COMMAND."

"What do you want me to do?" Grace hisses. "They're either highly trained in combat or they've gone completely feral—I can't tell which—and I am one middle school science teacher. I am not equipped for this. I was equipped for Astrophage. I was equipped for saving the sun. I was not equipped for interpersonal conflict resolution between two traumatized murderers."

Simon has you pinned again.

"EDEN!" Simon howls, and his voice breaks on the word. "EDEN TOOK EVERYTHING! EDEN AND THE- THE GETHSEMANE. THE GETHSEMANE DISAPPEARED AND THIS PLACE-" He punches the sand next to your head, deliberately missing. "THIS PLACE HAS SOMETHING TO DO WITH IT! I KNOW IT DOES! I KNOW!!"

You stop fighting.

Just like that. Your body goes limp beneath him. Your arms fall to your sides. Your eyes, still wide, still unblinking, find his face.

Simon freezes.

His fist is still raised. His knuckles are split, bleeding onto your collar. His chest is heaving. His eyes are wild. But something in your stillness has reached through the red haze, because he doesn't hit you. He can't hit you. Not like this. Not when you are looking at him like that.

"How," you say, and your voice is a ruin. It hasn't been used in days. Maybe weeks. You have forgotten the shape of words. "How do you know about the Gethsemane."

Simon blinks.

His fist lowers, slowly, like a machine winding down. He is still straddling you, still pinning you to the sand, but the violence has drained out of his posture. He looks confused. Lost.

"I'm.. from Eden," he says, and the words come out rough, hesitant, almost questioning. Like a little kid's. "The—the colony. Eden."

"I'm from the Gethsemane," you say, and your voice is shaking now, cracking at the edges. "The ship. The one that went off the grid. My crew- my crew spent years trying to find you. Trying to get back. We were looking for you."

Simon's mouth opens. Closes. Opens again.

"You're from Eden." you repeat.

"Yes."

"You're from Eden."

"Yes."

"The Eden."

"I'm from Eden." Simon repeats once again. His voice is harder now. Defensive. "I was there. They sent me on some suicide mission to pay my penances and you-" He looks at your uniform. At the patch on your shoulder. At the scratched-out name tag. "You're from The Gethsemane."

"I'm from The Gethsemane."

"So you did not die."

"Not when you stopped getting the signals." Your voice breaks again, and this time it's not fear. It's grief. "We were stranded for years after a collission. We tried to search for you. And then—" You stop. Swallow. "And then the thing came. The creature. It got them. It got everyone except me. That's when we died, well, they died. I'm still here. as you can see."

Simon is quiet.

His hands are still wrapped around your wrists. He is still pinning you. His face is still inches from yours.

But something has changed.

His weight shifts. His grip loosens. He's not holding you down anymore. He's holding you still. Like he's afraid you'll disappear if he lets go.

"The Gethsemane." he says slowly. "You were on the Gethsemane."

"I was."

"And you were looking for Eden."

"We were."

Simon makes a sound. It's not a word. It's not a laugh. It's something between—a groan, a sigh, a release.

And then he moves.

Not to hit you. Not to hurt you.

He rolls off you, onto his back in the sand, and stares up at the artificial sun. His chest is heaving. His face is bloody. His hands are shaking.

And you're sitting up.

You're looking at him.

Your eyes are still wide, still haunted, but there's something else there now. Something alive.

"You're from Eden." you say again, like you're testing the words.

"I'm from Eden." Simon says.

You throw yourself at him.

Not to fight. Not this time.

You collapse onto him, your arms wrapping around his neck, your face pressing into his shoulder, your whole body shaking.

Simon makes a sound like he's been punched.

Simon, for his part, looks like he has been struck by lightning.

His hands hover in the air, uncertain, trembling. He does not know what to do with this. He has not been touched in kindness—or anything resembling kindness—in longer than he can remember. But his body knows what to do. His arms close around you, slowly at first, then tighter, until his hold is almost painful.

"GRACE."

"What."

"THEY STOP FIGHTING. OBSERVATION."

Grace turns back to look.

He's standing ten feet away, his hands lowered now, his mouth still open, his brain screaming.

"What." he says to no one. "What the fuck."

"THEY TOUCH," Rocky says, and there is something in his tone that Grace has learned to recognize as wonder. "THEY TOUCH AND DO NOT FIGHT. IS THIS... COMFORT. QUESTION."

"Yeah, Rocky." Grace's voice softens. "That's comfort."

"HUMANS NEED COMFORT. QUESTION."

"Yeah." Grace says, and for a moment, he forgets that he was panicking. For a moment, he just watches two broken people hold each other on the sand, and he thinks about the months he spent alone, about the nights he talked to a wall because he needed to hear a voice, about the first time Rocky touched his hand and he cried because he had forgotten what contact felt like. "Yeah, we do."

Grace approaches slowly.

He's not sure why he's approaching. Every instinct he has is telling him to stay back, to give you space, to not get involved in whatever the hell is happening. But his feet are moving anyway, carrying him across the warm sand, closer and closer to the two broken humans tangled together on the ground.

Simon sees him coming.

"Okay," Grace says, and he takes a step forward. Then another. "Okay. I'm going to- I'm just going to come over there. Very slowly. With my hands where you can see them. Because I am not a threat. I am the least threatening person on this planet. I am probably the least threatening person in this solar system. I once cried because I ran out of coffee. So. You know. Threat level: zero."

You watch him approach. Your head turns to track him, but your body stays still. Simon's head turns too. His eyes narrow.

Grace stops when he is standing over you. He looks down at Simon. Simon who is still laying on the sand, who is still holding you, who is looking up at Grace with an expression that Grace can only describe as proprietary.

Simon's arms tighten around you.

It is not subtle. His biceps flex. His hands press into your back. He pulls you closer to his chest, and his eyes never leave Grace's face.

Grace blinks.

"Okay." he says. "Wow. Okay. Possessive much?"

Simon doesn't even know he's doing it. But his whole body has shifted, curling around you, covering you, like he's protecting you from a threat.

From Grace.

Simon does not answer. He does not loosen his grip.

"I'm not going to take her from you," Grace says, and he means it to be a joke, but it comes out softer than he intended. "I'm just... I'm just going to sit down. Over here. Away from you. Where I am not a threat. Because I am really committed to not being a threat."

He sits down in the sand, cross-legged, a few feet away. Far enough to give Simon space. Close enough to talk.

For a long moment, nobody speaks.

Simon glares at him.

It's not the same glare from before. That glare was hostile, dangerous, predatory. This glare is something else. This glare is possessive.

And you're still clinging to him.

Simon's expression softens. Just a fraction. Just enough.

And then he looks up at Grace.

"Where are we." he says. It's not a question. It's a demand.

Grace swallows. "Erid"

He then makes a gesture, motioning over to the wall behind of which there are a few Eridians congregated. Simon follows Grace's gesture.

He looks at Rocky.

