Corpus Christi

"Huh— I think this is actually how they reproduce, rather than dropping seedlings," Ryland hums, shooting a glance over to you before he looks down at his notepad, jotting a few of his observations down.

This species of plant isn't one he's ever seen before on Erid; thus, when the little pebbles started singing about it, he'd gotten curious as any science nerd would— you two are the only humans to ever be on Erid, let alone live here! It's an amazing thing, and he enjoyed it quite a bit.

Even the Me-burgers were heaven compared to coma-sludge, or worse, starvation. It took a little getting used to, yes, but it was great.

"So it only looks like seeds," You pipe up, leaning back on your knees and resting your gloved hands over your thighs, "Quite fascinating. Maybe there was an evolutionary purpose to it?"

"I'm not sure," He admits. "Adrian did say it offered some… unique, functions to an Eridian system— it could be that they used it to achieve a bodily high?"

Tilting his head, he leans forward and runs the tip of his pencil over the underside of one of the leaves, watching the connected branch curl up and, seemingly, die immediately. He winces. "…Oops."

A second later, the branch turns almost a radiant pink, and falls down to rest finally on the rocks in the biodome.

It's strange— he's unsure how a plant so sensitive to touch survived this long on the surface — even moreso how it still lives in human conditions — where even the harsh winds of Erid made it difficult for it to thrive. Sure, yes, it was mostly found in deeper systems where movement wasn't as common as the surface, but the question still stands.

Erid biology was amazing.

"So much so to change its propagating system to be less farmable?" You question, and when he glances over, your nose is scrunched in confusion, "Maybe Rocky left some information out."

Shrugging, he moves to kneel alongside you, letting his gaze flit back over to the offending plant. Some of the petals around the bud of the flower have wilted, changing from pitch-black to a pretty, dead pink; proving how little time you both had before it'd completely wilt.

"Only one way to find out," He muses, feeling a grin slip onto his lips as he digs his gloves out of his pocket and gets them on, "I mean— Distant observation can only get you so far, and it hasn't killed us yet or proved to have a scale of toxicity to humans."

Handing his pen and notepad to you — and blatantly ignoring your faint, disapproving grunt — he shifts closer to the flowering plant, leaning down a little to glance over the underside of the leaves and the flower, before he straightens up.

He continues. "Is this a bad idea? Maybe. But we could also learn from it, so there is a light at the end of the tunnel!"

"Ryland…"

Your voice is low, and not exactly approving— but he shoulders on anyway, straightening his spine and wincing at the ache, spreading his knees to give him a wider sense of balance. Only a few bad things could happen, either way; One, he gets a face-full of poisonous spores and ends up kicking the bucket, and Two: the plant fights back and he gets ill for a few days, but is otherwise OK.

Two sounds optional, but he has some hope for nothing bad to happen.

Are those famous last words?

Maybe.

Is he going to continue anyway, for science?

Yes.

"I've got this, It'll be fine— we did survive space," He nudges his glasses back up with the back of his wrist as he peers over the flower, "Let's not forget that part. Space? Scary, but great. Alien plants? Awesome!"

Is he getting slightly nervous and talking to calm himself down? Also maybe.

Upon hearing your noncommittal grunt, he exhales slowly through his nose, carefully reaching over to the core of the life before him— he knocks into another branch with his elbow on accident, and it dies immediately. A little disheartening, but that's pretty normal for his life, so he continues.

Gently, he wraps his hand around the bud of the flower, softly prying the petals open—

He jerks back as spores shoot upward and all over his face, coughing up a fit as he waves his hand in front of his face. His other digs into the rocks below him, keeping him off of his back.

He starts talking before you have the chance; just to save himself from your impending I told you so. Even when he deserves it.

"Well—" He coughs, pulling his spore-ridden glasses from his face, "That was totally, one-hundred percent, completely expected! I did that entirely on purpose. You know. For science. Gotta test it somehow, right?"

Laughing awkwardly, he avoids looking over at you as he sits up, shaking his head to be-rid himself of the shock. In spite of his obvious embarrassment, he feels your hand curl around his shoulder, then the warmth of your body next to his— for some odd reason, it feels a lot more present than before.

Like, fever-adjacent warmth.

Was he getting sick already?

Your voice cuts through a haze in his brain he wasn't even aware was there— Yeah, he's totally getting sick.

Darn it.

"You alright? Ingest any? Get any in your eyes, your mouth?"

Blinking rapidly, he shakes his head again, humming a low mm-mm as your face comes into view, your eyebrows furrowed in concern. Your hands warm his already hot face as you brush some of the colored spores off, and all of a sudden, saliva puddles in his mouth at your touch.

You'd removed your gloves? When and why did you do that?

Sure, sue him, his mouth would water a little any time you did something remotely attractive— but not this much.

"That's…. weird," He mutters, swallowing, "I think I'm getting sick."

The rocks shift beneath your knees as you adjust, and he can't help but watch your expression, to stare at your face. The little scar that marks the flesh from below your jaw to beside the corner of your mouth, the way you huff and tilt your head when you're confused, the way your jaw clenches and your mouth curls back when you're angry…

Your mouth is moving. Are you talking to him?

Who is he kidding. You don't talk to yourself like he does.

"Ryland— Your pupils are blown to high hell," Your grip shifts down to his jaw, tightening as you turn his head however you please, "You're confident you didn't swallow any?"

…Wait a minute.

Oh, no.

"I— I think we were wrong," He gasps, quickly shoving you away the instant his brain makes the connection; not because the touch or your proximity hurt — quite the friggin' opposite, actually, because he already feels like he's dying now that you're not touching him — "It's contact triggered, not ingestion; I— uh, I already feel hot. Super hot. Not-Good hot."

You stumble to regain your balance, falling backward onto your rear into the rocks below next to the abandoned pen and notepad. Guilt pools in his stomach as he observes as it happens, but heat instantly suffocates it at the faint show of your teeths points from behind your lips, and the way your shoulders move as you push yourself back up.

He watches the unreadable expression leave your face in favor of something more restrained— he knows this one, though. You always look like this when you're focused, or you let your past training take the reins for a minute.

Now that he's staring, he finally notices the spores that are on you.

Shoot.

"Any other symptoms? Headaches, nausea, uh, loss of feeling or motor-function?"

You continue rattling off important questions, but he's not really listening. He should be, but it feels like he can't— his eyes stay glued to your mouth, then flick away only to land on your hands as you quickly get out of your spore-infested jacket.

You've got such nice hands. Very sturdy. Very masculine. Very reliable. Very—

Suddenly, his brain kicks back into gear; he's supposed to be doing the same thing.

"No, negative, not at all— I, um, I just feel kind of toasty, and…"

Well, he'll be honest — with himself, anyway — and think that he did not want to say that last part. Instead, he focuses on setting his glasses aside and getting himself out of his cardigan, of which has the most spores clinging to the yarn.

"And?" You continue, tossing your jacket over the offending plant to avoid any more spores escaping, "And what? Ryland— We know fuck-all about this plant, we don't have time to waste; hell, we could grow another goddamn limb and be utterly clueless to prevent it— so, I'd really like to know what the hell you're feeling before I feel it too!"

He swallows.

If he was a braver man willing to test your patience, he would've said something like, language, Captain! but, he knows he's not. And, well, he'd rather enjoy keeping his fingers. You threatened to cut them off the last time he royally pissed you off.

…But there really is no way to lighten up the word aroused, is there?

He opens his mouth once, then twice, only to close it shut right after. It doesn't help you're less than four feet away, gorgeous as all heck, breathing just as heavy as he is.

He's sweating.

"I— ugh, I'm— Sexually influenced! I'm feeling Sexually… influenced. Heavily. Horribly." He winces.

O… Kay. That was arguably worse.

He can't bring himself to look at you; your silence was enough, and it only makes your out-of-sync breaths seem louder. It doesn't help his brain, which, if you were curious, felt like sludge that could leak out of his brain if he thinks too hard.

The symptoms must've finally kicked in for you, because your silence continues, where he knows you would've questioned his wording were you…. uninfluenced.

At the sound of your throat clearing, his gaze flits over to you, and instantly, it's obvious you're feeling the same things he is.

Which, truly, helps his brain avoid functioning altogether.

"Shit," You finally announce, panting through your mouth— sweat slicks the front of your hair as you run your hand down your face, and his thoughts catch on the movement of your Adams apple as you swallow.

"It's kind of awful, right?" He breathes, laughing awkwardly; his voice cracks mid-way, not unlike how it often did when he was going through puberty. Embarrassing. "It's, uh, really bad for you too, huh?"

He wiggles in his spot, trying to get comfortable enough to calm down a little— but all it does is make his jeans grind against a rather sensitive spot he'd hoped to avoid. Quickly, he stills, trying to avoid a repeat offense as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip.

"Yeah," You mutter, nodding slowly, "We should…"

You pause mid-way, your voice trailing off like you'd either gotten distracted or completely lost what idea you had of what you were going to say; and, yeah, he wholeheartedly agrees. He was only trying to keep a brave face, but he felt so strongly he could cry— he wanted so badly it was painful.

"—You, you go inside. Strip before you enter and leave your clothes… outside, by the door. I'll, uh, I'll handle them while you shower and cool off."

"What are you going to do?" The question tumbles out of his mouth automatically, but its concern is true. "We don't— We don't know how long this stuff lasts. We can't be separated forever,"

He's unsure if that last part is him, or the spores' effect talking. Truthfully— he can't bring himself to care a freaking lick (God, if he could lick You…). Swallowing, he continues, "At least not without some difficulties."

"Doesn't matter," You wave your hand in front of your face as you shake your head, as if to brush him off, "Just— just go. I need… to log the— the symptoms, and get rid of the goddamn plant."

He listens, feeling his mouth curl back in slight distaste of the idea. He didn't want to leave; he didn't even want to be this far away from you, let alone so much more he couldn't even see you. It didn't feel right— the idea stung, like physical pain.

"Wha— You can't— you can't touch it!" He blurts, ignoring the fact his voice is in a higher pitch than it usually is, "—Not, uh, without gloves. It's dangerous. And we don't have any fresh ones out here. You should come. Inside. You know… to get new ones? It's bad to reuse them. Very unprofessional."

Why is he saying this?

Okay, yeah, his brain is practically screaming at him to crawl over to you and just do something so he'll stop feeling tether-less, but he doesn't mean to say it. Or imply anything. It just… slips out, on accident. Completely. A complete accident. Yeah.

Yeah.

inhaling slowly through his mouth, he swallows again, crawling backward to put some distance between the two of you, preferably before anything shifts and you both end up in the gravel. Also preferably with you on top of him, with your hands on the back of his neck and—-

"Then I'll figure something out— Ryland, please, just go. We don't know what this stuff… does."

…Right. He probably should get all the spores off of him, huh? They don't seem to be helping. At all. Like, any.

"I'm going," He finally announces, forcing himself to stand even when it's the last thing he wants to do; his knees feel weak, and so does his brain. His mind feels fuzzy when it's not thinking about you or anything to do with… well, he knows what. "I'm going. I, um, promise I won't take too long. Like last time. And the time before that."

"Grace—"

"Okay, okay, I'll stop talking now."

Will he really?

Probably not.

Nonetheless, he puts one foot in front of the other, unable to ignore the heat that gathers in his stomach as he walks past you— your breathing is wrecked, and the sight of your clenched fists and slight shaking do nothing to help his want to stay; for some reason, his brain finds wild comfort (And interest) in the fact you feel a similar, if not the same, way as him.

As he walks, he sucks in an unsteady breath, roughly wiping the spores off of his glasses and onto the bottom hem of his shirt; the further he gets from you, the more it all hurts. The heat gains, and it feels like an invisible iron against his every being, only mounting to the headache now clawing behind his eyes.

I can totally take this, he thinks, using a shaky hand to slip his glasses back on, If he can, I can, right?

Who am I kidding. He's, like, three times stronger than I am.

He runs the front of his palms down his jeans as he steps up to the front door, trying to wipe some of the sweat off of them before he reaches up to undo the buttons of his shirt— this doesn't feel good, either, so he sticks close to the wall and prays no one looks this way.

Even now, with his body temperature wildly higher than It needs to be and under the influence of some strange spores, the humiliation doesn't go away. The pain doesn't, either, instead running the opposite direction and only continuing to mount.

Dropping his shirt, he jerkily undoes the clasp of his belt, roughly yanking it out of the denim loops and letting it join his shirt. He can't decide whether the lack of fabric grinding against his skin feels better or worse— he's so sensitive it feels like he's on fire.

He toes off his shoes, kicking them off to the side before he reaches down to the button of his jeans; unable to help it, he shoots a look over the scars of his left shoulder, letting his gaze naturally find you. You're handling the plant now, moving it over to the entrance of the Bio-dome so Rocky or Adrian can take it out when they come over next.

Even from this distance, thanks to his glasses, he can see the ragged rise and fall of your shoulders as you breathe.

He has to force himself to re-focus. Peeling his jeans off, he steps out of them, quickly opening the front door and stepping inside— as the door slams behind him, he winces, slowly letting go of the knob and moving forward, past the kitchen, the screen room that Rocky refused to not add, and finally into the bathroom.

Stepping over his dirty clothes from yesterday he forgot to pick up, he sinks down to rest on the side of the tub to catch his breath, reaching over to turn the cold water on, and…

Nothing.

"You've got to be kidding me— Seriously, shower? Now is the time you decide to break? When I need you most?"

Dropping his arm, he hangs his head and squeezes his eyes shut. The shower had a habit of refusing to work; something about a hose kinking somewhere within the fresh-water system and here, both you and Rocky had explained. More than once.

He groans, but with how broken and defeated it is, it's more like a ruined whine or a grumble.

Deciding for the next best thing on the how-to-stop-overheating list, he, rather quickly, makes his way back to the kitchen and pulls the fridge open. And laying inside, limply against a frozen thing of Me-burgers, is his Holy Grail.

The bag of ice.

Yanking it from the fridge, the closest the fridge door, reaching up and pushing the coolness of the ice against his too-hot face— then, he steps over to the kitchen island, moving the thing of ice to rest on the back of his neck as he drapes himself over the cold counter-top.

It's heaven.

Pushing his forehead into the counter, he stretches his arms out in front of him, forming desperate parallel lines of cold-seeking embarrassment. Sure, the shower was dramatic and temperamental, but it doesn't mean he's screwed. At least for now— his tummy is still searing hot with want, even in spite of what he tries to do to prevent his brain from controlling him any more than it is.

He tilts his head, panting against the surface of the counter as he presses his cheek into the cold; the bag of ice slips, and he has to reach back and fix it before it falls. Before laying his arm back down, he lifts his head just high enough to pull his glasses off, setting them aside and returning to his earlier positions.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm himself down.

It does nothing.

All he can think about is you.

If your groans sound different when you feel good, if he could make you feel good, how nice it'd be if you just come back and fuck him sensles—

His head pops up immediately at the sound of the doors hinges whining as they open; he makes eye-contact with you just as fast, and you both pause. You're stripped down to your underwear like he is, panting like you just ran a marathon, face dusted pink in a blush he's sure he matches on his own face.

"I thought you were supposed to be in the shower?" You blurt, your voice breaking weakly.

He blinks. "It decided to… quit working."

"Again?" You question, leaning back against the door and squeezing your eyes shut, just like he was moments before. "Shit."

"Yeah," He nods slowly, straightening out and sliding the back of ice over the counter, a free offer. "The, uh, the ice helps. Some."

As you step forward, drop the pen and notepad onto the counter and snag the ice, his gaze slips southward, to your stomach. You've a few scars there; a jagged, wide one from your front to the side, a few smaller ones in clusters, a medium sized one that cuts down below your underwear's waistband.

You're still muscular, though. Where he'd, admittedly, gained a few pounds back after regaining access to food upon the touchdown on Erid, you still held yourself pleasantly— that, or he hadn't noticed much of a change, if at all.

You were good-looking. Always had been, really, but after years together on Mary — and the VERY close proximity that came with — and seeing you handle stressful situations with a sexy amount of control… well, you might as well be a Greek God.

An Adonis, if you will.

"My eyes are up here, you know. I can practically see the thoughts in your head."

He raises his gaze instantly.

"S— Sorry," He fumbles, his mouth opening silently, but he finds no valuable excuse to defend himself with. "…Sorry."

"I'm kidding," You laugh, but it's breathless, and not all there, like you didn't truly find anything funny. He knew, feeling like this, he couldn't. He watches you pull the ice from your throat, then as you slide it back over to him, rest your forearms on the counter, and sink down to rest your forehead against the tops of your arms.

Your voice is slightly muffled when you continue. "…Haven't exactly been an angel myself."

"What's that mean?" He questions, swallowing the saliva pooling in his mouth at the free sight of your scar-littered, muscular back— he presses his lips together, leaning against the cold edge of the counter to try to feel like he's regained Some control of himself.

He hasn't.

You say nothing as you straighten back up, instead, you wordlessly make eye-contact with him; but you break it as you look down to his lips, back to his eyes, his lips again, then down his front and over to the burn scars over his forearm and upward on his left side.

Heat blooms everywhere he can feel you look.

It should freak him out— he was under the influence of hormone-altering spores, he should be running away screaming and locking himself into the bedroom and keeping distance from you. So you could both rough this out on your own and pretend it didn't happen.

But… It's not.

Quite the opposite, really.

"What'd you do to the plant?" He questions breathlessly, pulling the ice away from his face and leaning over the counter to hand it to you— he's not sure what gets him more; the touch of your hand brushing his as you take it, or the cold lick of the counters edge right above his crotch.

He wants to grab you, to yank you over to this side and kiss you so hard it hurts, but he refrains.

It's a feat within itself, really.

"Put it by the door," You mutter, raising the ice to press against your cheek, "With a note for Rocky."