Rocky waves.

Simon's expression doesn't change.

"An alien colony." he says flatly.

"Friendly aliens." Grace corrects immediately when he sees the way you tense in Simon's arms. "They're- they're nice. Mostly. They're just curious. They saved you, by the way. You and-" He looks at you. "your friend."

You blink at him.

Simon is still looking at Rocky. His expression is calculating. He's trying to understand. Trying to process.

"The aliens brought us here." he says slowly.

"Eridians." Grace says. "And yes. They brought you here. To my habitat. Because apparently I'm the only human on this planet and they thought I needed roommates."

Simon looks back at Grace.

"You're alone here." he says.

"I was alone here." Grace corrects. "Now I'm not alone. For better or worse."

Simon is quiet for a long moment.

Then he looks down at you.

"We're not leaving." Simon says, it's a question.

"Doesn't seem like we have any options here" you answer.

Grace sighs.

"No," he admits. "No we don't."

You and Simon finally separate.

"I'm from the Gethsemane." you tell Ryland, as if testing the words. "I'm the only one left."

Simon's jaw tightens. "I'm from Eden."

The three of you form a rough triangle on the warm sand. The artificial sun is dimming, mimicking a sunset that doesn't exist on this planet. The xenonite walls are glowing softly, casting long shadows across the dome.

Outside, Rocky is still watching.

He's not alone anymore. Other Eridian scientists have gathered, their segmented bodies pressed against the xenonite, their faceted eyes fixed on the three humans sitting in a circle. They're fascinated. They're observing. They're taking notes, probably, in whatever way Eridians take notes.

Grace tries to ignore them.

"You're both from the same system." he says, rubbing his temples. "That's- that's something. That's a coincidence. Or maybe it's not. Maybe the Eridians have been looking for humans. Maybe they found you because they were trying to find you."

Simon snorts. "They found me because I was drowning in a submarine full of blood."

"They found me because I was drifting in an escape pod." you say quietly. "I didn't even know they were there. I didn't even see them. I just.." You stop. Swallow. "passed out. And then I woke up here."

Grace nods slowly.

"The Eridians are rescuers," he explains. "That's- that's kinda what they do. They find things. They save things. They're curious. They wanted to know what you were. They wanted to help."

Simon's jaw tightens. "I didn't ask for help."

"You didn't have to."

Simon glares at him.

Grace holds up his hands. "I'm not saying- look, I get it. I didn't ask for help either. I was forced onto the Hail Mary. I didn't want to be here. I wanted to be on Earth, in my classroom, with my students. I wanted to live."

"But you're here." Simon says.

"But I'm here." Grace agrees. "And I'm alive. And so are you. And so is she." He looks at you. "And maybe, just maybe, that's something. Don't you think?"

You look at Simon.

Simon looks at you.

You both look back at Ryland.

"Eden." Ryland sais. "Tell me about Eden."

Simon's expression shifts. The anger doesn't disappear, it's still there, simmering beneath the surface, but something else rises to meet it. Longing. Grief. Hope.

"Eden is a colony." he says slowly. "A survivor colony. After the stars in our sollar system went out, after the Quiet Rapture, the stations started falling apart. People started dying. But Eden—Eden held on. We had resources. We had leadership. We had-"

He stops.

His hands curl into fists.

"We had a religion." he says, the word bitter on his tongue. "A cult. They said- they said the stars went out because humanity had sinned. Because we had reached too far. They said the only way to survive was to repent. To sacrifice."

Your eyes widen.

"The Gethsemane ship," you whisper. "That's- that's where the name came from. The Bible."

Simon nods. "The ship was named after the covenant. It was supposed to be a pilgrimage. A mission. They sent it out to find—I don't even know what. Salvation. Redemption. Something."

"And you were on it?" Asks Ryland.

Simon laughs. It's a hollow sound.

"I was on it, alright." he says.

A beat of silence.

"So.. this is your place." you say. It is not a question.

"It's... temporary." Grace says. "The Eridians are building a ship to take me back to Earth. But it's going to take a while. Astrophage engines are fast, but they're not instant. So I'm here. Living in a bubble. Talking to a rock."

"And how did you get here?"

Simon looks at him.

"Um- my sun was.. dying, the main star of my solar system y'know and they sent.. me and a few other people to try and fix it." he says. "long story short, those people died and i was alone until Rocky found me, his star was also dying, so we worked together."

"I assume something went wrong."

Simon inquires.

"You assume right." Grace admits. "Things went south in Rocky's ship so I sacrificed my return to earth to get him home safe, and he brought me with him so.. here I am."

A beat.

"I have so many questions to ask you two. But I'm not going to ask them. Because I feel like that would be rude."

Simon snorts. It is the first sound he has made that is not angry or confused. It is almost... amused.

"Rude." Simon repeats. "You're worried about being rude."

"I'm a scientist living in an alien zoo," Grace huffs, a sound almost mimicking an exhasperated sigh. "Manners are all I have left."

Something passes between you and Simon. A look. A shared recognition of absurdity. You are sitting on alien sand, beneath an alien sky, next to a man who talks like he's hosting a podcast, and somewhere outside the dome, a rock spider is watching you with what you can only assume is fascination.

Outside the xenonite dome, Rocky turns to the other Eridian scientists.

"Statement," he says proudly. "Humans are doing the mating ritual."

The Eridians cheer.

Grace doesn't hear them.

And maybe that's for the best.

The night is chilly, but you don't feel it. Your fur is thick, its downy softness insulating against the early spring night. Not that the seasons are that noticeable in the N109 Zone, where nothing grows, where perpetual gloom reigns. It's no place for a wild animal whose heart longs for the scent of green, growing things, for the safety of thick foliage, cover to hide in from the worst predators in existence: human men.

No, you don't feel a thing, here in this concrete jungle where the safest place you can be is locked behind the bars of your cage.

You don't get locked in your cage nearly enough, as far as you're concerned.

At least in your cage, you go unnoticed and untouched. It's harder to hurt you in there. You can shrink yourself, huddled against the back corner, just out of reach.

It's a small act of rebellion, forcing him to reach for the cattle prod in order to get to you. You take what you can get.

But tonight, you carefully feel nothing at all, inside on a chilly spring night, curled in the lap of the man you hate the most. The room is dim, dark-wood paneled. Heavy leather furniture and sound-proofed walls, the faded reek of cigar hanging heavy in the air and making it hard to breathe through your sensitive nose. A gentleman's club VIP room, not cozy or small, not expansive. Big enough to fit an insecure man good at feigning confidence, his overinflated ego, and enough lackeys to make him feel safe.

Tonight, his hands are deceptively tender as he runs his palm along your back, over and over. As he curls your tail around his finger, pulling gently, just shy of pain. A nervous tick, a self-soothing tell. The only one he gives, with his perfected poker face and preternatural stillness during high-stakes negotiations. Your soft fur, your forced compliance, in his lap every time he must make a deal—as your heart races, his calms.

One of the many reasons he keeps you.

Curled in his lap, you keep your eyes on the man sitting across from you and your owner.

Long legs crossed elegantly, huge body leaning back against the brown leather couch, arms spread wide against the backrest—he's the epitome of relaxed nonchalance. And unlike your owner, he's not faking a thing. You can smell it. His genuine ease in the face of the men looming behind your owner, hands folded at their backs at false parade rest. False, as they keep their firearms tucked into their back waistbands and you know from experience that each one already has the pistol grip already fisted, ready to draw and fire.

The man smells… good. Like an oncoming storm. Exciting, powerful.

He smells like the safety of a burrow to shelter in once the storm hits.

You flare your nostrils delicately, trying to subtly inhale as much of him as you can.

You flick your ears. It's strange—he smells like ease, but his heart gallops as fast as yours. As if it naturally beats faster than a normal person's.

You suppress a shudder as his ruby eyes flick to yours, as if he can read your thoughts, your confusion, your fascination.

He's not a normal person.

His eyes not leaving yours, he lifts a thick, silver eyebrow. "Five mil was not the deal."

His voice, deep and bored, ripples down your spine. Its calm, dark notes eclipse the hand on your back, makes the hand bearable.

Your owner's hand presses a little harder as it sweeps along your spine, even as his voice remains calm. "It can't be helped. The Association has been sniffing around, exponentially increasing our logistics costs. It's a miracle that this shipment arrived on time, as promised. It's already a deal for you, considering the rarity of some of the items."

"I'm not interested in your shipping troubles." The man finally flicks his gaze back to your owner, but instead of being a relief, it feels like a loss. "Your failure to adequately plan for predictable complications is none of my business."

"If I accept anything less than five million, I will go under and you will lose your only reliable shipper through the strait. That is your business. Paying a fair price is part of any good business relationship." Your owner still sounds calm, as self-possessed as ever, but the building frustration wafts off of him in nauseating waves.

"You might be the last person I'd take relationship advice from," the red-eyed man drawls, shifting his gaze to you again before losing all interest in the conversation. He begins to examine his nails.

Your owner's frustration morphs into rage, with a curious thread of terror. You've never seen him so shaken before. It's like the more bored the other man gets, the more upset your owner gets. Clearing his throat, tightening his grip on your back, he struggles to maintain his serene facade. "No need for personal attacks."

The man snorts, the nostrils of his long, magnificent nose flaring in resigned amusement. "I find your reneging on our deal to be a personal attack. Two million, or I walk."

"We're both reasonable men," your owner coaxes. "I know for a fact that five million is a drop in the bucket for you while it is everything to me. It's a small premium to ensure our continued mutually beneficial relationship. We both walk away satisfied." His voice, and his hand on you, hardens. "If you walk, I go under. Do not mistake my patience with your diva behavior up to this point as weakness—I will only tolerate it up to a point."

The man on the white couch, his sterling hair shining like polished silver under the soft lighting of the cigar lounge, goes very still before rolling his head leisurely, gaze drifting from your owner's face to yours. "The irony of being called a diva by a man stroking a cat like a B-movie film villain would be funny if it weren't so boring."

Your owner's hand stops. You tense. You know from experience that things are about to get ugly.

"This is your last chance, Mr. Qin. Look around. No matter how powerful of a man you are, you still chose to walk in here, unarmed and alone, while I have my the best members of my security force at my back. The deal is on: five million, last chance."

You stare at the man… Mr. Qin. He remains still, utterly at ease, a slight, disdainful smile lifting one corner of his full mouth. His scent remains the same—electric. It just… intensifies. The lights flicker, faintly. You don't want him to die. But you've seen this scene so many times before.

They always die.

It has been a long, long time since you tried to defy your owner. Nothing seemed to matter, after he killed your littermate. Your only family. Your last link to humanity. He had threatened to do it, and you called his bluff, thinking that your brother was too valuable, just like you, to simply dispose of.

You paid dearly for that gamble. In fact, it cost you everything. You and Caleb were caught by his lackeys, weakened from malnutrition and the evol-suppressing collars. That night, your owner dragged Caleb out of your cage by the tail and you never saw him again.

But something about the man on the white couch, with his lava-molten eyes, regal nose, and machine-gun heartbeat. You feel concerned about another person for the first time in years. Inexplicably—or maybe as simple as instinct—the idea of him being hurt fills you with the same terror that used to overcome you when your owner would punish Caleb for your defiance.

Mr. Qin grunts, derisive, and your racing heart sinks. "Two million, you throw in the cat as compensation for wasting my time, and then you've got a deal." Waiting a beat, he lets the provocation sink in. Then, mockingly, he echoes, "Last chance."

As always, a sense of desolate helplessness fills you. But for the first time in years, you can't just sit back and do nothing. You know what it will cost you. But maybe you can buy this strange, magnetic man enough time to do… something. Even if it's hopeless, maybe the grief will be bearable this time, because at least you tried to stop it, instead of running headfirst into it.

Keeping your eyes open, you deliberately dig your claws into your owner's thigh, as deep as you can, and then drag them through his flesh.

He screams, not used to being the one receiving pain. Reflexively gripping you by the scruff of your neck, he flings your small body off of his lap.

The lights go out.

Gunfire explodes, so many fireworks deafening and blinding you, forcing you to lay your ears flat on on your head, to blink in pain.

You land on your feet, as you always do, but something dark and sparking, something slithering, electric—something inexorable drags you to the couch at Mr. Qin's feet and keeps you pinned to the ground behind his legs. A swishing, wooshing roar competes with the gunfire, muffling the painful blasts in your delicate eardrums.

Sheltered in the swirling embrace of the inky force keeping you pinned, you feel safer than you have in years.

You lift your head, gazing up between Mr. Qin's long legs, no longer crossed but spread leisurely, as if the occasion no longer requires the decorum of his previous posture.

The gunfire illuminates him, strobelights revealing how calmly he remains seated. As he lifts one hand, palm facing forward. As bullets plink to the ground before they reach him, a curtain of leaded rain. Blinding light, pitch black, blinding light, as he lifts his other hand, snapping his long fingers.

You swing your head just in time to see your owner explode in a fine mist of blood, flesh, and ash.

The lights flicker back on, just in time for you to see the guns in the hands of the men behind him disassemble themselves and float in the air, nothing more now than gun schematics rendered in 3d.

"This is the power of Onychinus," a mischievous, mocking voice rings from over Mr. Qin's right shoulder. You look back and up again. A masked man whom you didn't sense at all drapes himself over the back of the couch.

"Surrender and maybe you'll survive tonight," a matching voice, over Mr. Qin's left shoulder, drawls. The owner of the voice wears an identical mask, its beak wickedly curved as if to personify the dark glee in its owner's proclamation. "Keep resisting…"

"And join your boss," his twin finishes.

Each and every former employee of your owner lifts his hands into the air.