He nods, chewing on his bottom lip as he drops his hand, pressing the heel of it against the edge of the counter. His fingers curl, gripping it tight in an attempt to clear his head from the thoughts running rampant— What it'd be like for you to fuck him here in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bathroom, in the shower…

"And— And the clothes?"

"In a spare storage tub... 'Cept for your belt, and mine. They're still by the door."

He nods again.

Sure, it's wildly risky to just be conversing like it's a casual Thursday when you're both… like this, but the pain is gone— almost completely, aside from the ever-present inferno of his body temperature. He doubts that's going to go away today, but as long as it doesn't hurt, he'll try not to think about it.

He doesn't think you want to be in any more pain, either.

It really stings. Moreso than the ache in his gut, or the throbbing between his legs.

He glances up when he catches you move in his peripheral, accepting the bag of now-slightly-melted ice and watching you move around the island, over to the fridge.

God, your back is insane.

"How long do you think this'll last?" He murmurs, pressing the ice against his tummy— he twitches, sensitive. More than usual; it feels like every part of him has heightened receptors to touch, even his own.

Hm. He tacks it into his brain to record as a symptom, later.

You shrug, prying the fridge open and pulling two waters out from inside of it, "I'd have a better shot at getting back to Earth than figuring that out, G."

"Well…" He laughs awkwardly, licking his lips, "At least we're in it together, right? I doubt this whole… 'having odd reactions to an alien plant species that totally wasn't my fault' thing would be as fun if we weren't? I mean, that's a bright side?"

You shake your head, nudging the fridge door closed with your knee before you turn, handing him a cold water bottle as you push yours against your neck. "I don't think I ever want to have 'fun,' again in my life. I've had enough for one lifetime."

"Whaaat? You don't want to get sick on an unexplored planet in another life? That's awful, [Name]. A complete insult to me and my alien affections!" He accepts the water with a small nod of a thank-you, inhaling slowly at your proximity— it's the closest you've been since he shoved you off of him earlier, and he can't help but notice it.

But he's being sarcastic, of course. If he isn't, he doesn't think he could bring himself to look away from you.

Not that he can anyway.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Ryland— I'd love to get stranded with you every lifetime, I was just kidding!"

Now it's your turn to be sarcastic; and he can't say it turns him off any. Actually, the mock sympathy only makes his heart beat a little faster— the way your mouth curves down into a pitying, fake frown, how your eyebrows draw together and your head tilts…

And the way you say his name?

Stick a fork in 'im. He's done. He's over his head.

Yeah, he can't get it out of his brain.

His lips part as he swallows, feeling the volcano roar in his stomach; he continues staring, influenced and suddenly shameless with need, staring so intently he watches your expression changes the second it happens.

You go from mocking, to curious, to unreadable.

He watches every single one of them have their turn.

He gets two seconds to gasp until you're crossing the kitchen and cutting it off with a kiss.

The warmth blooms upward from his stomach to his chest as you groan into his mouth, and he fumbles to set the ice down as he kisses back— it's clumsy, hot, and quick; it's a physical need rather than a want. He can barely hear the sound of the bag of ice slipping off the counter and onto the floor over the rush of blood in his ears, but he doesn't care.

You continue moving even as you're connected, forcing him to walk backward as he kisses you until a shudder wracks his spine at the cold edge of the counter bumps into his lower back, but whatever chill there was is instantly staved off the moment your hands find his waist, fingertips digging into his skin.

Kissing has never felt so fucking good.

It's like a full-body satisfaction— whatever warmth or pain he had before is synthesized into pleasure, then doubling that into euphoria.

He returns the passion as you tilt your head, making his head tilt back a little until he pushes back, feeling your chest rise and fall in an out-of-sync rhythm against his own; though it's instantly forgotten as his body shivers, his chest tightening pleasantly as you grind against him.

Whining into your mouth, he chases you as you lean your head back, barely registering as you pull his glasses off of his face and set them aside.

God, you feel good.

"This— This is," He pants, swallowing harshly, "Really, really unhygienic."

Your arms box him in as you pull them from his waist, settling them on either side of him on the counter as you pull back, slide a leg between his own, and come closer. An open-mouthed, choked gasp is yanked from his throat at the friction, and whatever care he has disappears.

It's not like you answer, anyway— you just duck your head down and kiss him again, nudging your knee further between his own to, apparently, give him more pleasure as you move your arms to coil around his middle.

And to heck if it doesn't work.

His hand slides up as he hooks an arm around the back of your neck, keeping you in place; if you moved away now, he'd cry. Literally. His other drops to grip along your hip, his fingers brushing a scar there— it must be sensitive, too, because you hum into his mouth and push him further into the counter.

It doesn't hurt; you'd moved your arm down, so your forearm pressed into the counter instead of his back. It didn't snake any lower, but it makes you lean down a little more; and when he grinds his hips again, it feels like heaven.

Actual heaven.

"Don't— Don't move," He gasps, panting into your mouth as his hand tightens around your hip, "Right there, please, don't move,"

He's never felt so sensitive in his life.

You seem to realize that, too, because you prey on it; as he ruts against your leg and yourself, your arm tightens around his lower back, pulling him even closer. You moan into his mouth as he kisses you back with fervor, and it only eggs him on— he arches his spine just slightly, making you chase him and lean over him more.

This feels even better. You do— whether it's the spores or you making him feel so good — like he hasn't ever before, with anyone else — he doesn't know, but he doesn't care about it much now.

"mmng— I—"

He can barely talk in-between kisses; sometimes they're deeper, sometimes they're more superficial but within rapid fashion— he doesn't care. They all work him toward that edge, tighten the coil in his tummy he's chasing—

"Don't stop—"

The moment you pull away to catch your breath and mouth at his neck, the coil snaps.

A broken whine is yanked from his throat as he ruts his hips, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning forward to nudge his nose into your shoulder. His hold on you tightens as he breathes in short, heavy inhales, continuing and tailed by ruined groans and whimpers, his thighs tightening around yours when you move.

You're panting against his neck, whatever noises you're making being muffled by the fact you've got your teeth in him— the sting feels better than he'd ever thought he'd be into, so he lets it happen, slowly relaxing in sync with you as he comes down from his high, but he still lets his hips roll experimentally.

You moan.

"Did y—?"

"…Uh-huh."

That's hot.

You're still breathing heavy by the time you retreat into his neck, not allowing either of you to come down completely or catch your breaths until your pushing your mouths together again, and he can faintly sense the feeling of your nose bumping into his as you tilt your head.

"Wanna go again?" You murmur, pressing a little kiss to the side of his mouth.

He nods, only to clear his throat. "Y— Yeah. The, uh, the bedroom this time, though? Please."

Is he going to last the entire night?

Maybe not. He's not the most… sexually active guy in the world, but God could you make him be.

Is he also sure you'll stop one-hundred percent the moment he's done?

Completely.

"We've gotta stop meeting each other like this." You'd barely locked the door when the voice sounded, and your heart leapt out of your throat as you turned, seeing an almost familiar body draped across your sofa.

"Get the fuck out!" Your hand instinctively wretches the drawer by the front door open, only to find it empty.

"Did you start keeping a knife by the door before or after you met me?" His head tilts to the side with a small smile, and you have to narrow your eyes at him to realise who he is. Holy shit.

"Jim?" He falters a little at the name, wincing almost, and for a moment you see the pained man you'd met.

"Six." He corrects you now, and you just nod, it seems irrelevant in the current situation, there are more pressing matters at hand as far as you're concerned.

"Why are you in my house?" His grin returns, and he gives an amused shrug.

"I was in the area, thought I'd drop by and say thanks." He speaks all too casually, slipping the knife in his pocket and reclines back, throwing his arms on the sofa behind himself.

"Yeah-Uh-" You glance back at the door, you'd spent so long convincing yourself that it was all some insane dream spurred on by a lack of sleep, so the fact he was once again in front of you was proving to be more than a little overwhelming. "How did you get in?" You think back to a minute beforehand, the door had been locked, and you stare down at the keys in your hand.

"Oh, here," He roots around in his pocket for a moment, before tossing you another set of keys that hits you squarely in the chest and drops to the floor. Your heart thumps so hard you can feel it in your throat, and you really need to leave this time. The man sat like he owns the place is hardly the same wounded one you'd barely been safe with before, and you really doubt you'd get a home field advantage in this fight.

Innocent men don't typically get stabbed and then go anywhere but a hospital. Innocent men don't typically demand the shirt with their blood on it and then sleep with a gun under their pillow before disappearing in the middle of the night.

"Your landlord really doesn't give a shit, I just said I was your boyfriend and I'd lost my set of keys and he gave me a replacement- you need to find a new place." He narrows his eyes at you. "There are much more dangerous men than me that could use that to their advantage."

"You seem dangerous enough to me." You regret the words as soon as you say them, and he gets a flash of that anger you'd seen before, his eyes darkening as his jaw locks in a grimace.

"I'm not here to hurt you." He hisses, and he nods towards the coffee table as if he's pointing out the obvious.

There's a wad of cash on the table, more than you'd ever seen in one place in your life. "You might wanna spread out depositing it, they'll flag it as fraud if you do it all at once." He relaxes again, smiling- he seems to be the king of hot and cold reactions.

"Six I-" You debate leaving, calling the police maybe, but you know that that wouldn't stop him, he'd be gone before you finished dialing.

"Come here." He curls a finger at you. "Please." He tacks on, head tilting to the side like he's sizing you up again, but this time the smirk tugging at his lips suggests it's a different type of dangerous.

"Six." You can't deny you feel some sort of way towards him, and you're instantly reminded of sight of him as you knelt in front of him. The way he'd looked at you, the way he'd cradled your head and then your hands, keeping you in that position- below him.

"What?" His lip quirks up again, voice playing innocent, in a way that's painfully charming.

Six stares at you with a look he hoped conveyed some sort of hunger, and internally fought with the fact he had no clue what he was doing. He'd intended on doing a quick in and out, dropping the cash on the table before dipping back out, maybe scribbling a note to warn him about his shitty landlord before pushing the keys under the door. But he hadn't. He'd become entranced. Watching you for the last few months had been a hobby he couldn't quite afford, but had scraped through anyway. It had been just his luck getting a job in your city, and it had only furthered when Sid had allowed him a short break from work, he deserved it, apparently. Knowing him, it was some setup for a job that would no doubt end as awfully as all the others. He couldn’t trust the man as far as he could throw him, but at times like these, he’d take the odd act of kindness when he could.

“I don’t-“ You stumble over your words, and he watches the nerves twitch across your face. He finds it cute, and immediately reprimands himself for finding attraction in your fear- he’s trying to be moral here. “Fuck it.” The way you relax makes the stress melt from his shoulders, and the kick drum beat of his heart ramps up to 10 as you approach slowly.

Six isn’t particularly good at the song and dance to tempt someone to be with him, but the second they’re hooked he moves like a well oiled machine. He’s not -trained- in seduction, but based on how you reacted last time, the standard rules of his usual business apply. He knows how to be in control, he knows how to guide people into exactly what he wants.

“There we go.” He hums, a lilt of praise that makes you grin bashfully. “Here.” He sits up just a fraction, getting himself close enough to hook a boot around your ankle, drawing you forward until his hands can find your hips, though he doesn’t drag you down to his lap like he so wants to. “Tell me I can.” His gloved thumbs dance slowly under your shirt, watching as you shiver at the cold leather against your skin. You just nod at him, and his chest burns painfully as he shakes his head back. “Use your words.”

“Yeah-Yeah. Please.” The way you ease into his hold has his spine thrumming, and he decides to allow himself to fully give in to the cravings that have been building since the night he met you. It feels stupid, he has no business experiencing such carnal desires for anything other than personal gain, but something about you makes his brain too buzzy. You’re too soft and gentle and too sweet to him that he wants you all, to hell with his training.

"You want to be a good nurse and check on your work?" He teases, and he hopes you don't notice the wince at his own comment, but he can hardly regret it when a second later you’re nodding, already moving to take your place between his knees.

It feels unnatural to him, to be in this situation, but the thrill of someone submitting to his whims so easily makes him dizzy. Having someone under his command without even using a weapon is a power he loves to wield on occasion, and it does help when they were as easy on the eyes as you were.

“Ji-“ You go to say, before quickly correcting yourself with wide eyes. “Six.” He nods, allowing himself the luxury to bask in the mild panic on your face. You’re someone who wants him. Despite it all.

“Yeah?” There it is again, the falter of a sudden wave of insecurity. He rolls around a few pet names on his tongue, so rarely used when encounters to cater to his own desires are few and far between. He wants to call you something that will draw you out of your shell, have you eating out the palm of his hand and crawling into his arms. He wonders then what you might call him, how you might react when he orders you about. It’s a dynamic he knows all too well, but seeing it in this context is electric, and each touch of your gentle hand against him as you settle to your knees has his skin sparking.

“Baby.” He settles on- sweet and normal, so painfully human and almost domestic, everything he didn’t consider himself to be. But tonight? He was allowed to pretend. He could do away with the bravado and act that he carried as The Gray Man. All the violence and biting anger that had him feeling more machine than man melted into something burning deep in his chest. A fire was lit, and he was determined to keep it aflame.

“Can I?” You’re asking him now, all gentle as you fiddle with the hem of his black shirt. It makes him feel insane, crazy with the high of being treated like a person. In a field of work like his, autonomy was hard to come by, his body was simply equipment, and no one cared for the brain piloting it. He was a machine, something to own, as much as his heart fought that he was a man of flesh and blood, his handlers had never quite shared the same sentiment.

But there you were, waiting with tender hands that brought no violence, your touch would arrive soft and pleasurable. It was something he seldom had, and he’d started to believe he didn’t deserve.

“Yeah, go ahead.” His hand gravitates to you like he got a mind of its own, and he wraps his fingers loosely around yours as you shove his shirt clumsily up his abdomen. “Here, let me help you.” Pulling away almost feels painful when he’s so near to your warmth, but he does so for the sake of yanking his shirt off and tossing it somewhere off to the side. He knows your apartment now, this isn’t the first time he’d been inside it, and the simple act of seeing his shirt lay on the floor like it belongs there almost has him doubling over with a painfully sick feeling- though it stems from nothing but the desire for a normal life.

He ends that train of thought before it could continue, Courtland Gentry will never have a normal life, he will never be free, and he will never know such tender care outside of these fleeting moments. So for now he cannot dwell, he cannot do anything past what his body is aching for, he simply succumbs to baser instincts and watches with a buzzy delight at the way your hands twitch nervously before flattening against his thighs.

“You did so good.” He praises, watching your sweet face as your eyes settle on the scar, uneven and jagged in his abdomen. Another person may have been annoyed at the mess of it all, the way the stitches were uneven and carved a mess into what was once- a long time ago- smooth pristine skin. But to him it was a reminder, and he often found himself seeking the feeling of it out, tracing the hacked lines, just to affirm to himself that sometime, somewhere, someone found it within themselves to be gentle with him.

His brain short circuits as you suddenly make a move to lean closer, pushing his legs open wider to get to an angle where you can crane your head down, dipping it low towards his hips. “Fuck.” He feels painfully easy now, and he should be embarrassed at the way his brain stutters at the sight, and practically melts when your lips press to the skin there.

He’s once again overtaken by the desire to taste you, and in turn make you taste him. He wants to bring you up to his mouth until you’re both panting, breaths mingling and spit swirling together on your lips. He wants to watch it drip down your chin, mixing with the sweat beginning to bead across your face.

Your mouth is hot and wet against him as you pepper gentle kisses to the sensitive skin, and moments later your tongue slips out past the seam of your lips, the tip of it warm as it traces back and forth along the length of the scar, pushing into the ridges of the uneven tissue, following where you’d once hastily stitched him up.

You’re probing at him, tasting deeper than what should be comfortable, and part of his brain screams at the sensation, still prickly and on edge where his nerves continue to knit together, but the way spit is slicking across your chin and down to your jaw has any sort of complaint swallowed easily.

“Six.” You’re barely audible with the way your lips are practically fused to his abdomen, and the slow rumble that echoes through his body as the name vibrates against his skin almost has him bucking up into nothing. Self control. He allows instead for his hand to push to the back of your head, drawing you impossible closer, enough that a foot can shift and bully its way between your thighs, parting them just right.

He’s obsessed with how malleable you are, he decides then, and wonders what other ways he could bend you just the way he wants. The first willing participant in his games in a long time, you don’t seem to mind the way he toys with you. After all, you’d stuck by him even through the night in the hotel. He still remembers the feeling of your forehead beneath his lips, the way that even asleep, you leant into his touch.

You’re lapping at the scarred skin without instruction, and he groans heartily above you, fingernails scraping into your scalp as a warmth settles in his lower stomach. “So good, savin’ my life like that.” Your eyes flick up from where they’d previously been blissfully closed, and he wants to openly moan at the sight, rolling his head back on his shoulders. “Come up.” He expects you to sit normally, but you trail your tongue up his chest as you move, licking a stripe up to his collarbones, shuffling onto his lap. “Fucking hell.” He feels like his breath has been knocked from his lungs as you settle your knees either side of his broad thighs.

“Let me thank you.” His method of thanks was admittedly very selfish, because it involved drawing your mouth to his own as a hand cups the back of your neck, the other snaking down to your waist. “You want me to, baby?” He’s moving to hold your cheek now, his thumb pushing against your lips, probing past them just enough to have your jaw falling slack in his hold. You nod quickly, probably too fast, and he has to bite back a groan at the way you shift on top of him, palms pressing to his chest.

You feel so soft, too gentle again, and he wants to spiral into the feeling, pull you into his arms and stay there forever, pretending that just for once, he was safe. He can’t feel such an attachment to you, but he was already too far gone- he’d passed the line when he committed your identity to memory for ‘insurance purposes’ but then immediately used that information to find you. He’d spent too many nights stalking you like he would any other mark, and a sickly feeling had built up. You were too pure and unaware, but he felt so good to be the one to look after you. He meant in the best way, at least he tells himself he does, you were just too sweet to be out there wandering alone, without him there to care for you, to pay you back for all your help.

“Six?” Your voice cuts through his tangent, and he blinks at the confused expression on your face, brows tugged gently together, lip pierced between your teeth. “Have I done something wrong?” He’s not sure why you’re asking, and it’s his turn to frown, tilting his head to the side.

“No, no you haven’t.” He has that hazy look you remember from before, but there’s no blood loss to cause his spaced out attitude.

“You-You zoned out there.”

Something about your observation makes him feel panicked, and his heart kicks into gear like a caged animal. He can’t look weak-not here, not with you. He doesn’t even care that you wouldn’t be able to hurt him even if you tried, but his training forces him to spike with a sudden aggression. As much as he tries to fight it, he’s reminded again what- and who- he is, he can’t afford to let his soft emotions show.

His teeth grit, and he doesn’t even notice the way your eyes widen before he’s moving, arms tightening around your waist to haul you up into the air when he stands. “Six!” You yelp, wrapping legs around his hips as he pivots, your hands practically clawing at his back to keep you upright. He debates internally what in the everloving fuck he’s doing for a moment, before settling on spinning to drop you down onto the sofa where he’d just been sat.

He lays you across it, a large hand finding your wrists to push them above your head, holding them against the armrest as he swings a knee over your hips, pinning you down. It’s a painfully familiar position for him to be in, and he hopes you don’t notice the way his empty fist clenches at his side as he resists the trained urge to slam it into your face. You’re too prone beneath him, too easy, it’s unnatural for such a man to have someone submit for anything other than a beating. He’s out of practice- but the argument could be made that he never was in the first place.

“Six.” He can’t help but notice your pupils are blown, glassy eyes wide as you blink up at him.

“It’s okay.“ He overcorrects his outburst with an unnatural softness, and once again he winces. It all sounds so unfamiliar to his ears.

“Are you sure-“ He can’t stand to face the question, and instead cups your cheek with the hand that had previously been balled into a tight fist, hoping the tender action could counteract all the evil he’d done, before he leans down to kiss you.

The sensation almost burns him, your lips so soft and gentle against his own, his last encounter this delicate had hardly been recent, and until now, he seemed to have forgotten the feeling of it all. He had to bite back the monstrous feeling when you relax in bliss beneath him, his brain sparking in response to the prone body as if he’d just completed a successful mission. But no, the way you writhed under him just moments later, blood pumping hot under your skin where he holds your wrists reminds him that he is capable of much more than just hell and violence.

The familiar taste of copper floods his mouth, and panic pricks at his heart as he pulls rapidly back, heaving breaths as he stares down at you. “I’m okay.” Your eyes are still closed, and a small smile tugs at your bloodied lips, plump and splitting.

“Fuck.” Is all he can pant, licking across his own lips with hunger, and he can only imagine how crazed he must look, eyes settled solely on the small stream of red running from the corner of your mouth. He wants to lap it up, your blood just seems that much sweeter. It’s an injury born of passion and some warped version of love- the taste is addictive, he wants to pierce your swollen lips with his teeth until you’re both a mess of gore. “You’re so pretty like this.” He realises how insane it sounds as soon as he says it, but he can hardly care, not when he dips down to slide his tongue across your chin and back up to your lips before you can even mumble a response into his open mouth.

Your body reacts under him like you’re a man starved- as if you haven’t been touched like this in years. You whimper his name, only for it to be swallowed by his mouth passing over yours. His fingers bite into the flesh of your wrists, pulse thumping a feverish rhythm against his palm. He mumbles what sounds like praise between your tongues mixing, and the hand on your head begins to slide a dangerous path down your chest. He curses as your hips jolt involuntarily into his, the mere friction maddening.

Deft fingers travel as far as he can reach, blunt nails scraping at the soft skin of your navel before snatching at your shirt to drag it painfully slow up your torso. He moves away to pull it off over your head as if the loss of contact physically pains him, a deep whine vibrating in his throat in the second it takes before he can latch onto you again. “You’re so fuckin’ soft.” His words are muffled as spit slicked lips trail down your chin, palm smoothing up and down, from your ribs to your hips and back again, as if he’s trying to commit your body to memory. “Come here.” He moves quicker than you can even process, a tangle of limbs as he pulls your arms down and wraps his own around your chest again, and you brace to be hauled up into the air, lifting your hips to grab at him with your thighs.

But he has other plans, and as soon as your back is off the seat you’re both crashing to the floor in a way that almost knocks the wind from your lungs when you land on top of him, but Six appears to remain unphased. He’s just as rabid as he was moments before, tugging you down tight until your chests press together, moaning at the skin on skin contact it rewards him with, grabbing at any part of you he can reach, squeezing flesh in his thick fingers.

“You’re so good, baby.” He hums, hands pressing harsh at your lower back to keep you steady as he slowly grinds up into you, as yours brace against his scarred shoulders. Everything melts away, his anger seeps into the floor of your shitty apartment beneath you both as your sweat mingles with a mess of spit on your skin. He feels dumb with lust as he fulfills what he considered one of his greatest wishes, and tilts his face just enough to lick a stripe up across your cheek, up to your temple where sweat is beginning to dampen your hairline. Fuck. He feels insane as he does it, and he’s so clouded and buzzy that he barely registers it. “You taste so good.”

An animalistic greed takes over as he wants to devour you whole, he wants to spend the rest of his life with you pressed against him, all soft and malleable under calloused hands- he wants to kiss and lick and fuck you like a man starved. He doubts he’ll ever be satisfied with another drop of any drink in the world now he’s tasted you.

“Six-“ You break through his haze, pulling up just enough to rest your foreheads together, his hair now damp and sticky against yours. “I need-“ You’d happily spend the next few hours being slowly pulled apart by the man hellbent on marking your entire body with his spit, but the coil in your lower stomach is becoming too overwhelming to feel anything other than burning, and each swipe of his tongue sets your skin alight. “I need- please just do something.” You whine, and you would be ashamed of your pathetic tone if it didn’t draw such a n immediate reaction from him- because he’s pushing you upwards in order to reach your belt buckle before you can even catch your breath back.

Skilled hands make light work of getting your trousers open, and he wastes no time in pushing them as far down your hips as they will go in the odd angle before pulling the belt out. “Hands.” You sit back on his thighs, and thoughtlessly hold out your wrists towards him, much to his enjoyment. The belt is looped around your wrists and tightened in a way that tells you he’s done this a million times, and you try desperately not to dwell on that in favour of giving yourself up to him wholeheartedly. You shouldn’t trust him- and you doubt many people do- but you’d hazard a guess that you’re the first person to look past whatever persona he’d built up in whatever line of work he was plagued by. The man beneath you is hardly the demon he’s convinced he is. And so you watch him work with a feverish anticipation, rutting gently against his black cargo trousers. Addicted to the way he tries to bite back groans, his scarred abs tightening as he attempts to hold himself back.

Having you tied up allows him to sink fully into his new role, silencing the thrumming of deeply engrained defence that takes hold each time you move in a way he can’t predict. It’s safer this way, he reasons with himself, and it does help that you seem to be as into it as he is, attempting twice to pry your arms back open, sighing contently when the leather simply squeaks and holds its restraint.

One of his broad hands settles at your waist, and yours ball into fists when the other presses a thumb over the wet patch that had formed on your boxers. “Can I?” He’s seeking out your permission again, as if your answer could absolve him of all the times he’d grabbed and bruised despite screams and cries. If he can just be gentle with you, if he waits for your nod and cried permission, then he isn’t the monster people say he is. A contract killer on a moral streak- it’s almost comical, and he’s sure any other man in his profession would not offer the same grace. If he’s kind to you, then maybe there’s good in him after all- maybe part of his soul is redeemable.

“Please-“ Your voice cracks as you keel forward, already overwhelmed as he begins to massage the tip. “Fuck, Six.” He’s overtaken again by the desire to tell you his real name then, and his head spins as he thinks about the way it would sound from your puffy lips, the way you’d choke it out through a moan. He wants to beg for it then, for someone to make him human again, to do away with codenames and address him like he’s something more than just a killing machine, an object to do their bidding. He wants the control of an identity that had been so violently stripped from him under the guise of helping him.

“Yeah? You like that?” He forces out a line that makes him want to recoil, but it appears to have the desired effect as you nod with a desperate need, attempting to tilt your hips to chase the friction of his hand. “Good.” He hums, and he means it now.

“Please.” You repeat your desperate cry, and he wants to be taunting, to play with you until you bend fully under his will, but as you blink down at him with teary eyes, he reminds himself why he’s here. He’s thanking you now. Some part of him that he should kill quicker than it forms, eases his desires with a promise to himself that it won’t be the last time you’re like this under his hands. He shouldn’t. Finding you out a second time was more than he ever should’ve done. He knows better than that.

“Okay, baby.” He grins wickedly, complying to your wishes with his fingers probing into your boxers, pulling them down enough to release you properly, listening to the chorus of whines and whimpers you can barely control. “There?” He taunts, and you can’t even speak as you nod desperately, drool pooling in the corners of your mouth before you clamp down with sharp teeth to your lower lip. “Harder.” He orders, and his eyes settle solidly on the puffy pink skin, and he watches in delight when you do so without question, scraping your incisors into the cut as you tug your lower lip into your mouth. He groans shamelessly when blood pools to the surface. This is insane, he’s sure your mind supplies when he catches a flash of panic in your eyes as it beads up and drips down against your bound wrists, but the sight seems to make Six feral all over again.

“Good boy.” He hums, beginning to jerk you off slowly, whilst using his other hand to pull your hips forward to settle once more over his own. “You wanna do something for me?” He groans at the awkward angle his head tilts at, the action pulls at sore muscles all across his shoulders. He allows himself to wonder, for a brief moment, that if this were a relationship, you would offer him the comfort of a massage. What a world it would be if he could come home to your tender touch each night. Fuck.

Whether it’s to ease the discomfort, or just to stop his mind from racing once more, he begins to change position. He wants to be on top of you again, pin you down to the floor to watch you lay vulnerable beneath him. He can keep himself in check, if he just falls into place- if he becomes the man the world believes him to be.

He manhandles you without a care, brows tugging deep into a frown, jaw clenching as he forces you onto your back, bullying his way between your thighs before you can even process what’s going on. “Hands above your head.” It’s nothing short of a snarl, and you do exactly as he says, flinging your bound arms up to rest on the carpet above you. You feel more open and vulnerable this way, and Six allows himself to revel in it. He’s at his best when there’s someone at his mercy. Context seldom matters.

“I’m gonna jerk us off together, yeah?” Once more he doesn’t wait for a response, not that your hazy brain could supply one past a quick wide-eyed nod. “Good, glad you agree.” His grin is wolfish, and lacking almost all of the warmth it had previously held, but it didn’t stop the coiling heat in your stomach. The fear you’d initially had of him had melted away into white hot desire.

He leans back, just enough to unzip and shimmy down his trousers to mid thigh, though his eyes don’t leave your body, assessing the way your chest is rising and falling. Fuck. Pathetic is too kind a word for the way you’re writhing about, hips bucking up into the empty air above you, desperate to seek some sort of friction. The sheer sight does wonders for his ego, and he’s glad to find that such honest desperation can come from something other than the will to stay alive. You’re fighting and crying out for his touch, a release only he can give you.

The second your cocks bump together as he spreads your thighs wider with one hand, you’re practically a mess, and he laughs at the pre-cum already dribbling down. He wants to hiss something about desperation, but he doesn’t trust his voice to stay level, not with how violently his heart is thumping in his throat, so he settles for a groan of your name. “Fuck.” He follows it up with, reaching one hand to collect the spit and blood from around your mouth before pushing the fingers inside, basking in the heavenly feeling of your tongue swiping across the digits.

With a spit slicked hand he pulls back, just enough to wrap it around both of your cocks at once, beginning a slow taunting rhythm. “Six!” He watched the way your back begins to arch off the floor, ankles coming to link at his lower back.

“You want it faster?” You nod desperately, and for that moment he’s grateful for the training he’s suffered through, because he so effortlessly sets a punishing pace that has you mewling and shaking on the floor.

“Fuck- Six.” You’re way too easy, and he almost wants to laugh at how quick you’re brought to your peak, and he offers a small mercy of allowing you to lift your bound wrists back up in an effort to grab at him, leaving scratches across his chest where your nails find purchase.

“I’m gonna-“ He cuts himself short to rattle off a groan, head hanging low to watch where your cocks thrust together, both wet with a slick mix of spit and pre-cum, your tip seeping and red. “I’m gonna let you come- as a thank you.” He pants out, slowing down just enough to rub his thumb along your slit, collecting as much as he can to smear across his own. “My perfect little nurse.” His hips continue to snap up almost in time with your own, and the feeling becomes so overwhelming you clamp down again on your lip, and the sight alone is almost enough to send him over the edge.

“Come on, come for me.” He orders, his free hand that has previously steadied itself on your shoulder came to cradle your cheek. Almost tender, again, and he hopes you don’t notice the way he softens just a fraction. “Come on, come on.” He repeats, collecting the blood dribbling down your chin on his thumb, before pushing it back into your mouth, groaning at your muffled whimpers.

“Fuck-“ You gasp around his fingers, body spazaming as you cry, tears streaming down your cheeks. “Six-God, Six-“ You can barely keep up with his pumping fist before you’re coming over your joined bodies, spurts dribbling down his hand and wrist, mixing with the spit and blood in a way that makes his head spin.

Fuck. He comes alongside you with a surprisingly controlled cry, his movements continuing for several moments until your cuffed wrists push at his shoulder to stop. “Six-“ His brain had gone hazy, and he felt like he was outside his body as he pulled apart through his aftershocks. “Six.” He barely notices the way you’re practically sobbing now, and it isn’t until you dig your nails tight into the flesh of his arm that he snaps back again.

“Ooookay.” He soothes quickly, suddenly terrified at the possibility of causing you any type of pain. It’s ironic, for a man of his profession, but the thought of hurting you makes his chest tighten, and he once again overcorrects into a part of him he’d never seen before. “I’ve got you, it’s okay baby.” One hand gently pats your cheek, wiping away the tears that collect under your eyes with his knuckle. “It’s okay, it’s okay.” He repeats like a mantra, and he’s not quite sure if it’s more for you, or himself. “Ive got you.” He makes quick work of unbuckling the belt around your wrist, and he feels a rare pang of guilt at the angry lines cutting into your delicate skin. “There we go.” He hums, smoothing a thumb across the marks, and he surprises even himself when he drags them up to his mouth to press a gentle kiss there.

In that moment he doesn’t care about the life he leads, whether or not he’s just broken the one rule of leaving no trace, he simply cares for the way you soften around him, allowing him to reveal a tender side of him that he’d once considered gone.

Courtland Gentry isn’t a monster in this moment, he’s not a killer or a violent man, he’s a lover, sweet and kind, hellbent on keeping you safe and happy. Court Gentry is a protector- not of money or property, but of you. Right now as he hovers above you, lips dragging across your wrists, he feels your pulse thrum against them, and he’s human again. He’s no machine, he’s no asset to order about- to set on a stranger like a rabid dog. He’s gentle, and kind. Everything he had once been in a time long gone by.

So he revels in it, the way you don't flinch away, you don’t pull back like he’s some sort of evil you want to escape from. You seek him out, leaning into his touch, shuffling in an attempt to get into his arms. You want him for all he is, scarred and battered, you don’t care as you sit up, linking your arms once more to loop around his neck. “Six.” You’re still panting, your hot breath dancing across his throat. He’s human. He’s human. He’s human. He repeats in the back of his mind. Flesh against flesh, he’s clawing his humanity back with you in his arms.

“I’ve got you,” It’s unnatural, but not unwelcome he decides, and it all comes crashing down as he realises that this cannot happen again. Never again can he seek out your gentle touch, your caring eyes and tender words. He cannot allow himself to soften, he cannot become weak and fickle, he cannot sink into something so vulnerable. He’s not permitted to. He’s not trained. “just for tonight." He whispers into your scalp where he’s sure you can’t hear, and he promises himself he will be gone by morning.

It was a wise choice to come here when you did: in the middle of the week right around noon. You don't frequent the aquarium as often as Henry does, so you trusted his judgement when he insisted on the time and day. For good reason, you were quick to learn, as the winding corridors of towering glass are as peaceful and deserted as ever. It's only the two of you and a sparse smattering of mostly elderly folk, quietly strolling past the massive tanks and paying no mind to the two young men weaving past them, brushing shoulders and sharing whispered comments at every exhibit.

It didn't take long at all for you to understand why Henry likes it here so much. It's easy to lose track of time, of the world outside here; it's dark and serene, cool beneath the blasting AC, everything a calming blue in the marine wing and warmer, earthier green tones in the freshwater area. The speakers are quiet, but the soft ocean soundscape they pour into every room only amplifies the dreamy sensation of walking through the vast, ancient ocean floor.

It's in the time it takes you to read a list of fun facts on clownfish that you lose him. You turn to where you'd left him across the room, peering intently at a school of striped fish whizzing around, but find the spot empty. You sigh, tucking your hands into your pockets as you head down the wide hallway to your left—a wooden sign overhead indicating it as the way into the walrus exhibit.

You recall something about it being his favorite, so you figure if he's anywhere, it's probably there. The corridor isn't very long, but the light dies down significantly along its length, the black walls on either side of you growing dimmer with every step until it seems the deep navy exhibit is floating in an endless void.

Henry's familiar figure soon comes into view, a stark silhouette against the murky blue. Beyond him, shape misted and blurred through the water, a walrus drifts nearer, neck extending outward toward the glass.