Mr. Qin gazes down at you, still crouched between his legs even though the force that was pinning you, now clearly visible in all of its scarlet and ink glory, slowly dissipates. "No. No mercy," he murmurs thoughtfully.

"Boss?" The man on his right sounds surprised.

Mr. Qin leans down and runs one long, elegant finger along the evol-suppressing shock collar around your neck. "They knew, and they did nothing."

"Yes, boss," the other man says, a grin clear in his voice.

Mr. Qin, with a tenderness that surprises you, calls forth that swirling mist again. As its electric current caresses your fur, causing it to stand on end, the weight of your shock collar fades into nothing.

Your neck is naked for the first time in years.

You can't tear your eyes from him, even though you're free, for the first time in years.

He stares down at you and his eyes glow like the sun through a glass of red wine. "Go on, kitten," he coaxes gently.

Ignoring his gentle order, you sit back on your haunches, waiting to see what he'll do.

"Suit yourself," he shrugs and then rises gracefully to his feet. "Exterminate the vermin, secure the goods, and report back to the base when it's done."

"Yes, boss," the two men chirp in unison.

Mr. Qin hooks his thumbs in the pockets of his dark tailored suit and saunters out of the room without looking back.

The twins duck, mirrored images as they lean behind the couch and each retrieve a bazooka.

You turn, tail high in the air, and scurry after the man who just left, not waiting to see the mirrored men heft the weapons onto their shoulders, nor hear the explosions and screams of agony that follow.

His scent is so strong. It hangs in the air, long after he's revved his motorcycle and disappeared into the night in a roar of growling engine and motor oil.

You follow it easily, winding your way agilely through the dark city, across its rain-slicked payment, through its neon-soaked streets. You stick to the sides of buildings, to shortcuts through alleyways, your nose guiding you unfailingly through the garbage and perfume, exhaust from vehicles, cigarette and weed smoke, concrete and despair.

It's been years, since you've been free. Your heart beats wildly with the exhilaration of it. With the grief of it.

Your littermate deserved this too.

Finally, you find the scent's destination. A towering skyscraper in the heart of the N109 Zone. Sleek, windows an impenetrable black as they soar into the sky and come to a vicious peak, hardly visible through the fog from where you are on the ground. You follow the delicious smell to an underground garage, slip underneath the boom gate, slink between the fleet of expensive vehicles, a mix of high octane modern sports models and antique muscle cars. You lose count of how many motorcycles there are. Finally, you find an elevator next to an emergency exit leading to the stairwell.

In this form, you can't reach the elevator button. Shockingly, however, the emergency exit door is ajar. Propped open with a… can of tuna?

You stare at it.

It smells really good.

Tuna in olive oil, not water. Nice and fatty.

Why would the leader of a notorious criminal organization have such lax security?

It's almost like…

You twitch your whiskers.

As far as Mr. Qin knows, you're just a normal cat. Your owner guarded the truth of your and Caleb's natures as his most valuable trade secret. He was paranoid about theft. Although you had rendered yourself functionally useless to him by refusing to shift between hybrid and cat form following Caleb's death, he kept you out of twisted spite. A good luck charm to viciously pet, to smugly parade under rivals' noses who had no idea what you really were.

The power of your evol. The strength of your hybrid form and its utility in a fight. Your value to medical science, military science. The exotic, twisted fetishes your true nature could indulge, if rented out at the right price.

No, no one outside of your owner's inner circle knows what you really are. There's no way this can of tuna is for you.

Maybe Mr. Qin just likes cats, and feeds strays. Or has one of his own. He did ask for you as part of the deal. Maybe he was looking to get another pet.

That's it. He's just a cat person.

A cat person who killed the motherfucker who destroyed your life. A cat person whom you instinctively feel safe with, now that you're free, reeling, without your brother and without a cage.

Since you're in your full cat form, you don't overthink it too much. Instinct drives you forward, and you don't question it further.

You pad across the narrow threshold, ensuring that you're inside the stairwell before turning again and shoving your face into the can of tuna. You devour it, not caring that the grease now covers your mouth and nose, drips from your whiskers. You'll clean it in a minute.

But first, you bat the empty tuna can out from between the door and the doorframe into the parking garage. Only after hearing the click and then beep of the electronic lock do you turn and hop your way up the seemingly endless stairwell.

Someone's got to make sure that the security of this place is tight if the owner himself can't be bothered, no matter how strong he seems to be.

Up, up, up you go. When you get tired, you pause for a moment, licking your mouth and whiskers, running your forepaws gently over them for good measure. No need to look sloppy, even if you don't intend for him to find out that you're here anytime soon.

You continue, following his scent trail as it once again grows thicker and thicker. You're dizzy with it.

Finally, you come to the top of the stairwell and can go no further. There is simply a black door, sleek and shiny. You see your reflection in it.

Huge golden eyes. Glossy black fur. Tufts of fur at the tips of your big, swiveling ears. Your body fur is thick and short, but your tail is fluffy, a silky bottle brush sweeping behind you, betraying your excitement.

This door, too, is slightly ajar, this time propped open by a gigantic black leather biker boot. The chains around the heel are shiny. You bat at them and enjoy the satisfying clink of the links.

Ahem. You will not let yourself get distracted. What is wrong with this man??! Anyone could walk in!

You repress the deep wish that your owner had been so lax with security, less paranoid, more secure. Maybe your life would have looked very different. You appreciate that Mr. Qin killed him, but you do slightly resent the fact that he was exploded so thoroughly that there was no body for you to mutilate afterward. You'd piss on his corpse if one had been left behind.

No. Not your owner. He was never your owner.

The fucker who kept you captive for years and tried to break you. He very nearly did, taking Caleb from you.

You step delicately over the big boot, pausing only for a moment to inhale its delicious aroma. Mr. Qin's feet apparently smell as good as the rest of him.

You follow the long, wide, dark corridor. Black marble flooring with gold veining. Ornate wainscotting along the dark gray walls. Your footsteps are silent, but if you were in your human form wearing shoes, your feet would echo. Flicking your ears back and forth, you follow his intensifying scent as faint music joins the trail to where he must be.

Something soft, classical. Violins. The smell of food joins the intoxicating smell of this place's inhabitant. Cooking meat.

Finally, finally—you peek around the doorway, eyes adjusting from the dim hallway to the slightly brighter open plan kitchen that spreads out before you, a dining and living area stretching beyond until the soaring floor to ceiling windows spill over the cityscape below. The pleasant scent of burning firewood in a huge open hearth fireplace competes with the smell of Mr. Qin and the steak he's apparently grilling on his fancy ass stove.

He doesn't seem to notice you. He's grilling in the same suit that he negotiated in, without an apron or anything, just the suit jacket removed and his sleeves rolled up to reveal his veined, powerful forearms. Like he's begging for stains, just like he's begging for an intruder like you in his house by leaving all the doors wide open. His forearms flex as he lifts the pan. The violins sing into the quiet room, blending with the hiss of the cooking meat, the crackling of the fireplace.

You take advantage of his focus on his task and slink around the edges of the room, sniffing as you go, noting the heavy, antique furniture, the atrocious modern art on the walls, the subtlety of the lighting in sharp-edged sconces along the walls and ornate floorlamps providing light from below. The music is coming from a record playing on an ancient-looking gramaphone. A sharp, metallic scent draws your attention to guns scattered across the hulking, ornately carved dining table, to bullets carelessly spread across the marble-topped coffee table between the sleek, black leather couches and lounge chairs of the sitting area.

There is a chaise lounge next to the windows at the far end of the room, as if the owner often reclines on it and looks down on the city below. You slip silently across the thick, ornate rugs softening the marble floors and slink underneath the chaise lounge. From this angle, you don't think you can be seen, but you have a clear view of most of the room, the fireplace, the man standing behind the kitchen island facing you, his sharp features flickering between light and shadow in the firelight.

You curl up in a little ball and watch him.

He hums along to the music as he cooks, causing your ears to flick back and forth. The vibration in his throat is more pleasant than the humming, but both manage to lull you to sleep.

When you wake up, you're still under the chaise lounge, but the gramophone is quiet, the lights are dimmed to their lowest settings, and Mr. Qin is gone. It must be sometime in the morning, although in the N109 Zone there's not too much of a difference between night and day. But the monotonous gray is paler than at night, and the gaudy, black and golden grandfather clock indicates that it's 11:00 in the morning.

You slip out from underneath the chair, sticking your tail in the air and stretching your spine as far as you can. It feels good to wiggle your toes, to let your claws come out. You then pad out of the room and follow that delicious scent that makes you drunk and lured you here to begin with.

Mr. Qin apparently sleeps with his door wide open, again as if he doesn't have a care in the world. His bedroom is huge, just like he is, just like the rest of his 'base' is, if this is the base to which he was referring when speaking to the masked men. It's lined with bookcases, more heavy leather furniture, sweeping windows now covered by blackout curtains. You stop, sniffing the books. Old paper. Old ink. A little bit of dust. The memory of his scent, from his hands on the pages as he held them. He's read them. The books in here are not for show, like the sterile, color coordinated library of your former captor. Maybe while he's gone you can finagle them off the shelves and do some reading. It's been a long, long time since you were allowed to read.

If you had lost your sense of smell during the gun battle last night, you would still know exactly where Mr. Qin is from the heavy snoring coming from the humongous, four poster, curtained bed at the far end of the room. He sounds like a chainsaw. You pad closer, closer, flattening your ears against the racket, and then jump lightly onto the end of the bed.

He's sleeping on his stomach, arms folded under his pillow. His broad, naked back expands, falls, expands with his relaxed breathing. You sit back on your haunches, flicking your tail thoughtfully.

He's beautiful. Like a sculpture. You would drag your littermate to art museums, back when you were free. Classical exhibitions were your favorite, with sweeping, carved marble sculptures depicting mythological stories. Where stone rippled like fabric under the artist's chisel. Where fingertips pressed into dimpled flesh, belying the cold marble.

This man, even at rest, looks like a god carved in stone.

A benevolent god, a brutal god. A god who, unbidden, saved you after you had stopped trying to save yourself. If you were in human form, you'd touch your throat with your hands, where your collar used to be. Instead, you just marvel at the lightness around your neck. The way your skin can breathe through your fur for the first time in years.

You're glad you're in cat form, and can't cry. If you started, you're not sure you'd ever stop. Over all the things you've lost. All the things that have been taken from you.

Intending to sniff at his feet through the sheets as a treat before slinking back into the dark, you rise to your paws and take a step forward—

when the most atrocious, unnatural-sounding screech splits the silence of Mr. Qin's bedroom.

"Caw! Caw! CAW CAW CAW!"

Sylus is dreaming. A lovely dream involving soft hands, a soft mouth, a sharp tongue, warmth and quiet, smug laughter. No images—just impressions, smears of what felft like memory, the scent of flowers, of wine, of peace dripping with warm blood.

And then he is jerking upright up, gun heavy in hand, Mephisto's alarmed cries splitting his eardrums.

"What? What? I'm wake, what?" he slurs, disoriented in the darkness of his bedroom, in being jerked painfully from a pleasant dream.

"CAW! CAW! CAW!"

Mephisto sits on his perch next to his bed, flapping his wings in indignant agitation, screeching his mechanical head off, ruby eye glowing menacingly in the dim room.

Oh. Kitten.

Sylus turns, sweeping his gaze across his bed, finding the vicious, threatening, feline intruder whom Mephisto is snitching on. Sylus, still holding the grip of the pistol, rubs his eye with his fist. He was so annoyed about the tanked deal, the lack of sleep he's been suffering from recently, the shock collar on—

In all the fuss, he forgot to program Mephisto to register that bastard's 'cat' as a non-threat before he passed out this morning.

The black cat's back is arched, her tail puffed up like a feather duster, and she's meeting each of Mephisto's screeches with a deep, menacing hiss and growl of her own, completely unintimidated by the big bird's aggressive flapping and snapping beak.

Sylus lowers his gun, tucking it back under his pillow, before leaning against the bed's headboard and watching the show in exhausted amusement.

The more Mephisto screeches, the more defiant the cat becomes. She boldly takes steps forward, moving closer to Sylus's feet, until Mephisto has lifted himself from the perch angrily and is about to shoot her with his eye lasers as he flaps in the air.

"Mephisto, stand down," Sylus orders, trying hard to suppress his laugh. Mephisto is sensitive to perceived mockery.

Squawking in protest, Mephisto reluctantly obeys, his eye powering down as he settles back on the perch. His feathers, however, remain puffed so that he looks twice his actual size.

Sylus contemplates the cat. As if to gloat about her triumph, she marches up to Sylus's foot underneath the silk sheets and plants her butt on his ankle, staring at Mephisto the whole time. It can't be comfortable for her, but she refuses to move, almost as if on principle.

"No need to rub it in, kitten," he murmurs, for Mephisto's sake. She looks at him with her bright, golden eyes and blinks once, slowly. "You're the intruder here, technically," he reminds her. She just swishes her tail, back and forth, back and forth, as if to say, And what will you do about it?

He can't help his smile. If he wanted to do anything about it, he wouldn't have left the doors open for her to begin with. Now, he simply intends to sit back and enjoy seeing what she will do. But he has a care for his bird's feelings, too. He was here first this time, after all.

She doesn't disappoint. She flicks those beautiful, amber eyes back to Mephisto and then marches up the line of Sylus's leg, stopping next to where his hip and ass meet the headboard. She turns in a circle, once, twice, three times before giving one last derisive glare at Mephisto and curling up in a tight little ball snuggled next to Sylus's ass.

Not for the first time, he regrets not killing her 'owner' much, much sooner, and much, much more slowly.