His name withers on your tongue when he plants a tentative palm on the surface, as if creating a landing pad for the walrus' approaching snout. Endearingly, the creature redirects in response, and knocks softly against the glass behind Henry's hand. From there, its smooth body curls, propels itself along the glass. Henry's hand follows, though merely grazing it, surely so as not to smudge it with palm prints.

A fond smile curls at the corner of your mouth, warmth blooming in your chest, somehow both light and tightening at once. Henry walks alongside the walrus, his palm hovering just behind the breadth of its whiskers against the glass. Then, it withdraws, rolls over, and paddles gracefully back up to the surface, far above the ceiling.

You take this moment to finally approach, footsteps near silent on the carpeted floor. You allow your hand to find him before speaking, landing heedfully on his shoulder and then smoothing up to the nape of his neck.

"You never told me you're a walrus whisperer."

Henry's face is terribly soft like this—bearing that soft, private look reserved only for you, tinted with amusement by your joke, and painted in shifting hues of deep ocean blue. His smile is slight, showing no teeth, but no less genuine for it.

"Never came up," he murmurs, mouth slanting fondly. He turns back to the glass, watching a second walrus drift past in the hazy distance. You watch him, instead, and the absence of tension or worry lines in his face, the soft sweep of his freshly-washed hair. Your thumb circles the base of his skull, twirling a dark lock around the fingertip.

"I came here all the time as a kid," he says, quiet, like he's afraid of shattering this fragile moment. Above, the walrus reappears, sinking into view with the lazy wave of its flippers. "I would just sit here for hours. My mom would have to drag me away when they'd start closing."

You chuckle, imagining the scrawny, bug-eyed Henry you've seen in so many pictures standing at this very spot, breaths fogging up the glass, peering up in awe at the grand, majestic creatures floating on by.

"I can see why," you reply, forcing your gaze away from the line of his nose to follow his own. The walrus bumps against the glass again, a slow collision softened by blubber. Beside you, Henry huffs an airy chuckle, reaching out again to let a few slender fingers trace the length of the animal. "I like it here."

He turns to you at that, brows twitching upward ever so slightly. He's always been somewhat taken aback by your interest in him, though you can tell he's been working on it as of late. While not as common as it was in the first months of dating, you still see flashes of it whenever you earnestly compliment his art or how he looks. Flustered, a little dumbfounded; adorable for the most part, but dimly frustrating that he expects to be faced with cruelty in every corner of the world, even—however subconsciously—in you.

"You do?" he asks.

"Yeah. It's beautiful. Peaceful."

Henry's gaze sinks, focuses somewhere between his feet and your own, lips pursing as though he's chewing on his inner cheek. Your hand remains cemented on his neck, thumb never ceasing its soft, unhurried circles.

His eyes remain low when he speaks again after a brief lull. "Thank you."

You loosely squeeze his neck, hoping to meet his gaze. He keeps it stubbornly downcast, but turns his body slightly to face you. "For what?"

Henry shrugs, mouth curling at the corner. "Humoring me? You can pick the date spot next time, promise."

Only when you give a lighthearted chuff does he look back up at you.

"What makes you think I don't want to come back?" you chuckle, something easing off of you when he laughs, warm and at ease. His hand leaves the glass, comes up to hook around your forearm. "You might have to drag me away."

"I think security hauling both our asses out might be the more realistic outcome here."

You shake your head, fond, and slide your palm around to his chin, where your thumb finds purchase in the dip beneath his lower lip and you pull him in for a kiss. It's chaste but long; his lips yield easily to the press of your own, releasing a pleased sigh through his nose. He palms at the center of your back, fingers flexing weakly against the material of your jacket.

His eyes stay shut long after you break the kiss, as you peck his loose mouth a few more times, unable to help yourself. He only jumps back into motion when you move to pull away entirely, stroking up your back to pull you into his front, free arm soaring up to trap you against him.

He peppers quiet kisses wherever he can reach while not releasing you; your temple, your ear, into your hair above and behind it. You laugh, feigning a struggle for freedom, but Henry just smiles against your cheekbone and tightens the circle of his arms. Eventually, you settle with a defeated huff, chin propped comfortably onto his shoulder, hands slid into his back pockets.

You breathe in—smell his nice cologne, sandalwood body wash, and a hint of cigarette smoke no amount of washing can fully remove from his clothes. But you can't complain, not when it's all so fundamentally him.

You gaze out the glass at the walrus meandering back up to the surface, then crane your neck to press a kiss to his clothed shoulder.

All things considered, Holland thinks he’s doing a pretty fine job so far. So fine, in fact, that this case is looking like it might be the quickest they’ve ever wrapped one up. It was only yesterday that he and Healy met up with the client—a feisty young lady who suspected her kid brother was caught up in some nasty drug business, with such vivid orange hair Holland couldn’t help but ask if it was natural before they parted. Healy had kicked him sharply under the table, and the woman had merely blinked at him, grabbed her purse, and said, “just find my goddamned brother.”

If the kid really is balls-deep in any sort of clandestine organization, drug-related or otherwise, then he’s doing a pretty poor job at it; they only had question two of his friends to find out he frequents—with a rather methodical consistency—an underground club in the Eastside every Saturday. Though they only acquired this pivotal piece of intel from the second one, the first had expressed his own concern for his buddy, and after some coaxing gave them the address of his "business partner”, whatever that means. The guy wasn’t sure what exactly they did, either, but claimed the guy was creepy and filthy rich.

So, if only to kill two birds with one stone, and because this case wasn’t looking like one that would require any backup, he and Healy split up: Holland looking for their guy, and March seeing what he could dig up at this elusive business partner’s place.

The club really takes its underground title seriously, Holland quickly learns. It takes him a good fifteen minutes to even find the alley, at the end of which an unassuming pair of steel doors led down a steep flight of stairs—and then he’s in it. Brilliant, colorful lights sweep across the crowded space in cyclical routes, cutting through the blue-tinted darkness. Music blasts through deliberately positioned speakers, low bass vibrating through Holland’s sternum while he shuffles through sweaty bodies and makes his way toward the bar. The dancing multitude is certainly to blame for the warmth hanging thick in the air, so Holland doesn’t think twice about half of the male attendees being shirtless or near it—clad in haphazardly chopped or lightweight materials that hardly pass as clothing, in his book.

He finds a gap between chatting groups at the bar, and flags down the harried bartender. He darts up to Holland, planting his hands on the lower side of the surface and leaning in to listen over the music.

“I’m looking for someone,” Holland starts, fingertips tapping restlessly over the sticky wood. “He comes here often, Jason Stewart? Might know him as Sonny? Yea high, red hair?”

The bartender’s face stiffens, then cements in a dismissive frown. He glances past Holland, waving down some waiting customers.

“Order something or go, you’re holding up the line,” he bites, defensive. Holland gapes, glancing over his shoulder at the line in question: a pair of young women conversing and lightly bouncing along to the music. One of them meets his eye, her hair cropped short against her skull, and upon sharing a look with the barkeep furrows her brows.

Right. So, this might be trickier than he thought. Might as well acclimate. He tries to refrain from drinking too much on the job after the shitshow that was the house party they infiltrated last year, but Holland reckons skulking around an underground disco asking for a regular by name, and without even having a drink isn’t helping his chances at success. Partygoers, from his experience, often aren’t too keen on selling each other out, and if not that, are often too drunk or high to offer any lucid answers; these, however, seem far more skeptical than usual. They must get up to some pretty sketchy stuff down here—but far be it from Holland to judge them.

So, he gets a beer. It won’t be enough to get him drunk, far from it, but it'll hopefully make him blend in more, even though his outfit alone makes him stick out rather sorely.

He weasels his finger into the knot of his striped tie and loosens it slightly, eyeing the brightly or barely-clad attendees. He makes room for the two women and nods in thanks to the narrow-eyed bartender, before shuffling down the length of the bar. He ignores the terse looks flung his way, growing strangely antsy under the curious stare of a lone, younger man sitting at a stool, his expression not so much hostile as it is alert, discerning. Taking a sip of the cheap beer, Holland finds a relatively sober-looking woman near the restrooms past the bar.

His attempts prove fruitless there, too. Either she truly has no idea who Sonny Stewart is, or she has a phenomenal poker face; as he’s about to ask if she knows any regulars who might be able to help him, another lady strolls out of the bathroom. The first greets her with a hand on the waist and a private smile, and…

Oh. 

Oh, yeah, well, that explains it.

They saunter back to the dance floor, leaving Holland gaping and feeling laughably dense. For once, he peers into the multitude, really looks into it, and it only takes a few seconds to notice the unconventional pairs dancing together under the strobe lights. 

What the hell kind of a PI is he?

Well, now everybody’s caginess makes a whole lot more sense.

He takes a hearty swig of beer and sighs, more frustrated with himself than anything else. If he’d known he would be gathering intel at a gay club, he would have gone about it differently from the start. Now, he just hopes word hasn’t gotten around that a possible cop is snooping among them.

“Hey, pal.”

Holland turns toward the source of the unfamiliar voice. His gaze locks on yours, and he’s quick to recall your face as the one that’s been watching him since he first approached the bar. You’re alone, still seated atop a rickety stool, nursing a cocktail and leaning back leisurely against the wood. The high hem of your tank top reveals a narrow strip of stomach, and the tight material across your chest leaves nothing to the imagination. Holland squeezes out a shallow breath, and floats over to you.

“You sure you at the right place?” you ask once he stops, eyeing him brazenly.

“Why's that?”

“Is that corduroy?” You push yourself off the edge of the bartop, reaching out to catch the lapel of his suit jacket and laughing when you confirm your suspicion. Warmth prickles at Holland’s cheeks. He swats your hand away, grinding his molars when your lips seek out the thin straw resting on the edge of your glass, cheeks hollowing faintly in a lazy sip. “There’s a sports bar one street over, in case you missed it.”

He ignores your teasing, steels himself. “I just need some information, and then I’m gone.”

Your brow furrows, expression hardening under the glow of a passing blue strobe.

“You a cop?”

“No,” he immediately replies. “I mean, I was, but that’s—that doesn’t matter. I’m a PI, okay? I don’t give a shit what you get up to down here, in fact I’m all for it, probably, so I’m not going to rat anybody out—”

“Except for Sonny,” you butt in, cocking an eyebrow while you chew on your straw. Holland’s mouth clamps shut, eyes dipping fleetingly to the soft shape of your lips, curled around the plastic.

Jesus—focus. And he’s not even buzzed.

“His sister hired us. She’s worried about him.”

“Us? There’s more of you?” Your gaze leaves his, turning instead to the open expanse of the club, sweeping across it with mounting alarm.

“No! Well, okay, yes, just one, but he’s not here. Honest.” He crosses his heart over with one fingertip.

You look back at Holland, brow set, and then reach behind you without breaking eye contact to set your empty glass on the bar. The motion makes your shirt ride up a little, and Holland makes a truly monumental effort not to steal a quick look at the sparse trail of hair leading down to your belt buckle.

“His sister hired you?”

“That’s right.”

He watches your face in the chromatic lighting, losing its wary edges and eventually settling into something more genuine. You wipe the condensation from your palm off against your dark jeans, sighing lightly.

“What’s your name?”

“Holland,” he breathes out, stiffening unconsciously when you lean in, elbows on your parted knees. “March.”

“Alright, Mr. March,” you say, and for whatever goddamned reason it makes his gut sink into a pool of bubbling warmth. As you rise from the stool, movements smooth and unhurried, almost catlike, you say, “let’s go somewhere quieter, hm?”

Then, your hand is on his tie, and you’re all but dragging him through the club, not looking back for a second at the way he staggers after you, apologizing mildly when he bumps into a drunken partygoer. 

The club is far bigger than it looks, and he wonders what the original use of the space might’ve been before it was refurbished into a secret underground disco. He reaches up for your wrist, though halts before closing the gap. The mild pressure circled around the nape of his neck, herding him across the dance floor holds him at an unbalanced, hunched posture, wholly undignifying—and yet, it makes his head spin.

Down a broad corridor, you stalk past a file of closed doors labeled VIP, and Holland isn’t certain whether he should be thrilled or terrified. You stop at the end of the hall, where a piece of paper is taped to the last door, reading ‘CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE’, and without a second thought, you haul him inside.

Immediately, his back is struck against the closed door, wincing at the force and reflexively raising his palms in a gesture of peace. 

“You know I still don’t trust you, right?” you say, voice stern again, though clearer now with the music and clamor sealed outside, muffled through the walls. He opens his mouth to reply, but your fist tightens in wordless warning around his tie, so he simply nods, meek. The heat in the pit of his stomach refuses to dissipate—though this is really not the time for his fucked-up libido to rear its ugly head. “The second I suspect you’ve lied to me, or are in any way up to something that would put a single person here at risk, I’ll see to it myself that you regret ever coming here. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” he wheezes.

At that, you press on a flat, sardonic smile, and pat his cheek twice. You don’t release his tie just yet, but when you pull him off the door it’s a morsel less harsh than it was moments ago. You whirl him around the small room, and then spread your palm to push him back into the leather sectional sofa, which he collapses into with a yelp. Now freed from your iron fist and stifling proximity, he breathes out—a little shaky, strained—and lets himself look around the interior. It’s nothing too special, a dim room with elegant leather seating, a low table before him and a small, slightly elevated platform at the very front of the room. You switch a light on, which only partly succeeds in illuminating the space; there’s no overhead bulb, but many smaller fixtures throughout the room, the largest of which being a warm-toned, almost orange lamp by the door.

He notices, then, rather belatedly, that by some miracle he’s managed to keep his beer, clutched tightly in one hand. As you shuffle up to him and sit on the edge of the table before him, Holland downs the rest in a massive gulp. Liquid courage, and all that.

“Alright,” you say, “shoot.”

Right. Right, the case.

He clears his throat, scrambles to get his wayward thoughts together. First order of business: get the intel. Then he’ll focus on the warmth flooding his cheeks and, mortifyingly, his crotch.

As it turns out, Sonny isn’t secretly smuggling drugs in clandestine discos. He certainly attends them, but the way you put it, he hardly ever dips into anything stronger than an occasional bump or two. A few months ago he met an older guy in this very club and the pair have only been seen together since.

“My guess,” you say, prying the empty bottle he’s been absentmindedly playing with from his fingers and setting it on the table beside your hip, “is he hit the jackpot: found himself a hot older guy who’s happy to spoil him, and his sister notices him being vague, always busy, suddenly able to afford all these expensive things… First thought, 'he’s dealing drugs'.”

Holland sinks against the backrest, hands falling limp on his thighs with nothing to fidget with. An incredulous huff escapes him, looking off in the middle distance as he turns it over in his head. It makes perfect, logical sense.

“How do you know all this?”

You shrug. “Worked here for two years up until a few months ago. Marty gives me a discount for drinks and I still like to keep up with the long-time regulars. Word gets around quick down here.”

“I’m sure.” He looks back up at you, and a thought strikes him. “So, what are the odds I don’t get jumped outside for looking like a cop?”

You pull a deeply pensive face, head tipping with a long hum. “Not too good. Don’t worry, Sherlock, I can walk you to your car.”

When you go to stand, Holland’s chest seizes with something akin to panic. His hands shoot out, but hesitate to touch.

“Wait.”

You pause, already half-turned toward the door, and raise an eyebrow down at him. Holland scrambles to his feet, swallowing hard against the sudden dryness in his throat.

“Thank you,” he chuckles, aiming for cool self-assurance. “Pretty much did my job for me.”

Your mouth quirks—a flash of motion you quickly tame into a neutral politeness. You nod once.

“No problem, Mr. Holland.”

When his eyes slip again, down to the elegant curve of the smile you can’t quite tamp down, that’s it. He can’t look away, can hardly blink. His chest feels shrunken, thready little breaths whistling silently out of him. He tries, with every ounce of rapidly dwindling willpower in him to meet your eyes again, to stop gawking at your mouth like some sleazy asshole, but his body appears to have incited a mutiny against his brain, because his heart is hammering against his ribcage, his gaze fixed inexorably on your mouth.

“Jesus, sorry,” he manages, just barely succeeding in pressing his eyes shut, chuckling airily again. He rubs circles around his eyes, pinches crudely on the bridge of his nose. “I’m—I don’t know what…”

“It’s alright,” you hum, and despite your words you sound amused, almost mocking. Holland flushes even further. He senses you step closer, and keeps his eyes valiantly shut. When your hand curls smoothly around his wrist, however, they fly open on their own accord.

“I don’t even know your name,” he murmurs as you lower his arm from his face. “How old are you?”

Your eyebrows rise slightly, smile sharpening. 

“Don’t lie, I’ll know.”

“Alright, tough guy,” you laugh, a sound that thrums through him like a peal of thunder. “I’m twenty-five.”

“Oh, fuck.” His head sinks between his shoulders, hoping the subtle lighting masks the color that must be flooding his face. The magma-warm desire steadily rolling into his gut has begun to spill lower, tightening his flared slacks around the hips.

“What?” you hum, tone dipping teasingly. “That doing it for you?”

He chances a look up; your hooded eyes bore into him, open and undaunted—so bold with your want in the way one only is in their youth, and Holland is no senior citizen but he’s lived a dozen lifetimes since he was your age. He’s learned apprehension. Discretion. At least he thought he did.

You step closer, releasing his arm, only to regrip gently at his jaw.

“You ever been with a man, Mr. March?”

You’re getting cocky, he can tell. You don’t even know how old he is and yet, his reaction must have revealed it is not a trivial number. Emboldened only by his frustration, rather than answering you, he rushes forth, kissing the smug smile right off your face.

Your sharp inhale reveals your surprise, free hand flying up to his shoulder to steady yourself, but the other only tightens, pointedly angling his head and deepening the kiss. His own slide around the curve of your waist, settling at your lower and mid-back. From there, he pulls you in flush—and regrets it upon realizing you can probably feel him, already half-hard against you. He supposes the satisfied hum you push into his mouth is a response to that; he burns.