𐙚˙⋆.˚ caleb! ꒰੭

it was so hot you could melt on the spot, hence why you asked your best friend if he could wait with a cold treat for when you came over.

naturally, he waited for you on the balcony, trying to get some fresh air since the apartment felt like an oven, even with the ac on.

he bought you a popsicle, which had been in the fridge until you came.

however, since it was way too hot, he started eating his as slowly as he could, hoping you wouldn't whine about him being impatient.

when you finally arrived, you were sweaty and breathing heavily, looking for anything that could cool you down.

instead of patiently going to the fridge and retrieving your favorite popsicle caleb diligently got for you, you walked towards him and took a bite out of the one he was holding.

the one he was eating.

the one that had been on his mouth.

the one that touched his lips and tongue.

his eyes went slightly wide as he watched you not only steal his cold treat, but… share something so shamelessly.

was he making it weirder than it actually was?

absolutely.

but were you giving him an indirect kiss?

yes.

yes, you were.

your tongue swirled where his tongue had been just seconds ago, and—

dear god.

“gosh, it's hot as hell today,” you mumbled, fanning your face with your hand before handing the popsicle back.

it sure fucking was.

“sorry for taking yours, i needed to freeze my brain. where's mine, by the way?”

caleb was still speechless, the image of your lips, your relief, your expression…

you probably tasted like the popsicle now, and since he had the same flavor on his tongue, he could almost say he was savoring you.

he could also imagine your tongue swirling against his, so soft and wet, so sweet, and… and… and—

“leb? you should head back inside!” you called out, walking towards the kitchen without him even noticing. “you're getting sunburned and red already!”

oh.

if you only knew it wasn't because of the sun…

he quickly moved and offered his popsicle back, his strong back covering the fridge entirely so you wouldn't peek inside.

“take it. i… forgot yours,” he said, to which you arched an eyebrow.

him?

forgetting?

“huh?” you didn't believe him at first, but seeing his flushed expression made you mistake it for sheepishness. “so you were eating mine, you thief? how nice of you, really…”

and yeah, he preferred being incriminated rather than stop seeing your lips doing whatever they were doing before.

you kept licking the melting popsicle absentmindedly, cooling yourself down while he stood there feeling like he was being slowly cooked alive instead.

“this flavor's really good, though,” you hummed.

yeah. he knew.

he could still taste it.

god, this was humiliating.

“you want some back?” you asked sweetly, offering it towards him again.

caleb nearly choked on air.

because now all he could think about was your saliva on the popsicle, your lips wrapped around it moments ago, your tongue—

“no,” he answered way too fast. “take it, angel.”

“you sure…? alright.”

he turned his face away immediately, resting a hand over his mouth as if that could somehow stop the disaster unfolding inside his head.

this heatwave was going to kill him eventually.

but this was as close as he got to knowing what a kiss from your lips tasted like, and he would enjoy the view a little bit more, even if it was the last thing he did.~

𐙚˙⋆.˚ rafayel! ꒰੭

he wouldn't lie, his ego was bruised after an admirer of his suggested a lip balm, since his lips looked a bit chapped during a conference.

but, hey, he lived under the sun, and he was constantly biting his lips when focusing, it was only natural!

usually, those comments didn't affect him, but this one… it got to him.

he wondered if you thought the same, if maybe you looked at his lips and considered them crusty and dry as the desert.

he could die of shame.

and so he bought said lip balm, “just because,” and because it was a “bargain.”

of course, since you went to his house quite a lot and considered yourself the second owner of everything, —because he let you, and because it was fun to prance around his huge place, acting high and mighty— you helped yourself to the interesting things he had, and one of the best places to explore was his bathroom.

he had tons of lotions, soaps, oils, salts, and… oh!

was that a lip balm?

just what you needed.

you hummed as you made a duck face in front of the mirror and dramatically applied the clear product to your already nourished and hydrated lips.

rafayel walked by, and immediately stopped in his tracks, his head tilting ridiculously.

his pretty eyes travelled across your hands, your lips, and then the counter.

you were, indeed, using his lip balm.

your lips were touching what he had been using that very same morning.

on his lips.

your lips.

his lips.

oh dear lord.

his knees buckled, yet he leaned against the doorframe, acting as if it were a nonchalant gesture.

“so, uh… you… you just come into my house and take ownership of everything, cutie?” his voice came out steady, thankfully, but the furious pink tainting his cheeks became more pronounced when you grinned unapologetically.

“yup!” you nodded, pressing your lips together. “this brand is so good, too!”

right.

not only were you stealing his stuff, but you were stealing his heart, too.

“why do you have one anyway? your lips aren't even dry,” you asked, turning to him and placing a hand on your hip. “or is it to make your lips look more luscious?”

he grinned automatically, bowing oh so deeply.

so you thought his lips looked good? that was amazing news.

“thank you, thank you. i knew people with good taste still lived among us…” he straightened up, only to find you getting closer. “but i just like to have one… just in case.”

“hmmm… here, put some on,” you offered.

and, once again, his confidence disappeared as quickly as it came, because the lip balm touched his lips, which meant your lips were indirectly touching his now… which also meant it was definitely considered a kiss.

“there! so glossy!” you grinned, rubbing your thumb against the corner of his lip to get rid of any excess. “you're welcome.~”

rafayel turned around abruptly, using his hands to cool down his burning face.

how could his heart possibly resist the mental image of what your soft lips would feel like against his, and then your tongue—

no!

“you— you… you can keep it. i don't really need it,” he stuttered, before fleeing into the next room with long strides and his eyes shut tightly.

you blinked, confused, but then smiled brightly.

you successfully got your hands on another thing of his, which took you a step further in becoming the owner of everything.

and that included his heart and soul, even when you didn't intend to.~

𐙚˙⋆.˚ sylus! ꒰੭

you walked inside the living room after spending the entire day with the twins, and thought it would be a fantastic idea to bother your pesky partner in crime for a while.

he did the very same exact thing whenever you thought you'd have peace, so it was only fair.

he was obviously occupied with his phone, scrolling down with one finger, glasses perched over his sharp nose as he tried to decipher your “omg gaggg, fierce is fierce hunni xxx” comment under one of his posts.

he was still processing the twins' lingo, and you weren't helping at all.

you plopped down next to him and poked his cheek, grinning from ear to ear.

“what are you doing, sy? playing games? reading the news? online shopping?” you rested your chin on his shoulder, following his finger like a kitten watching a laser.

“i am browsing the net,” he simply said, to which you hummed in contemplation.

after some seconds of pure silence, you started to bounce by his side, poking his cheek, taking off his glasses, and, ultimately, picking up his mug and drinking some of his coffee.

usually, sylus would let you do as you pleased until you got bored and eventually walked out of the room, but…

there was something different today; something in the way your lips touched the very same spot his had earlier, without any shame at all.

he paused, looking at you, before looking down at your lips, his head now full of interesting… thoughts.

if your lips were over a spot he previously put his on, then you were tasting what his lips were like.

almost.

you probably tasted the coffee way more, but now the mug had a mix of both yours and sylus' mouths, and that, subsequently, described what a kiss was.

…or, well, technically.

“ugh, why's your coffee so bitter…? you need to sweeten up, sylus!” you pulled the mug away and placed it down. “do you enjoy suffering so much?”

ironically, you licked your lips clean; a bold move for someone who apparently despised his coffee.

it only made his pupils dilate a bit more, given your tongue now tasted what remained of him.

it sounded way more intimate than it really was inside his head, but this instinctive, almost primal curiosity was getting ahead of him.

“perhaps,” he mumbled.

when you least expected it, he took the mug, having carefully watched where and how you took a sip, just to replicate it seconds later.

now he was tasting your lips for a change, and while it wasn't the real thing, it sure as hell made him feel alive, even when his face was once again focused on the screen, and his expression remained calm.

you were too oblivious to notice this unintentional exchange of indirect kisses; and it wasn't as if you'd mind, either.

maybe sylus would actually kiss you one day.

after all, you were already “poking” his interest, both figuratively and literally.

but today wasn't that day; not when he knew you weren't being purposely charming.

instead, he grabbed your waist and pushed you away when you tried to climb onto his lap like a clingy cat.

“stay put,” he quietly said. “and don't touch my coffee if you find it so… appalling.”

but oh, he knew that would only make you finish it out of spite, and that's exactly what you did, once again creating that brief connection between the two of you.

he would now think of more ways to get you to (technically) kiss him so, so shamelessly and eagerly.~

𐙚˙⋆.˚ xavier! ꒰੭

xavier and you were having a lazy day, surrounded by snacks, board games you guys had become too bored with, and the low melody of your favorite playlist playing in the background.

you were munching on some popcorn, all while xavier opened a new little box, almost a little bit too secretly.

it's not like he didn't like to share, but… somehow, every time he opened a snack, your supersonic hearing made you turn to him and ask him to give you some, which ended up in him giving everything to you.

come on, he just couldn't resist your pretty eyes and your hopeful expression without feeling like a monster.

and since he was being way too quiet and sneaky all of a sudden, you obviously turned to him, finding a long, chocolate-covered stick between his teeth.

his eyes went a bit wide, knowing he had been caught in the act.

“gotcha…” you whispered, narrowing your eyes. “what's that?”

he didn't answer; still like a petrified bunny being cornered by wolves.

or, in this case, a very hungry and charming big, bad wolf.

you crawled closer to him on the sofa, outstretching your hand.

“sharing is caring, xavi,” you mumbled, trying to sound sweet, but it only made him lean back, further away from you. “come oooon, be nice…”

he didn't want to.

he knew that once he gave you the box, you wouldn't share a single pocky, and this time, he put himself first.

however, what he didn't expect was for you to cage him in and take a bite out of the sticking-out end of the pocky, barely brushing his lips as you did so.

his body shut down right there, and while his jaw wanted to snap open, he wouldn't risk losing the other half and let you get a full victory.

“there, you can keep your half,” you grinned victoriously after swallowing, taking the box from his slender fingers. “let's see, almond chocolate-covered pocky, limited edition…”

your voice faded in his mind as he stayed there, frozen and shocked.

your lips had… had touched his, albeit faintly.

but they had.

your face was so close to his, your lips were so soft, your scent invaded his nostrils unapologetically…

his entire face became flushed, his azure eyes travelling anywhere but your face.

he wanted that to happen again, and again, and again.

so, when he finally came to his senses, he opened yet another bag of snacks, which contained spicy chips this time, and he placed one between his teeth, acting all secretive again.

as expected, you jerked your head around and narrowed your eyes.

“keeping more secrets from me, huh? what's that?”

he tried to pull back, acting oh so guilty, and you basically took a bite so quickly he barely had time to register that your precious lips had brushed against his again.

this was heaven.

“you've got a secret stash or something? because that's not very nice of you, y'know?” you sighed and shook your head dramatically. “every time you share with me, new flowers bloom, by the way. just so you know.”

well.

if that was the case, he'd gladly feed you from his lips so that spring would last forever.

he pulled another pocky stick from the box and placed it between his lips, his voice now slightly taunting, even when his eyes held that faux innocence and surrender.

“come get it…”

and it worked, since you gladly took another bite, this time not noticing xavier's pursed lips and closed eyes.

maybe sharing everything with you wouldn't be so bad anymore.~

𐙚˙⋆.˚ zayne! ꒰੭

it was late at night, and you were still in the kitchen, watching and trying out all of those cooking hacks and easy recipes you saved on your phone.

of course, you ended up with thousands of different dishes and snacks, and you had no idea what to do with all of them, so… you called the only sane, nocturnal person who would come over after work.

zayne.

he usually ended up starving after his shifts, and you knew he would always say yes to you, no matter how frustrating it was for him.

after a few hours, said doctor was at your door, not knowing what to expect other than a few containers with food that would certainly save him a lot of time.

however, when you pulled him inside, he saw lots of differently shaped apples, homemade chips, uh… carrot gummies (for some reason), multiple, muuuultiple ways of cooking potatoes, healthy chocolate bars, and, thankfully, lasagna in the oven.

you grinned proudly, gesturing towards your kitchen with a tired but pleased expression.

“now… you're witnessing something amazing,” you nodded seriously. “not only will you have the best snacks of your life, but you'll learn how easy they were to make!”

oh god.

this would take hours.

you explained each plate with excitement, pushing your failures into the trash without blinking, smiling as if you didn't know what was going on.

“the best part is, i nailed everything on the first try!”

“...of course you did.”

the more he looked around, the more he noticed the mess.

he was about to complain, when you appeared with a spoon, guiding it to his lips.

“try it,” you urged, not even giving him time to process as you pushed your hand further.

he blinked in surprise before watching you take said spoon to your lips, licking it softly.

“good, no? that was the new mashed potatoes recipe i saw…” and as you kept talking, zayne's brain went blank.

the only thing replaying in his mind was how you took the spoon out of his mouth and licked it clean yourself.

the spoon.

the one that touched his tongue—

his ears went red almost immediately, and you tilted your head.

“oh no, is it too spicy? i swear i only added a dash of pepper! …or was it cayenne pepper? hold on—”

he was frozen in place, unmoving, unreactive.

his glasses fogged up, and he didn't even register the mild burn on his tongue.

he was way more focused on your tongue, or rather, your tongue touching his.

not directly.

but his mind quickly painted said picture, and it wasn't unpleasant; quite the contrary, really.

he could almost taste your lips, feel the foreign sensation of your tongues tangled together, and—

…and you came back with a glass of milk, pouting slightly.

“sorry! i might've gotten a bit excited with the spices… it's okay if you don't want any! i'll pack the rest of the food so that you have something to eat for weeks!” you eagerly announced, and he took the glass, taking a sip.