Releasing his jaw, you reach over to sink your fingers into his hair and catch them in a stern grip. Holland hisses at the lovely little pinpricks of pain it summons, and bucks automatically against your groin, where he feels you beginning to stiffen up, too. 

You regrip abruptly, from his shoulder to his hip, and hold him steady in order to repeat the motion, grinding shamelessly against him. A pitiful little hum emerges from his chest when your hands withdraw entirely—though it’s only for a second, before they splay across his waist, his stomach, smoothing up then to push his jacket off his shoulders. Spacey with want, Holland blinks at you, lets you strip it off, hardly registering the delighted sound you make when you feel the shape of his pack of smokes in the pocket and whip it out. You pluck one out and hold it between your lips while you search for a lighter. Once retrieved, you toss the jacket onto the table, and without looking up plant one palm to his chest and shove him down onto the sofa.

“On your back,” you mumble around the cigarette, instinctively cupping the flame to light it. Holland moves off the backrest, swinging his feet up to lie across the cool leather. You pause, then, driving one knee into the cushion by his hip, taking a long, thoughtful drag of the cig, and then gesture silently at his shirt. He doesn’t need to be told twice; immediately he reaches for his tie and damn near rips it off. From there, he moves to the uppermost button, undoing it swiftly and fumbling for the rest.

He’s fully hard by the time he shucks it off, left shirtless and flushed under your cool scrutiny. Something gleams in your eye, though, something hungry and satisfied, and then you’re moving, straddling his thighs. The bright end of the cigarette bounces slightly between your lips as you shuck your belt off, then his, and yank open his fly.

“God, you’re easy,” you comment offhandedly, dragging your knuckles down the shape of his length through his briefs, at the end of which a puny spot of precum has bled through the material. Holland’s whole body quivers, biting down on the wobbly groan that slips out of him. In a rare show of kindness, you offer the pressure of your palm, pressed firmly against him, but it soon hits him that, with your weight perched on his upper thighs, attempting to grind up into it is futile. He writhes, hips pivoting side to side in a desperate search for friction, the ineffectiveness of his struggle only making him harder. Needier.

You chuckle, airy and light, and pluck the cig from your lips. You turn it over and let your hand descend to his mouth, where his head flies off the leather to take a much-needed drag. As you observe, he notes the thinly-veiled lust that darkens your gaze, sucking in a hitching breath.

As you pull it away, your other hand slides higher, sinking two fingers into the elastic of his briefs. Ash plummets onto the floor beside you, but you only watch him as he steadily exhales, smoke clouding in the space between you. Your eyes sweep his bare, heaving chest, and after returning the cigarette to your mouth you reach down, drag a blunt nail over his nipple. Holland gives a strangled grunt, involuntarily arching into the contact, hyperaware of both it and your second hand, slowly easing his briefs down, just enough to free his cock.

“No fair,” he grits out, panting. You tilt your head in question. “You take something off now.”

Your grin turns wicked, circling the stiffened pebble of his nipple a few times before leaving it entirely.

“You’re cute,” you say dismissively. Holland can’t help but feel patronized. He squeezes the outer flesh of your thighs, letting his head fall back in defeat. At the sound of a zipper opening, however, he’s quick to perk back up. You offer him the cigarette again, only to use both of your hands to push your jeans a bit down your hips, readjusting so you’re lying on top of him, knees bracketing his on either side. Your underwear follows shortly thereafter, but Holland’s view is mournfully blocked when you duck your head to mouth at his chest. Your teeth graze his collarbone down its sharp length, pausing at the inner end to bite down, and then latch your lips over it, sucking leisurely.

“Oh, Jesus,” he breathes to the ceiling, choking on his inhale and, in a frustrated impulse, tosses the cig onto the floor. He grips your shoulders, your neck, the back of your head, hands flighty and restless, wanting to feel every inch of you as you pinch his skin between your teeth and roll it sharply. Holland muffles a humiliating whine into his fist, bucking up into your hip. He can feel the weight of your own cock against his stomach, hot and hard.

“Shit, shit—come on, c’mon, can you—” he cuts himself off, not entirely sure what he’s asking for, other than get me off or else I’ll blow my load like a horny teenager.

You shush him, planting a wet kiss to his sternum before drifting back up to eye-level. You frown.

“Where’s the cig?”

Holland looks down. Quietly mumbles, “dropped it.”

You peer over the edge of the sofa and click your tongue. Your eyes dart to him, then to his mouth. Before he knows it, three of your fingers are bullying past his lips, coaxing his jaw open.

He’s already sucking them down by the time you murmur the order. A ripple of motion catches your eyebrows, and then you smirk, pressing down on the back of his tongue, drool gathering around the digits.

“Second nature, huh?”

Holland flushes, ears burning. He shuts his eyes and sucks harder.

For a minute, he floats through the haze of his bliss, lost in the simple task of sucking your fingers down to the base, gag reflex be damned. Maybe all those years of vigorously trying to scrub the bitter taste of hangovers off his tongue proved more beneficial than he thought.

Your thumb, in the meantime, traces his chin encouragingly, scratching gently over the stubble in a way that makes his chest loosen, push out a long, low hum—almost a purr.

“And here I thought you’d be too green to take them,” you say after another brief lull, anchoring your thumb by the corner of his mouth to slowly pull your fingers free. Holland’s eyes crack open, brows knitting slightly with the loss. A string of spit connects your middle finger to his lower lip for a long moment, stretching and sagging as you bring your hand down between your bodies. When it snaps, Holland shudders as it lands, cold, against his chest and chin.

Both of you peer down at your cocks, hard, neglected, and his own sitting in a mortifying pool of precum, one that gets a groan out of you when you notice it.

“Jesus, you’re soaked.”

Tonight is quite the educational night, Holland is quickly learning, as the simmer of humiliation under his skin rolls into arousal, and coaxes yet another drop to surge out of his slit.

You wrap your fingers around your own dick, slick with his drool—the image makes him squirm—and drop a groan into his shoulder at the sensation. Again, his view is blocked, but the sounds of your low, muffled moans against his skin and the softer ones of you working yourself over paint a clear picture. Holland’s fingers curl into your back, writhing, fucking up into empty air. A choked whine weasels its way up his throat, not knowing whether he wants more to get off or watch you touch yourself. 

“Alright, alright,” you pant, and within seconds Holland feels your fingers wrap around him, and the weight of your cock press against his own. 

Immediately, he’s thrusting up into your right fist, chasing after the swift pace you quickly set. His toes curl in his shoes, all that static amassed under his skin rushing down into his cock, and from there bursting outward in bright flares of pleasure. He clings to you, seeking an anchor point in your warm, breathing, blanketing body, curled fiercely over him. He feels, suddenly, very small—like something so intuitive and uncomplicated it could be pulled apart and pieced back together without issue. And that’s what you’re doing: prying him open, extracting piece by delicate piece with attentive certainty, despite the severity of your teeth bearing down on his skin and the near cruel amusement in your tone.

You tighten your grip around the heads, thumb gliding firmly over his slit, gathering more precum, and the blinding flare that whizzes through him could put fireworks to shame. Whatever urges he might’ve previously had to shy away from your hot, weighted gaze are nowhere to be seen now, as you lift your head and watch his reactions; squeezing, twisting your wrist, grinding against him.

He’s getting loud, he knows—amdist the rumble of blood in his ears, the slick sounds of you both sliding against each other, he can catch his wanton moans, his shattered grunts and whiny bleats.

“Shhh, you want us to get caught, March?” you murmur, dropping your weight to an elbow in order to seal a palm over his open mouth. After a moment, the glint in your blown pupils turns knowing, almost chastising. “Unless you want that? For someone to find us? To see you like this?”

Holland makes a sound shamefully reminiscent of a sob, muted against your palm. His head twists, not trying to displace the muzzle of your hand but unable to resist the animalistic urge to writhe and thrash. Despite the sweat across your brow, the uneven jumping of your breathing, you look terribly composed compared to him.

“Well, we can’t have that. I want you all to myself tonight, okay?”

Holland moans in response, realizing his teeth had captured a bit of your skin in a gentle pinch, just to hold something. You pull your hand away, wiping spit off on his cheek, and lean over, torso straining off the sofa. He watches your free arm extend toward the table, pausing your motions over your cocks for a moment, and when you return, it’s bearing his tie.

“Open,” you instruct, balling the tie up, and Holland’s understanding groan is promptly muffled halfway when it’s shoved into his mouth. The material instantly soaks up most of the spit in his mouth, making his tongue feel uncomfortably dry. He runs it in tiny circles against the bunched fabric in an attempt to salivate and rid himself of the sensation.

Your fist continues pumping, then, and now he’s far quieter—strangely soothed by the feeling of something in his mouth again.

He’ll analyze that later.

For now, your forearm presses against his bare shoulder, fingers tracing sweet, mindless shapes, occasionally brushing against the chain around his neck, the ring hanging off of it. You don’t ask, and Holland eases. Not that he could answer any questions at all at the moment, dead-wife-related or otherwise.

You lean down, kiss the stretched corner of his mouth, and tighten your grip between your bodies. The pit in his lower gut grows and grows, a simmering heat threatening to swallow him whole as the precipice makes itself known in the near horizon. He emits a long, wavering hum, hips rolling wildly, cock twitching and weeping another trickle of precum.

You say nothing, but seem to sense his oncoming orgasm, picking up the pace, squeezing his shoulder once. Holland’s eyes burn with the sheer force of his mounting release, not having realized how close he was until he’s almost reached it, pulse throbbing against his breastbone, surely visible in his sweat-sticky chest. He breathes in, sharp and forceful through his nose, trying to keep his eyes open as they grow leaden.

It only takes one more squeeze of your deft fingers, one more press of your thumb to his tip before he’s coming, whining long and low through his tie—heat erupting from his groin and barreling through him in a tingling tidal wave of pleasure. It has his legs drawing up on a reflex, thighs knocking against your ass, neck straining back against the leather cushion as the sound dies out on the material and gives way to silent bliss.

The seemingly endless ropes of cum his pulsing cock offers makes the continued slide of your fist all the smoother. You work him through it, though the pace hastens, grows sloppy and erratic, and when he pries his eyes open, blinking through the mistiness, watches your face contort beautifully around your own release, uttering a fractured sound into the air.

Your hips roll steadily with each wave, and the feeling of your load landing across his stomach, over the mess of his own gets another pitiful mewl out of him, head lolling to the side. Your hand catches his jaw, abandoning his shoulder, and with a deep sigh you release both of your dicks.

First, you sit up, towering over him on your knees while you tuck yourself back into your jeans. Then, you repeat the gesture for him, and finally pry the tie out of his mouth. 

“Hope this wasn’t your favorite tie,” you say, finding a somewhat dry edge to wipe your hand and his stomach clean.

He grunts, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

You lightly pat his flank once, before getting to your feet. The tie falls with a wet smack to the floor, by the half-smoked cigarette.

“You planning on getting dressed, or I gotta do it for you?”

Holland grunts again, and scrapes up his voice. “Give me a minute, Jesus.”

You snort, finding your discarded belt and beginning to work it through the loops of your jeans. “One good orgasm’s got you incapacitated, old man?”

“Don’t,” he bites, but the rawness of his voice kills any attempt at sternness, “...call me that.” He watches your fingers smoothly buckle the belt, fingers that were moments ago effortlessly plucking away at all his seams, unfurling him.

“I need a drink,” you announce, settling your hands on your hips. “You?”

Holland pulls in a Herculean breath, and pushes himself up to his elbows. He shakes his head with great defeat—oh, the burden of having responsibilities. He checks his watch; he still has to meet up at home with Healy to debrief.

“No, I should… probably get going.”

“Oh, right. The case, and all.”

He grunts, again.

“Well, I had fun,” you say, turning back to the table and fumbling for his jacket. For a moment, he expects you to pull out another cigarette, but with a hum of triumph you whip out his wallet, and he stiffens. You pay him no mind as you begin rifling through it.

“...Please don’t rob me.”

PetriParker:

Ohh

B4tman_26:

Yes.

PetriParker:

Sorry I make it obvious that I don't use these apps, don't I?

B4tman_26:

That's alright. I don't use them either.

PetriParker:

My friend Marissa set this up for me

B4tman_26:

Does she also think you need to be 'putting yourself out there' more?

PetriParker:

Haha. Exactly!

B4tman_26:

My daughter feels the same.

PetriParker:

Oh, you have a daughter

B4tman_26:

Yes, I thought I'd get that out of the way. Wouldn't want any surprises.

PetriParker:

Haha, yeah.

Thursday, 10:42 PM

[ PetriParker is typing... ]

PetriParker:

So, Batman?

B4tman_26:

Yes? Are you a fan?

PetriParker:

Hmm No, he's okay I'm not really into DC

B4tman_26:

I thought so, Petri Parker.

PetriParker:

Haha. Clever, right?

B4tman_26:

Petri, as in petri dishes? You work in a lab?

PetriParker:

Yes Well, I did, but not anymore I'm a microbiologist

B4tman_26:

Impressive.

PetriParker:

And you? What do you do?

B4tman_26:

I'm an ER doctor. I work the night shift.

PetriParker:

Woah. Very cool And intense Ohh Batman, because you work nights

B4tman_26:

You got it.

PetriParker:

Haha. I like that I'm actually a bit surprised that you matched with me. I didn't think anyone would be interested because I don't have a picture of myself on my profile

B4tman_26:

I don't have a picture on mine, either. And I thought me having a daughter would throw you off. Yet here we are.

PetriParker:

Yet here we are

B4tman_26:

Why'd you swipe?

PetriParker:

Well, I didn't see your face But one of your pictures was the best-looking casserole I have ever seen in my entire life

B4tman_26:

Are you a homecook yourself?

PetriParker:

The opposite, really I kinda suck But I'm willing to learn Why'd you swipe on me?

B4tman_26:

The beach in one of your photos looked familiar.

PetriParker:

Woah. Really?

B4tman_26:

Really. It looked like Baker Beach.

PetriParker:

No way! It is!

B4tman_26:

Baker Beach in Cali?

PetriParker:

Yes!

B4tman_26:

Small world.

PetriParker:

Are you from the Bay Area?

B4tman_26:

Around there, yeah.

PetriParker:

Veeeryy small world.

Friday, 5:42 AM New message from: Birdie 🪶

Birdie 🪶:

warmest greetings, father

You:

Morning, sweetheart.

You're up early. Something on fire?

Birdie 🪶:

no we're all good for now i just wanted to ask you if you could pick up some eggs before you get home

You:

We're out already?

Birdie 🪶:

yes i was baking last night

You:

What'd you make?

Birdie 🪶:

just some cupcakes

oh and pls don't forget that you have that PTA meeting today

You:

Ugh.

Birdie 🪶:

YOU HAVE TO GO you've missed so many of those already

and mr. grace wants to talk to you

You:

Why? You're in trouble?

Birdie 🪶:

no im not!

he just wants to talk to you so he can tell u how much of a cool and intelligent student i am

also because i was recruited into the academic decathlon team. i'm representing the science department

You:

Holy moly, really? That's freakin awesome.

I'm so proud of you!

Birdie 🪶:

thank you please refrain from saying holy moly or freakin

You:

Which one's the teacher that needs to talk to me?

Birdie 🪶:

mr. grace he's the science teacher

he has to talk to you because of permission slips and stuff like that i think

You:

Which teacher is that again?

Birdie 🪶:

the one with the glasses

You:

Not ringing any bells.

Plenty of your teachers have glasses

Birdie 🪶:

uhhh

OH OH remember like, two months ago during the bake sale he tripped over some boxes and stuff and you caught him in your arms and the whole school was talking about it for weeks?

You:

Oh That Mr. Grace

Birdie 🪶:

yes

You:

He's kinda cute, isn't he?

Birdie 🪶:

WHATTTT

You:

I'm just teasing. I won't miss the PTA.

Love you, Bird. Be home in an hour.

Birdie 🪶:

love you too don't forget eggs!

WAIT DAD DAD DAD DAD

You:

What happened??

Birdie 🪶:

did you get any luck from that dating app i set up for you

You:

Young lady, that is classified information.

Birdie 🪶:

what the heck!! i have the right to know i am your daughter also i made the account

You:

I matched with a guy named Nunya.

Birdie 🪶:

real mature

You:

Nunya business.

Birdie 🪶:

that's not how the joke works. i have to ask you who nunya is then you say nunya business but otherwise the joke DOESN'T work and you are just lame

You:

It's genuinely too early for this. Go away.

Birdie 🪶:

DONT FORGET THE EGGS

Friday, 6:32 PM Contact added: Mr. Grace

You:

Good evening, Mr. Grace. Sorry about the whole fiasco earlier.

Mr. Grace:

Hi, good evening! I'm glad my number works, haha

Oh, don't mention it It's totally fine. It wasn't yours or your daughter's fault at all

Parents can be quite competitive when it comes to their kids

You:

You can say that again.

Mr. Grace:

Either way, nothing they could've argued was going to make me change my mind

Abby is a bright girl, but your daughter is an exceptional student

I can't think of anyone more fitting to represent the science department on the academic team

You:

Science has always been an interest of hers.

Mr. Grace:

I could tell

I appreciate you contacting me It'll be easier for me to give you updates

The academic decathlon requires some time and training away from the school

You:

Of course. I don't mind. I trust you, Mr. Grace.

Mr. Grace:

I'm glad to hear it

You:

Still stuck in the PTA?

Mr. Grace:

Oh, yes. I'll be here all night

You:

All night? I thought the meeting ended at 6.

Mr. Grace:

It should

But some parents tend to show up still And if you're not available, they will be very angry at you

You:

How unfair.

Mr. Grace:

It is And above my pay grade

But at the end of the day, they just care about their kids At least they want to show up, you know? It's worse the other way around

You:

That's nice of you, Mr. Grace

Mr. Grace:

I should get going

I hope you get some rest yourself I'm glad we were able to speak today

You:

The pleasure's mine. Though I did have a few more questions about the training routine.

Mr. Grace:

Oh! By all means, please ask me anything

You:

I was hoping to ask you in person. My hands are a little too full for texting at the moment.

Would you mind if I stopped by tomorrow afternoon again? I'll be there to pick my daughter up.

[ typing... ]

Mr. Grace:

Yes, of course! Nno problem at all

Come by anytime You know where to find me I mean, you don't But I'll be in the faculty

You:

Alright. Do you drink coffee?

Mr. Grace:

I like

[ typing... ]

I like caramel macchiatos

You:

That's cute. ⓘ Not Delivered.

Have a good night, Mr. Grace

Mr. Grace:

Good night

Saturday, 7:32 PM 

PetriParker: 

What's for dinner? 

B4tman_26:  

Nothing special. Orange chicken. 

PetriParker: 

Oh wow  That looks really good  If that's nothing special I can't imagine what you'd cook for an occasion 

B4tman_26:  

And you?  Dinner? 

PetriParker: 

I spend an evening of champions Noodles and night time telenovelas 

B4tman_26:  

Sounds like my kinda’ night. 

PetriParker: 

Speaking of night, are you heading off to work?  Gotham isn't going to save itself 

B4tman_26:  

You're one to talk, Spider-man.  But yes. I'm heading off soon.  I eat dinner with my daughter before I start my shifts.  

PetriParker: 

That's nice 

B4tman_26: 

How was your day? 

PetriParker: 

Oh boy  Are we at the ‘how was your day’ part? 

B4tman_26: 

Awful, isn’t it? I bet you've got a whole roster of guys asking you how your day was.  I, a mere fish in your sea. 

PetriParker: 

Hey, I wouldn't say ‘roster’ You make it sound like I've got them coming left and right  That sounds wrong 

B4tman_26: 

So you have been talking to other men?  I thought I was special. 

PetriParker: 

Har-har. Very funny  This is a dating app, after all 

B4tman_26: 

You're right. Fair enough. That said, I've only had time for you.

PetriParker: 

I bet you say that to all the other guys

B4tman_26: 

I mean it. I'm a busy man. How was your day?

Saturday, 7:40 PM New message from: RYLAND

RYLAND:

I think I have a type

MARISSA:

Which is a miracle in and of itself I'm guessing the dating profile's working out alright?

RYLAND:

Yes

I mean I get one or two matches a night, but there's this one guy

MARISSA:

Send me a picture before you say anything else

RYLAND:

He doesn't have a picture on his profile

MARISSA:

What

Rookie mistake, Ry He probably works at a gas station

RYLAND:

No he doesn't! Also I don't have a picture on my profile either, so we're even

MARISSA:

Then are you here to tell me that your type in guys are the ones you can't see

RYLAND:

No Worse

[ typing... ]

I think I'm into single dads

MARISSA:

Oh my GOD Ryland I mean I knew you had issues but

???

RYLAND:

Okay, listen

I worded it wrong I don't like dads I think I just like that they're responsible?

MARISSA:

So you've been on that app looking for dads ??

RYLAND:

No! No it just so happens that the guy I matched with is a dad

And

I might be crushing on my kid's dad

MARISSA:

You're hopeless, Grace You've got TWO? Had fun at the PTA, did you??

RYLAND:

Hey it's not like I'm two-timing!

The other one's just a crush

MARISSA:

Jesus christ We're in our 30s We don't CRUSH on people anymore

Make a move for god's sake If he likes you, he likes you If he doesn't, NEXT

RYLAND:

I will NOT make a move on my student's father. That poor girl

But I have been flirting with the online guy if it's of any comfort

MARISSA:

It's not

But hey, at least you're out there Tell me how it goes

RYLAND:

Oh god

MARISSA:

What

RYLAND:

I just realized something

Is this one of those apps where guys chat and eventually hook up?

MARISSA:

That's how a lot of dating sites go, but it's not always the case

You scared he's gonna book you a hotel?

RYLAND:

I just Hadn't thought of it till now

MARISSA:

Relax, Ry He can't make you do anything you don't want to do

Now that I'm thinking about it, it's a good thing you didn't put your picture on there

Just have your fun, yeah? That's the beauty of being anonymous on the internet

Saturday, 11:21 PM

PetriParker: 

Can I ask you something?

B4tman_26: 

Still awake?

PetriParker: 

Yes Oh, sorry I forget you're on the clock

B4tman_26: 

It's okay, I can talk. What were you going to ask me?

PetriParker: 

It's about your work, actually What sort of doctor are you? I mean I know you're an ER doctor, but do you take specific cases?

B4tman_26: 

You don't really get to choose which cases to take when you're in emergency med. My job's to get people stable. I specialize in whatever comes my way. Why? Need a diagnosis?

PetriParker: 

No, just curious

B4tman_26: 

Got it. You're simply in an asking mood.

PetriParker: 

It's for the Daily Bugle

B4tman_26: 

What about you?

PetriParker: 

Me?

B4tman_26: 

Yeah, Mr. Microbiologist. What's your specialization?

PetriParker: 

Molecular Biology. But right now I'm a teacher.

B4tman_26: 

Like, a professor?

PetriParker: 

No, I teach middle school.

B4tman_26: 

Huh.

PetriParker: 

What?

B4tman_26: 

Nothing I just [ ... ] What are you doing teaching kids with a degree in molecular biology?

PetriParker: 

Felt like a higher calling, I guess

B4tman_26: 

I see.

Saturday, 11:30 PM New message from: RYLAND

RYLAND:

Is it unattractive to be a middle school teacher???

MARISSA:

What??

RYLAND:

Is that a thing that throws guys off??

MARISSA:

Maybe you got him imagining Miss Frizzle Did you tell him you're a teacher?

RYLAND:

Yes! But I also told him I have a degree in molecular biology! Shouldn't that cancel out??

MARISSA:

Heck if I know, man

OH, tell him you have a doctorate. That'll get him back

RYLAND:

Should I?? I don't wanna sound like I'm bragging What if he thinks I'm trying to one-up him as a doctor?

MARISSA:

You might be overthinking this

RYLAND:

Mayb

WAIT HE SENT ME SOMETHING

Sunday, 12:01 AM

B4tman_26: 

PetriParker: 

Looks quiet over there

B4tman_26: 

Oh god. Now you've done it.

PetriParker: 

What?

B4tman_26: 

Don't you know you're not supposed to say that in an ER? It's like saying Macbeth at a play. You've jinxed it.

PetriParker: 

I'm sorry!

B4tman_26: 

It's on you, Parker. You're gonna owe me if my night goes bad.

PetriParker: 

Oh, gosh What ever will I owe you, Mr. Wayne?

B4tman_26: 

I'm yet to decide.

PetriParker: 

Seriously though, I hope nothing goes wrong I didn't mean to say that

B4tman_26: 

I know. Just wanted to scare you. What are you up to this late?

PetriParker: 

Paperwork None of which are due I just like to keep busy

B4tman_26: 

Looks like we're both relatively occupied, then.

PetriParker: 

Relatively Hey, you like Batman, right? Do you also like Superman?

B4tman_26: 

He's alright.

PetriParker: 

He's alright, he says, in true Batman fashion

B4tman_26: 

Batman fans are not famously Superman fans.

PetriParker: 

What would you say is your 'kryptonite'?

B4tman_26: 

Getting shot.

PetriParker: 

Huh???

B4tman_26: 

Kryptonite is the thing that kills Superman, right? I don't respond particularly well to bullets.

PetriParker: 

No, it's his weakness!

B4tman_26: 

Okay well my weakness is getting shot.

PetriParker: 

Quit it! You're teasing me

B4tman_26: 

What's your weakness, then?

PetriParker: 

Dads, apparently  ⓘ Message Not Sent. I dunno! I'm weak to a good jelly donut

B4tman_26: 

Lame answer.

PetriParker: 

How is that lamer than getting shot!

B4tman_26: 

What is the context of this 'weakness'? Like, is it a physical weakness? A mental weakness?

PetriParker: 

I don't know Maybe like Things that you like in people? Things that'll have you wrapped around someone's finger?

B4tman_26: 

Why didn't you just say that? Okay, I'll give you a real answer. Glasses.

PetriParker: 

Are Are you serious

B4tman_26: 

Yeah. Guys with glasses. Super cute.

PetriParker: 

Hahaha

B4tman_26: 

You?

PetriParker: 

Guys who like Batman...

B4tman_26: 

Do I have news for you.

Sunday, 1:34 AM

PetriParker:

Hey

B4tman_26: 

Still awake?

PetriParker: 

Sorry Are you busy?

B4tman_26: 

No. But you should be asleep.

PetriParker: 

I can't sleep No school tomorrow, anyway

B4tman_26: 

I'll keep you company, then.

PetriParker: 

My hero. [ ... ] You know about the Petrova Problem, right?

B4tman_26: 

Pretty sure everyone does. Why?

PetriParker: 

I don't know I'm just thinking about it tonight

B4tman_26: 

Is it making you anxious?

PetriParker: 

I think it makes everyone anxious Still, does it ever feel weird that the world is just moving on? I mean, the apocalypse was announced and everyone's just going about their days

B4tman_26: 

I know what you mean. The danger isn't imminent, so people aren't losing their heads I suppose. Everyone trusts that a solution will appear.

PetriParker: 

Do you?

B4tman_26: 

Trust in a solution? Yes. I have to. One way or another, it'll turn up.

PetriParker: 

Faith in humanity and all that?

B4tman_26: 

Yeah. Exactly.

Monday, 8:41 AM

From: Petrova Taskforce Personnel Division Subject: Confidential Personnel Assessment [email protected]

Dr. ▇▇▇, ▇▇▇,

Your professional experience and prior research history have been identified as relevant to an ongoing international initiative. 

Our records indicate your participation in multiple research programs concerning human physiological resilience, including co-authorship on NASA-affiliated studies. Specifically, your contributions to the publication “Effects of Prolonged Circadian Misalignment on Cognition in Simulated Spaceflight Conditions” and supporting data analysis for simulated isolation environments (HAB-3 Cognitive Retention Trial) demonstrate direct relevance to current mission-critical human performance modeling.

Additional involvement is noted in data collection for the ▇▇▇▇ Habitat Study on sleep fragmentation and cognitive task retention. In light of recent developments, these experiences warrant further evaluation. 

You are requested to attend a consultation with representatives of the Petrova Taskforce.

Date: ▇▇▇▇ Time: ▇▇▇ Location: ▇▇▇▇

Transportation arrangements will be provided upon confirmation of attendance.

Please note that details regarding the nature of this consultation cannot be disclosed through unsecured communication. A representative will contact you directly within twelve hours.

We strongly encourage your participation. 

Respectfully,

Personnel Selection Committee Petrova Taskforce

PETROVA TASKFORCE  ARCHIVAL TRANSCRIPT

FILE ID: PT-CALL-00091 CLASSIFICATION: LEVEL 2

DATE: ▇▇▇▇ TIME: 07:02 AM, PST PARTICIPANTS: Eva Stratt — Director, Petrova Taskforce | Dr. ▇▇▇ ▇▇▇ — Emergency Medicine, Attending Physician

TRANSCRIPT BEGINS

0:02⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:    ⠀⠀⠀⠀Hello.

0:03⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Dr. ▇▇.

0:05⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Speaking.

0:06⠀⠀‎STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀This is Eva Stratt.

0:07⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Hello, Eva Stratt. No, I am not interested in selling my property at the moment. I keep telling my daughter to unlist our number from your site but she keeps forgetting to do it. Kids these days, am I right?

0:11⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor.

0:11⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀And if you're not here to ask me to sell my property, then no, I am not interested in purchasing any of your products. Actually—unless you're selling washing machines. Mine just broke and I could use a new —

0:15⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor, I'm with the Petrova Taskforce. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I am not here to buy or sell you anything.

0:15⠀⠀[ SILENCE. ]

0:17⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Oh.

0:17⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You are a very difficult man to reach.

0:18⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I have a busy schedule.

0:18⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Not at the moment though, yes? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You've just finished your shift.

0:20⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I don't like that you know that.

0:21⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Let me reintroduce myself. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀My name is Eva Stratt, I am the Head of the Petrova Taskforce and I am calling you regarding a certain offer you've declined.

0:25⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀If you already know I've declined, why are you calling?

0:26⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I thought I might try to convince you. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Change your mind.

0:28⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ BACKGROUND NOISE. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀SCREEN DOOR OPENING, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀DOGS BARKING IN THE DISTANCE. ]

0:30⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor?

0:32⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Look, I've had this conversation before. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I've already spoken to one of your representatives. I attended the briefing, I read the files. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I am not interested, Miss Stratt.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ BACKGROUND NOISE: ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀DISTANT METALLIC TAPPING.]

0:36⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I must confess something to you. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I didn't call to change your mind.

0:38⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ LAUGHTER. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀No?

0:39⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀No. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I called to help you understand the urgency of the situation; and why what will be done, must be done.

0:41⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Birdie. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Get down from there —

0:42⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Your offer is no longer an offer and is now a mandate. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀It is crucial that you comply.

0:44⠀⠀[ FEMALE VOICE IN ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀THE BACKGROUND.]

0:45⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I don't care if it's almost fixed. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀We'll call the cable guy. Get off the roof.

0:46⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ SIGH. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor?

0:50⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Sorry — yes, I'm here.

0:51⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Is that your daughter?

0:55⠀⠀[ SHUFFLING. ]

0:56⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Yes. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Get inside. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I know, baby. I'll make breakfast. I'm just taking a call, alright? What do you want? Pancakes? Okay. Head upstairs for a bit, get your things ready.

1:01⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Do you love your daughter, Dr. ▇▇?

1:02⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀What?

1:03⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Your daughter. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Do you love her?

1:04⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀What kind of question is that.

1:05⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You know what it is that we do.  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You know what the Taskforce is for. You know what we're trying to resolve.  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀To avoid. 

1:07⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I do.

1:08⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Then you understand the urgency of the matter — why I cannot settle for your refusal.

1:00⠀⠀[ SILENCE. ]

1:13⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ SIGH. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I can't be the only person qualified to do this.

1:14⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You're not.  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You are among a team of ten physicians.  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀All of whom will oversee medical protocol for astronaut training, including pharmacological management and physiological maintenance for long-duration transit.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀We need to make sure our astronauts can make the trip in comas. Your research covers a good portion of this. The way I see it, you have what we need to get started.

1:21⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀That's ten physicians. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I say no, you've got nine more to spare. 

1:23⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀No. Redundancy exists for failure tolerance. I need an efficient team and I do not have time for setbacks.

1:30⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ STOVE TURNING ON. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ BRIEF STATIC. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ RADIO IN THE BACKGROUND. ]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Well, I've got a problem, Miss Stratt. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Two, it seems.

1:34⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Do tell.

1:38⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The first one is I'm out of butter. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The second is that I am my daughter's only parent. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I do not have any immediate family that I can entrust her with. And I’m not leaving her with a rota schedule of babysitters while I disappear into Timbuktu.

1:41⠀⠀[ POTS AND PANS SHUFFLING. ]

1:56⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Joining the taskforce requires me to semi-permanently reside in the headquarters, correct?

1:58⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Correct.

1:59⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Which is, from my understanding, a government facility the middle of the ocean.

2:02⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀As a countermeasure, yes.

2:05⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Then I can't do it.

2:08⠀⠀[ SILENCE. ]

2:10⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀So we compromise.

2:10⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Miss Stratt—

2:11⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Option one: she remains in San Francisco under full state supervision, including education, housing, and guardianship provisions. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Option two: she accompanies you under taskforce protection and receives equivalent care within parameters.

2:21⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ LAUGHTER. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You've gotta' be kidding me.

2:22⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I am not much for jokes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Take the girl to the ship or leave her at home.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀She will live either way. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The only circumstance where she will not is if you do nothing and aid in the end of the world. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Her world.

2:30⠀⠀[ SIZZLING. ]

2:31⠀⠀[ FEMALE VOICE IN ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀THE BACKGROUND: ]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Dad, I can't find my shoe!

2:33⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Make a decision. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Or we will make one for you.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Regardless of your choice, you are joining the Taskforce, Dr. ▇▇.

2:39⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ SHUFFLING. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Did you check under the couch?

2:40⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Expect to hear from me again in twelve hours.

2:44⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Miss Stratt—

CALL TERMINATED.

TRANSCRIPT END.

there's only nine, maybe ten hours left until it's announced. maybe less. you haven't bothered keeping track. you'll know when it's real in a way that holds weight. your phone will go off, flooded with emails and texts. from work, from loved ones. and then this will be real in a way that takes away all the weight held by that key. those packets you served him not too long after you separated. the litany of papercuts against your relationship that came before.

you're never surprised to hear ryland around the house. and you aren't surprised to hear him stepping out to your backyard, now. you just tip the bottle in your hand up to your lips, only about half ready for whatever trouble he wants you for. ready to endure the listening part, because that's about all you can give.

closing the sliding door behind him, trying to temper the snapping of the door against the hinge, ryland notes, it's disceptively serene out here. dark and cool with two of those old lawn chairs he hasn't seen since you first moved into this house together. bottles scattered around the legs of your chair, most still have the caps on, two don't. the one tipped over, a few feet away, like you'd tossed it and the one in your hand. something ugly twists in his stomach seeing you drinking alone.

then you glance back at him from where you sit. seeing you, that look. glassy and solemn. there's some joke there, that ryland figured only he could bring that out in you. it's a bitter part of him. the part that never really accepted it when you presented him with that stack of papers that meant the end of your marriage. that look accompanied them, though.

he can't bring himself to make any snarky comments when he sees the lazy flick of your wrist. a half hearted offer for ryland to take the chair next to yours. it's the closest thing to an invitation you've extended to him since before those papers. he wishes it wasn't with a "do you think this is the end?"

and for the first time since he sat down with her a few hours ago, ryland knows what marissa said is real. he knew it then, when she said it. she's not the joking type, but the sun dying? losing luminance. whatever.

it's.

it's a little out there. feels like it should be. and there's a gravity to that knowing, one that was offset when she mentioned you. replaced by that lurch in his stomach at hearing your name. that you were working on this. one of the first in the u.s. to volunteer.

certainly sounds like you.

ryland should've won an award for not leaving then and there. for not coming home immediately.

he doesn't take the seat, steps closer though. just behind your chair, squeezing your shoulders because it's familiar. the gravity of knowing is starting to hit him. "marissa says 'hi'," is all he can think to say, trying not to stare down the bottle in your hand.