“it… is fine. do not forget the lasagna.”

he needed to freshen up, like, immediately.

but what he also needed was to stop imagining sharing more things with you, like this glass, or a lollipop, or… or a kiss.

a lingering, direct kiss that made him flush even harder than the spices did.

“oh, right! i haven't tried it yet,” you softly said. “wanna try it out, zaynie?”

from your lips or a shared spoon?

oh boy.

anytime.~

You are curled into a tight ball on the "bed"—that massive, reinforced platform layered with every soft textile and scrap of insulating foam salvaged from the Hail Mary. Every few minutes, a sharp, white-hot wave of pain rolls through your abdomen, a familiar monthly visitor that feels particularly cruel when you’re light-years away from a pharmacy.

Under your shirt, the jagged line of your "Rocky Scar"—the mark left behind when your Eridian friend saved your life—pulses in sympathy-like with the cramps. It’s a reminder of survival, but right now, you just feel like a mess of malfunctioning nerves and a waste of carbon.

A heavy, metallic thump-clack echoes across the floor. You don't have to look up to know it’s Rocky. His five-legged structure is as familiar to you as your own mind. Beside him, the lighter, more melodic tapping of Adrian’s claws follows.

"Question?" Rocky’s synthesizer voice rings out from the nightstand, clear and inquisitive. "Why is Human Y/N still in the insulation pile? The 'sun' has cycled twice. Teaching time is soon. Grace confused. I also confused."

You groan into your pillow, a sound that translates to the Eridians as a low-frequency distress signal. Adrian moves closer, her form rotating with concern. She reaches out a warm, stone-like limb, hovering it just inches from your back.

“Temperature is high,” Adrian’s whistles and clicks are translated by the small device clipped to her harness. “You are leaking heat. Is there a hull breach in your biology? Is human dying!? Please do not die! It would be very inconvenient and sad.”

"I'm not dying, Adrian," you wheeze out, squeezing your eyes shut as another cramp ripples through you. "It’s just... a human thing. My body is resetting. It hurts. A lot."

Ryland wanders in then, looking disheveled, holding a mug of chamomile tea the Eridians replicated. He sees the three of you huddled together and immediately softens. He knows the look in your eyes; he’s seen you power through lab accidents and alien microbes, but he knows this particular brand of misery is one that requires total surrender.

"They're worried about you," Ryland says softly, sitting on the edge of the platform and placing a hand on your shoulder. "Rocky thinks you’re melting because your core temp jumped a degree. I tried to explain human reproductive cycles to him, but he just got offended that your body 'destroys its own systems' once a month. He thinks it’s bad engineering."

“It IS bad engineering!” Rocky interjects, his claws clicking rapidly against the floor. “Why break the internal walls? Just keep the walls! If I built a ship that melted its floor every thirty days, Grace yell at me!”

"He's not wrong," you mutter, pressing your face into Ryland's thigh. "Ryland, tell them I'm okay. I just need to be a potato for about four days."

Adrian tilts her head, her 'eye' focusing on where you are clutching your stomach. “You are in pain. Pain is for when predators bite. There are no predators in the dome. Except maybe the vacuum, but the dome is strong. If you are in pain, we must fix.”

"You can't fix it, Adrian," Ryland says, stroking your hair. "It just has to happen. Heat helps, though."

The word heat seems to trigger something in the Eridian pair. On a planet where the surface temperature could melt lead, "heat" is their specialty. They are technically biological furnaces, their carapaces radiating a steady, dry warmth that far exceeds any electric heating pad.

Rocky steps up onto the platform. The bed groans under his weight, but it’s sturdy. “I am heat, statement.” he declares with a flourish of his limbs. “I very good at being hot. I am the best heater on Erid. Adrian is also a good heater. We will insulate the problem.”

Before you can protest, Rocky moves with surprising gentleness. He doesn't crowd you; instead, he maneuvers his heavy, five-sided body so that he is braced against your back, his warm carapace pressing firmly against your spine. The heat is immediate and intense, sinking through your shirt and into your aching muscles. It’s a dry, deep warmth that seems to vibrate.

Adrian doesn't want to be left out. She climbs onto the other side, tucking her limbs in and resting her front-side near your abdomen, being careful not to put her full weight on you. She feels like a living stone warmed by a desert sun.

Ryland watches them with a look of pure, unadulterated affection, full of care. "I think you've been secured by the Eridian Heating Company," he jokes. He crawls into the middle of the pile, slotting himself behind Rocky so he can still reach over and hold your hand.

"This is... actually amazing," you whisper. The crushing weight of the Eridians combined with their radiating heat acts like a full-body pressure therapy. The sharp stabs in your stomach begin to dull into a heavy, manageable ache.

Then, the sound starts.

It begins as a low-frequency hum, so deep you feel it in your teeth before you hear it. It’s a rhythmic, pulsing vibration coming from both Rocky and Adrian. It isn't the musical whistling of their speech; it’s more primal, a steady thrum-thrum-thrum that echoes the beat of your own heart.

"Are they... purring?" you ask, your eyes fluttering shut as the tension finally drains from your shoulders.

"Yeah," Ryland whispers, his voice thick with sleepiness. "Rocky told me about this once. When they have 'pebbles'—their young—they communal-sleep. They produce a resonance in their carapaces. It’s meant to stabilize the heart rates of the young and keep them calm while they grow. It’s a biological lullaby."

“You are small,” Rocky’s translator chirps, though his voice is lower now, hushed. “You are un-harmonic. You are pebble today. We vibrate buzz pain away. Sleep now, statement. Grace, sleep. You are noisy when worry.”

Ryland chuckles, his fingers interlacing with yours. "Copy that, Rock'. Sleeping now."

The dome is silent save for that incredible, ancient purring. It’s a sound that has existed on Erid for millions of years, a song of protection and kinship. Nestled between the two aliens and the man who traveled across the stars with you, the pain in your body feels insignificant.

You feel the scar on your side—the one that matches the one on Ryland's arm. It feels warm, almost glowing against the heat of Rocky's shell. You aren't just a human in a dome anymore; you are part of their kin, a family that doesn't care about biology or species, only about the fact that one of their own is hurting.

The lavender and apricot light of the artificial sunset fades into a deep, restful indigo. As the Eridian purring synchronizes, your breathing slows. Ryland’s head drops onto your shoulder, his breath hitching in a soft, rhythmic snore. Adrian shifts her weight, her claws making a tiny, comforting tink against the bed frame.

The last thing you feel before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep is the overwhelming sensation of being loved—not just by a man, but by a planet. You are tucked into the safest place in the universe: a cuddle pile at the edge of the galaxy, guarded by two biological furnaces who think you’re a very poorly engineered, but very dear, friend.

Outside, the Eridian winds howl and bash against the glass, but inside, there is only the warmth, the purring, and the steady, unbreakable bond of home.