"no, she didn't."

no, she didn't.

if she had a message, she'd tell you herself. you see her more than grace does with their weekly dinners. though, it hadn't occurred to you until now that ryland's isn't here for some petty grievance you have to bare through.

you lift a bottle to him, he slips in out of your hand. sets it down instead of drinking it. "let's head in, you seem tired."

one of your free hands goes to his, squeezing back. "i think it is."

and there's nothing.

there's nothing to say to that.

not a thing ryland can come up with. nothing more than a kiss to your head, like he used to. ryland cringes into it after he's leaned down, too late to stop muscle memory from taking over. "come on"

part of him expects a fight. or at least a line about boundaries. how he can't do that shit anymore. same ones he hears when he comes over, needy and far too desperate to think of anything but your skin on his. that he shouldn't keep coming to you to comfort all the anxiety and dread. all the lows that seem to flood his life. that it's grace's fault.

the petty arguments that'll stay forever unresolved and the rough sex that takes the place of any resolution. the late calls that used to feel so heavy, the simple questions about health. if he got that thing on his back checked out. if you've talked to anyone about that weird cough that started a few months ago. vague inquiries about work neither of you cared to answer (your vagueness leaves a pit in his stomach to think about now). and the awkward silences broken up by little details about friends or family or the news. that used to be the longest you'd talk to him. it was everything to grace.

still is.

he hangs onto those conversations, as infrequent as they are, as much as he can. sates some masochistic need in him.

that's all you and him are and grace knows that's his fault.

another part of him almost expects one of those lascivious thoughts shared from a flirty smile. always made him flush something horrible. encouraged something sadistic in you. back when you were that young outrageous couple. when he would've joined you without a second thought. when most monday mornings were spent waking up in the grass, hungover and still coming down from your highs together.

it doesn't come, this isn't like it used to be. you and him aren't like you used to be. you aren't twenty-something and tipsy on a work night.

there's just barely a nod. a quiet, "i wouldn't have," that ryland doesn't bother asking about. just hopes you catch yourself. that you don't continue that thought.

for a few moments you don't.

he pulls you to your feet, gets a step past the sliding door, into the kitchen before "if i had known, then-"

"but you didn't," he interrupts, "you couldn't. no one did."

there's another few moments. more than before. long quiet moments where it's easy guide you back to your room. not the master, not the one you used to share. that one's been locked, as good as exiled. you haven't been in there for about as long as ryland hasn't. you never told him that, but he's slept in your bed about as much as his own since the separation.

he brings you to the old guestroom that you haphazardly moved into. it's far too bare to feel like you really live in this room. that you exist in here. if he didn't tug you down this hallway, catching every half-assed complaint from your mouth in his more than a couple times a month, he wouldn't believe it.

"i wouldn't have made you leave, if i had-" you cut yourself off, suddenly. ryland doesn't have to look you, doesn't want to, either. he can hear it, he can hear you urging away the pressure behind your eyes. you've always been a little steadfast. the more resolute of the two. and selfishly, he doesn't want to see you like this. it's why he came, why he counted the seconds until that dinner was over. why he was quietly thankful when marissa called it early. and now that he's here, he can't face it. you.

your hands finding his is what does it. makes a glance last longer than he intended. you've always look so out of place in here.

now might be the first moment you don't. all those hushed words, "ryland." in your voice. there's that clinical sound that's always been there. it was there in grad school and it was there the day you went down to the courthouse, said those vows you both wrote, to a room of three. "stay the night."

it's there now. with something somber in it that makes your name drag out of his mouth, all too soft and pleading. ryland has never been strong-willed.

he'll never turn down that offer when it's from you. not when your skin is warm and ryland doesn't want to talk about any of this. not now, maybe not ever. not that it stops you. doesn't stop you from pulling him down into a kiss so plain. something without passion. with no energy behind it. something that's just a plea, as clear as his was. 'baby, please stay."

ryland's a very weak man.

a weak man that wakes up in your bed, reminiscing about how good your weight over him felt the night before. burning with shame over how much he's missed that, you, even in your more dysfunctional moments, you felt good. grinding into him, slow. deep. left him groaning out high and pathetic.

it shouldn't have been a thought in his mind, but he reveled in how earnest you fucked into him, how lethargic the pace is compared to what he's become accustomed to. loved being able to curl his legs around you, being able to savor how stretched taut around you he was, ryland's red. you've always liked him like that. it's never been hard for ryland to get more than a little rosy. your gentle graze over ruddy skin used to ease some of the shame that accompanied his blush. not now, though. there was the trace of your fingers down the lines of his face before you pulled him down. before any heat was pressed to that begging kiss.

ryland mimicked that. hands rested on your face, trying to sooth tension from it. it was the only thing that kept you from hiding away, from mourning along the flush along his collar bone. glossy eyes make him second guess if trying to hold your attention, to pull it towards himself is as much a mercy as he means.

your "i still love you," wasn't, you know that. but it was sincere. real.

that kiss that followed was too.

it was as much as an 'i love you,' as he could muster. it was a 'please don't say anymore,' too. you seemed to catch on that time, content to follow ryland's quiet lead. commands expressed in squeezes and gasps. in groans against your lips.

and for a moment, there was some peace. a thinly veiled and hiding tension, but a peace nontheless.

it's not one that lasts through the morning.

one that grace can't direct you back to when he wakes up to you more than half-dressed and rushing out the door, despite how badly you want to fall in line again. how badly you want to slip into old habits when your phone starts up. all those messages you knew would come, filled with problems and questions and hypothetical deadlines that only serve to confirm it's real. the sun, the petrova line. it's unavoidable and impossible. and real.

so he watches. watches you try to pull yourself together, watches you struggle through pretending not to notice he's awake.

there's so much to say. so much to explain. so little time and grace isn't wholly sure he wants to talk about any of it with you. it makes it easy to accept your awkward, "you have a key," before you leave.

Grace nearly launched himself into the ceiling. “Jesus—!”

The tether uncoiled behind you in loops, its faint clinking traveling up the steel braid and vibrating into the chest plate of your suit. Beneath you, the hull of the Hail Mary stretched out like the white belly of some prehistoric deep-sea leviathan. Overhead, the infinite empty void of space yawned open.

Back in the control room, Grace’s eyes scrambled over the main console until they finally locked onto the small microphone. “Hello?” he said, quite frantically. “Cap, can you hear me? Hello? Copy?” 

You smiled behind the glass, though your brows furrowed at the obtrusive volume of Grace’s voice. You were using a handrail to orient yourself as you began the slow hand-over-hand crawl along the ship's spine. “I copy. But turn your mic down a notch, you're practically inside my skull.”

“Right! Sorry. Adjusting. Is that better?” 

“Much.” 

“Everything okay out there?” 

“You tell me, Doc. You’re the one on the screens.” Your laugh was accompanied by static. “S’just dark as far as the eye can see over here.” 

“Oh, god. Right. Okay.” You heard him shuffling across the panels. “Okay, everything looks normal. And there’s this radar here with a bunch of little green dots. None of them are near you. Well, there's one, but it's moving away. It’s moving very fast. Wow, space is terrible.” 

“You’re doing great.”

The damage to the Petrova scope's antenna array was exactly as the diagnostic had described. The primary bracket was sheared through, looking like torn foil. The relay coupling, which was the little yellow case's counterpart, was warped. Its ceramic housing cracked open to expose a nest of severed fiber-optic filaments that floated like tiny transparent hairs. 

“I’m onsite,” you reported, hooking your safety tether to the anchor point. “The bracket is compromised. I'm going to have to manually realign the housing before I can seat the new coupler. It's going to take some muscle. My telemetry might spike a bit; don't panic.”

“Copy that,” said Grace. You could hear him impatiently tapping against the console. “Hey, can I tell you something?” 

“Talk to me, Goose.” You unclipped the tool bag from your thigh and pulled out the pneumatic wrench. The work was tedious, frustratingly restricted by the pressurized bulk of your gloves. 

There was a brief crackle of static as Grace took a breath. “I’m terrified of heights.” 

A soft chuckle huffed out of you, echoing inside your helmet. “If it makes you feel any better, there’s no up and down out here. Technically, no such thing as ‘height’ either. There’s no floor to catch you and no floor to fall from. We’ve got a trillion miles of absolute nothing in every direction.” 

It took a while for him to respond. “You seriously thought that would make me feel better?” 

Every action required an equal and opposite reaction; if you turned the wrench too hard without anchoring your hips, your whole body would swing around the bolt like a pendulum. For five agonizing minutes, the only sounds were the rhythmic whir-snap of the tool, the steady hiss-click of your suit's oxygen regulators, and Grace's occasional, anxious updates.

“Debris field is clear,” he said. He’d begun chewing on a Twizzler that he’d found floating over the panels. “Hull pressure is rock solid... You've got a slight temperature spike in your left glove, is that normal?”

“Yeah. Friction from the wrench. Keep watching.”

“Copy.”

You pulled the cracked coupling free. It drifted away on a short wire lanyard until you clipped it to your tool belt, replacing it with the pristine, yellow-housed component Grace had retrieved for you. It slid into the slot with a gratifying mechanical clack.

“Coupler is seated,” you grunted, bracing your knees against the hull as you reached for the locking lever. “Engaging the primary seal now.” 

As you worked, the cause of the damage became clear. The tricky thing about traveling at the speed of light was that any loose debris you met had the calibre of a bullet. The ship's primary defense was its massive sacrificial bumper, designed to absorb the brutal kinetic energy of cosmic dust. But with the ship now in orbit, (or settling into orbit) there was hardly a need to be wary of such dangers. 

Unless of course, instead of the ship propelling towards the debris, the debris was coming at you. 

“Something’s wrong.” Grace sat up from his chair. “I’m getting alarms, Cap. Foreign objects detected? This wasn't here before. What the – Oh, god the green dots in the radar earlier — there’s a cluster of them now. Heading to you!” 

Your head snapped up. You didn't waste time looking at the void; you wouldn’t see projectiles traveling at kilometers per second until they were already tearing through you. “How long?” you barked, having already abandoned the wrench. 

It didn’t make sense to Grace. How was it coming so fast? How had Mary not seen it sooner? “Five seconds! Four—!” 

You unhooked your knees from the cleats and threw your weight downward. You tried to tuck your body behind the thick, reinforced structural rib of the Petrova scope's primary housing. It was the only substantial piece of shielding within arm's reach. You pulled yourself in, curling into a tight, desperate ball against the hull. But you were a fraction of a second too late. A soundless flurry of violence erupted around you. A spray of cosmic gravel shredded the space where you had just been floating. It didn't make a sound in the vacuum, but you felt it — a series of sharp, rhythmic thuds vibrating violently through the metal hull beneath your chest. Bright sparks danced across your visor as particles vaporized against the ship's skin.

Then came the impact.

A blinding spike of agony caught your trailing left arm. One of the larger fragments slammed directly into your sleeve. Your dutiful EVA suit refused to breach, and as a result, trapped the force into your forearm and shattered the bone under your skin. 

The strike spun you against your tether until your helmet snapped against the hull. You couldn’t tell if you were screaming. You were deaf to the world, hearing only the sharp singing of your broken arm. 

You gasped for air, spots dancing in your eyes. You clutched your shoulder and pulled your wrist toward your chest. The pain was a sickening, throbbing white-hot fire radiating towards your entire torso. You forced your eyes to focus on the flashing HUD data overlaying the dark void.

SUIT PRESSURE: 14.7 PSI (STABLE)

O2 SUPPLY: NOMINAL

INTEGRITY: 100%

The ringing in your ears gradually subsided. In its place, came Grace’s frantic calls. 

“Cap! Cap!” He was screaming into the microphone, his voice slightly distorted by the volume. “I lost your vitals — no, wait, your heart rate is at 180! The suit sensors — is there a breach? Tell me there's no breach. Talk to me!”

The multi-layered Kevlar and reinforced polymer weave of the sleeve had held, absorbing the brunt of the hit without puncturing. But the sheer force of the impact had transferred straight through the insulation.  

“No… no breach,” you squeezed through gritted teeth. You pressed your forehead against your visor, sweating profusely. “Suit’s… suit’s whole, Grace.” 

Grace didn’t realize he was already crying. He angrily wiped his tears away with his fist. Now was not the time. “Okay.” He sniffled. “Okay. Come back. Forget the antenna, come back now.” 

“My arm,” you groaned. A choked sound escaped your throat as the throbbing intensified. Inside the rigid, heavy suit, you tried to move your hand and immediately regretted it as a fresh wave of agony made your stomach churn. “My arm's broken. I can’t move it.” 

Grace paled. 

It took everything in you not to vomit. In zero gravity, a broken arm wasn’t a weight-bearing problem, but a physics problem. Every time you hauled your weight forward with your single good hand, the lack of a counter-stabilizing grip sent your lower body swinging. You kept your injury as close to your body as possible, but the shattered bones under your skin felt as though they were grinding together with sickening, wet friction. You had to time each pull, slowly dragging yourself along the handrails, knowing that one missed grip meant hurtling into the void.

“I see you.” Grace’s trembling voice snapped you out of the haze. “I-I see you, Cap. You’re doing great. You’re past the thrusters. Just six meters to the airlock.” He was lying. It was eight meters. But he needed the distance to be shorter, if only to keep his own lungs from seizing up. He felt completely and utterly useless.

“Tell me… tell me about the radar,” you panted, your voice cracking as you reached for the next magnetic cleat. You needed a distraction. You needed him to talk. “Any—Any more debris?” 

Grace snapped his eyes to the screens. He blinked back the tears that blurred his vision. “No. Nothing. It’s clear. You’re safe, I promise.” 

“Good.” You laughed weakly. “Because I don’t think I have another dodge in me, Doc.” 

“Don’t talk, just focus on the rails,” Grace pleaded. His breath shuddered. “You’re almost there. Just come inside. Please, just come inside.” 

When you got closer towards re-entry, Grace abandoned his station and rushed to the nodes to get you. 

The internal airlock door hadn’t finished its depressurization but Grace was already throwing it open. The sudden rush of cabin air swirled around your helmet. You barely registered it. You were slumped against the bulkhead, your right hand locked onto an emergency handle in a death grip while your left arm hung weightless.

​“Oh my god, oh my god, I’ve got you,” Grace lunged into the airlock, his hands trembling so violently he could barely get a purchase on your suit’s latches.

​He didn't bother with the full decompression protocol. With a frantic grunt, he popped the seals on your helmet and yanked it free. The sudden rush of cool, recycled ship air hit your sweat-drenched face, but the relief was instantly swallowed by a wave of vertigo. The cabin was spinning.

​“Can you talk? A-Are you going to pass out?” Grace’s face was inches from yours, his eyes wide and panicked behind his crooked glasses.

​“Don't… don't touch the left sleeve,” you wheezed, your voice a ragged whisper. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. “Just get me… out of the suit.”

​“Right. Okay. Carefully. We’re going carefully.”

​It was anything but careful. In microgravity, maneuvering a dead-weight human body out of a rigid multi-layered EVA suit was an Olympic sport. Doing it while trying not to jostle a shattered forearm was competing in the finals. Grace worked like a man possessed, unclipping the torso restraints and peeling the heavy material down past your hips, steering entirely clear of your left side.

​When your left arm finally slid free of the inner lining, a sharp, ragged gasp tore from your throat. Without the stiff structure of the suit to hold it, the arm deformed — bending at a sickening, unnatural angle between the wrist and the elbow.

​Grace let out a small, horrified squeak, the blood draining from his face. “Oh, Jesus. Okay. Don't look at it. Just look at me.”

​He grabbed your right hand and draped your good arm over his shoulders, anchoring his arm around your waist to keep you from drifting. “We need to get to the lab. The med bay. Hold onto me, okay? Just hold on.”

​The journey through the narrow, cylindrical corridors of the Hail Mary was an exercise in pain. Without gravity to keep you grounded, every movement required momentum. Every shift was an enemy. Grace used his free hand to pull both of your masses along the guide rails, but he wasn’t a trained astronaut; his movements were jerky and frantic.

​With every forward lurch, your lower body drifted, and the momentum transmitted straight up your torso to your dangling left arm. The shattered ends of your bones shifted and ground against each other inside your swollen skin.

​“Wait—Grace, stop, stop,” you choked out, your eyes squeezing shut as a violent wave of nausea hit you. Your stomach convulsed, and you had to swallow down the bitter taste of bile. If you vomited in zero gravity now, you’d choke on it.

​“Stopping! I’m stopping!” Grace slammed his hand onto a handrail, bringing both of you to a sudden, jarring halt.

​The abrupt deceleration sent a searing shock of lightning straight up your arm and into your brain. Your vision completely blew out into a roaring haze of grey static. You felt your knees buckle into the empty air, your chin dropping against Grace’s shoulder as you shivered from deep, systemic shock.

​“Hey, hey! Stay with me!” Grace’s voice sounded like it was underwater, echoing from the end of a long tunnel. He was panicking, his grip tightening around your waist as he began hauling you forward again, much faster now, his breaths coming in ragged, terrified gapes. “We’re almost there. Come on, don't pass out on me yet. I can't do this by myself!”

​You couldn't answer. You could only press your face into the fabric of his jumpsuit. Your right hand clutched his shoulder so hard your fingers cramped, riding out the humming aches as he dragged you through the hatchway of the infirmary. For what it was worth, it felt good to be held. You kept your cheek against Grace's shoulder, relishing in what little relief his presence brought. 

​“Okay, okay.” Grace set you down on one of the cots. Under the infirmary’s fluorescent lights, the unnatural color your arm was turning became impossible to ignore. He did his best not to look at it as he strapped you down. 

Your head lolled as he moved. “Grace,” you called weakly. 

His eyes snapped to you. “Yes? Yes? What's wrong? It's gonna be okay, we're gonna fix this, okay? Hang on. I'll fix it, I promise.” 

You couldn't even remember why you said his name. You supposed you just wanted to see his face. Dazed and weakened by the deafening pain, you sought comfort in having his attention. At least you weren't alone, you thought. You couldn't imagine going through something like this by yourself. 

As the final strap clicked into place, securing you firmly against the cot, a chime sounded overhead. Mary's perfectly modulated voice echoed through the small room.

​“Warning. Biometric anomaly detected. Commanding Officer: heart rate: 178 beats per minute. Respiration: elevated. Severe localized trauma identified in upper left extremity.”

​“Yeah, no kidding!” Grace yelled at the ceiling, using the back of his arm to wipe a mix of sweat and tears from his face. “Uh… Uh, initialize medical assessment protocol!” 

​With a heavy hydraulic hiss, a panel in the bulkhead beside the cot slid open. Out glided Armando, the ship's sleek, segmented contraption of aluminum and white polymer, tipped with a precise multi-jointed hand. 

​Armando didn't have a face, but the way its optical sensors whirred and clicked as they focused on your left arm felt intensely invasive. The robotic hand hovered a mere inch above your swollen, distorted forearm. A thin line of green laser light swept down from your elbow to your wrist, mapping the grotesque S-shape of the fractured bone beneath the skin.

​You hissed through your teeth, flinching away even though the machine hadn't actually touched you.

​“Assessment complete,” Mary reported. “Displaced compound-adjacent fracture of the left radius and ulna. High risk of compartment syndrome. Radial artery compression detected. Peripheral blood flow to left distal extremity is critical. Immediate manual reduction required to prevent permanent tissue necrosis.”

​Grace stared at the diagnostic monitor, his face losing what little color it had left. “Necrosis? No, no, no... Okay, uh, Mary, initiate automated analgesic protocol? Give him the good stuff, knock him out!”

​“Request denied,” Mary responded instantly. “Mechanical failure detected in primary intravenous delivery valve. Fluid line pressure: insufficient. Administered dosage of localized analgesic: 0.05 milligrams. Maximum threshold reached for current capacity.”

​“What do you mean threshold reached?!” Grace slammed his fist against the medical console. “Override it! Bypass the valve!”

​“Bypass unavailable. Manual intervention required.”

“Grace,” you choked out. “Something's blocking the valve. It's not gonna work till you fix it.” 

​The infirmary lapsed into a terrifying silence, save for the rhythmic, high-pitched beeping of your spiking heart rate. Armando’s robotic hand retracted slightly, twisting its joints into a waiting posture, as if acknowledging its own inability to fix the mechanical jam.

​Grace turned his head to look at you. “Okay, so I'll fix it. I-I'll fix the valve.” 

“Fix it later,” you told him. “Right now you have to activate the centrifuge. We need gravity for the rest of the infirmary to be operational. C-Can you do that for me?” 

Grace nodded. He asked you to stay still, then he was gone. 

Grace had been out of your sight for no more than two minutes, but it was hard to gauge time with how incessantly your arm was burning. It felt like forever. It felt like he'd never return. You breathed shallowly in your cot as you stared up at the ceiling and did your best to stay conscious. 

Then, the world shifted. You held your breath, thinking it was another wave of vertigo. But then your hair fell over your face and you realized that gravity was making a cautious return. Up and down were re-established in a slow, careful descent. 

It felt good to be oriented, but worse to feel pressure against your broken arm. You let out a strangled, breathless cry, your right hand instantly locking onto the metal frame of the cot as the extra weight crushed you into the mattress. Your vision, already swimming with static, began to fade into darkness.

​“I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Grace yelled, stumbling as his own feet slammed into the newly formed floor. He nearly ran into your bed upon his return. His glasses slid completely off his nose, dangling from one ear. “I did it. Gravity stable. What now?”

“Shit.” You gasped. “Shit, shit, shit.” You inhaled a deep, unhelpful breath. “Grace, you have to set my arm.” 

“What?!” 

“You do. You have to do it. Armando's not going to with that broken valve. You need to set my arm before he can operate.” You held your good hand out as if to stop him from bolting. “You just — i-it's just one big snap into place, okay? Then I'll pass out, then you can fix the valve.” 

“You're insane!” 

“I'm out of options, Grace!” You were hyperventilating by then. The monitors next to you were going haywire. “You can do this.”

Grace tugged on his hair. He was going to be sick. “Can't I just fix the valve first?” 

“No!” you yelled. He hadn't heard you yell that loud before. “No. Please. Set the arm. I want this over with. It hurts. If you take any longer the injury will be irreparable. You have to do it.” 

Grace froze, momentarily shaken by the desperation in your voice. ​He looked at your face, streaked with sweat, pale with shock, twisted in an agony he doubted he could comprehend. He inhaled a deep, steadying breath. This was the least he could do. 

​“Okay,” Grace breathed, his voice suddenly losing its frantic pitch. He swiped his dangling glasses off his ear and shoved them into his jumpsuit pocket. He didn’t want a clear view of this. “Okay. I’m going to do it.”

​He stepped to the side of the cot, his boots slamming heavily against the floor. He positioned himself over your left arm. Up close, under the harsh infirmary lights, the distortion was stomach-turning. The sharp, jagged edge of the radius was pushing so hard against the underside of your skin that the tissue was white and bloodless, a mere breath away from tearing through.

​“Hold onto the rail with your right hand,” Grace commanded, hands hovering over you. “Don't let go. Don’t move.” 

​You locked your right fingers around the cold titanium frame of the medical bed. You closed your eyes, squeezing so hard your face creased. You took one last ragged breath. “Do it.”

​Grace didn't give you a countdown. He knew if he paused, he’d lose his nerve.

​He clamped his left hand firmly just above your elbow, pinning your upper arm against the mattress to anchor it against the crushing centripetal force. With his right hand, he gripped your wrist, his fingers locking tightly over your cold, purple-tinged skin. ​Then, with a guttural grunt of exertion, Grace leaned his entire body weight backward, pulling your wrist down and away from your shoulder with everything he had.

​The universe fractured.

An ungodly wet grinding screech echoed within the flesh of your arm as the overlapping, shattered ends of the radius and ulna were forcefully dragged back past one another. The sharp shards of bone plowed through muscle and fascia. ​A raw, piercing scream tore from your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated torment that vibrated through the metal frame of the bed. Your spine violently arched off the cot, fighting against the padded restraint straps as every nerve ending in your upper body flared into a blinding nova of pain.

To Grace’s horror, the job didn’t end there. He felt the horrific, structural resistance of the bones, and with one final, agonizing heave, he gave the wrist a sharp, aligning twist.

​SNAP.

​A heavy, sickening thud reverberated through your arm as the two main shafts of the bone finally slid back into their parallel tracks. Instantly, the pressure on the radial artery released, and a hot, throbbing rush of restricted blood surged back into your fingertips.

​At the exact same moment, the automated splint on the counter sensed the alignment. With a sharp hydraulic click, it shot forward, wrapping around your forearm and clamping down to lock the newly straightened limb into place. 

​But you didn't feel the splint. The overload to your nervous system was too much. Your eyes rolled back, your grip on the metal rail went completely slack, and your head fell heavily to the side. The world mercifully went black, plunging you into deep, silent unconsciousness. 

​On the monitor, your heart rate plummeted from its frantic peak, settling into a steady thumping.

​Grace let go of your wrist, stumbling backward until his back hit a wall. He slumped down against it, sliding to the floor, his chest heaving as he stared at his trembling, sweat-slicked hands. He was hyperventilating, crying, tugging on his hair again. He wanted to throw up. But he also wanted to be sure you were alright. 

​Above him, Mary’s voice chimed with a serene indifference. “Vascular occlusion resolved. Distal blood flow restored to 100%. Bone alignment within acceptable parameters.”

​Grace sat there for a moment longer, timing his breaths to the steady beeping of your heart rate. 

​“Right,” he choked out, aggressively wiping his cheeks as he forced himself back up. “Not done.” 

Compared to the horror of setting your bones with his bare hands, fixing the valve was a walk in the park. Mary had been there to guide the repair, and soon enough the rest of the medical systems were operational. More hands protruded from the cot. They snipped your shirt off and injected you with needles and tubes. Armando wore an oxygen mask over your peaceful face. They whirred and hummed and then a scalpel was slicing through your skin. 

Grace did not do well with blood. Back on Earth, he felt dizzy at the sight of a drop. But he could not look away from you. He held himself as he stood over your unconscious body and watched as mechanical arms operated on yours. He didn’t leave until the process was done. It had taken hours, and the balls of his feet had ached and numbed, but he wasn’t satisfied until he had confirmation that you were stable. 

When the tension finally bled out of him, it hit his knees first. Grace sank straight into the floor, head dropping to his hands. He cried into the ground and stayed there until he could cry no longer. His lungs burned with a weariness that felt heavier than any force the ship could pull. 

He didn’t think about going back to his quarters. Instead he dragged his blanket and pillow from his bed and pulled them through the corridors, clumsy in his exhaustion. He laid them out on the floor beside your cot and collapsed there. He wedged himself into the tight gap between your bed and the diagnostic console. The space was cramped and ridiculous for a man of his size, but it was the only place he could bear to be. 

Lying there on his side, his cheek pressed against the rough fabric of his pillow, he stared up at the underside of your cot. The position was devastatingly familiar.

It brought him right back to those terrifying first weeks. The fog of his amnesia had been so thick and suffocating, and you had been nothing more than a stranger with a stable heartbeat on a monitor. He remembered watching you until his eyes could no longer do so. Now, he would do it again. He would wait for you to wake up no matter how long it took. 

The hours blurred into a disjointed montage of isolation.

Grace lost track of the ship's artificial day-and-night cycles. He lived in the increments between your medical readouts. Every three hours, the overhead console would hum, cycling a fresh dosage of targeted analgesics into your IV line. Grace would instantly sit up at the sound, his eyes scanning the data, verifying the diagnostics and checking your skin temperature before allowing his head to drop back onto his pillow.

He tried to pass the time. He brought your navy moleskine notebook into the bay, holding it under the dim tertiary lights. He traced the crude, jagged diagrams of Astrophage membranes and Petrova formulas he had scrawled just days before. He filled the empty margins with frantic sketches and lists — anything to keep his brain moving. But the science felt flat, and the math was useless. He felt as though the universe’s worth had shrunken down to the hitching breaths of the man on the bed next to him. 

He ate his space ramen cold, sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, his eyes never leaving your resting profile. The plastic mask obscured the lower half of your face, fogging slightly with every exhale you took.

The twenty-two hours of orbital settling had long since passed. Outside, Tau Ceti held the Hail Mary firmly in its gravitational grip, spinning the ship through the silent, perfect curve of its new home. 

It was late. 

The world outside was dark, and cold, but the lab was warm and lit by the steady hum of monitors. 

A desk lamp cast long shadows across the tiled floor. 

There was so much work to be done and so little time to do it. 

The edges of the room were washed out like an overexposed photograph, but the feeling in your chest was heavy and whole. You were focused on a task, hunched over a surface, pen in hand, scrawling something down into your familiar navy-colored notebook. 

Something was distracting you. 

Someone was distracting you. 

Everything sounded far away, but you could hear the unmistakable cadence of Ryland’s voice. He sounded lighter — softer. He had nothing to be afraid of here. 

Since when did you call him Ryland? 

Hands.

Fingertips.

You could feel him breathing on the back of your neck. You could hear the smile in his words. 

That's enough for tonight, Captain. 

How annoying. Couldn't he see that you were busy?

Stay on your side of the lab, Grace. 

Slowly, deliberately, the tips of his fingers trailed an agonizingly gentle line up the sleeve of your shirt, tracing the curve of your bicep, sending a wave of electric heat straight to your spine.

You snapped. With a low laugh bubbling in your throat, you dropped the pen. 

You caught his wrists and surged forward, using your weight to pin Ryland back against the edge of his desk. 

A pile of folders shifted beneath him, but neither of you cared. He let out a breathless, triumphant gasp, his hands instantly wrapping around your neck to pull you down.

A kiss. 

Warm. 

Familiar. 

Secret. 

Beep. 

Beep. 

Beep…

Your eyelids felt like lead. 

You moved your good hand first, fingers twitching against a rough but thin sheet. The sensation of friction jarred your brain further into consciousness. A dull throbbing ache pulsed in your left arm, muted and distant under a heavy blanket of narcotics. 

Slowly, your eyes blinked open. 

You felt good, all things considered. You were sure you had the morphine to thank. The ceiling of the medical bay took shape above you. You sluggishly turned your head. The plastic straps of the oxygen mask shifted against your cheek. Your arm felt like a distant object. Curious, you commanded the limb to move. It rose with a heavy reluctance, floating up into your line of sight. You blinked, attempting to draw your swimming vision into focus. Your forearm was encased in a thick, rigid medical cast. It locked the limb straight, while your exposed fingertips looked slightly pale against the stark white bandages. 

You felt good. Wait, you thought that already. Boy, those meds sure were working. 

You sat up, tugging the oxygen mask from your face. 

Grace was on you in a millisecond. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What do you think you’re doing? Lay back down!” his hands were on your shoulders before your head could even clear the pillow. 

“Narcotics,” you mumbled, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. The oxygen mask was dangling uselessly around your neck, puffing a gentle hiss against your collarbone. You had a dazed look in your half-lidded eyes. “These are. Good. You should try.” 

“Okay, that’s nice. Please lay back down.” Grace was crying again. His warm eyes glistened with tears. 

You reached your good hand out to touch his cheek. 

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” he whispered. Despite his emotional state, he was still making sure you weren’t hurting yourself. He let you sit up, but kept a close eye on the needles and thin tubes that poked out of your skin. 

“I’m fine,” you insisted. To prove your point, you craned your neck, which triggered your vision into a slow, dizzying spin. Your hand shifted on Grace’s face, thumb clumsily catching the edge of his crooked glasses and shoving them further up his nose. 

“Don't move, just—please, don’t move,” he begged. He didn't pull away from your hand on his cheek. If anything, he leaned into the touch, verifying that you were actually warm; actually alive.

“It'll take more than just a couple of rocks to keep me down,” you slurred. “How long was I out?”

“Three days,” Grace muttered. The answer broke out of him like a sob. 

The resistance in his posture completely collapsed. His forehead dropped against your mattress, landing next to your good arm. His fingers slid down from your shoulder to lock tightly over your right hand. His shoulders shook as the last 72 hours of terror finally gave way to a wave of relief. His tears soaked wet circles into the sterile sheet of your bed.

“You did good,” you muttered.

You ran your functioning fingers through his hair, petting his messy oil-slicked curls. You didn’t know what else to do to comfort him. The sight of him so thoroughly broken by the thought of losing you was doing funny aching things to your chest. These, the painkillers couldn't numb.

“You’re a terrible patient,” he mumbled into the mattress. “An absolutely terrible patient.”

You hummed out a laugh. 

His hand blindly reached for yours. When he found it, he didn’t let go. He squeezed every time his chest hitched with another shuddering breath. He stayed like that for a long time, letting the weight of the universe bleed out of him onto the edge of your cot. 

“C’mere,” you said. You shifted your torso to the side, wincing slightly as the automated splint on your left arm gave a tiny, protective whir to adjust for the movement. You tugged at your blankets with your right hand. You made space for him on the bed; which was hardly any space at all. 

Grace lifted his head from the sheets, staring at you, bewildered. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. “What?”

“Lay with me.”

He looked at the tiny gap of mattress you’d cleared. “What?” he repeated.

“C’mon, Grace,” you slurred, your eyelids drooping as another wave of warm drowsiness rolled over your brain. You gave his hand a clumsy, insistent tug. “Who’s gonna fuckin’ see? Lay with me here — I’m cold.”

He could’ve gotten you another blanket. But he had to be numb to reject the offer to be held. Tired and sleepless himself, Grace crawled into your cot. He was hesitant and careful not to touch your broken arm, but he was also embarrassed at how little convincing it had taken him to lie down next to you. 

The rest was automatic. Grace somehow knew that he laid with his back to your chest, and you somehow knew that your good arm went over his waist. Your chin rested above his head. The mattress was entirely too small for the both of you, but it was impossible to feel uncomfortable when the warmth of another body was there to cushion your every ache. 

You slotted against each other like you'd done it a hundred times before. Grace was too exhausted to have realized this. And before he knew it, he felt himself drifting closer to proper slumber. 

“How did you figure out how to activate the centrifuge?” Your voice had gone low and sleepy. It made Grace’s stomach flip. 

“It just came to me,” he whispered. 

You smiled. “That’s good.” 

“I did this to you,” he muttered, now loopy from his own sleep depravity. His fingertips traced idle shapes on your good arm. “I didn't watch the monitors. I should've been able to tell you there was incoming debris.” 

“Wrong.” You nuzzled into his hair. “The Petrova scope wasn’t the only thing damaged. The housing sits right over the main radar antenna — the ship’s main computer couldn't see the debris because the broken scope was blocking its eyes.” 

You felt Grace curl into himself. 

“Mary couldn't have known,” you insisted. “The radar itself was broken. Didn’t even transmit to my suit. You didn't mess up. You gave me four seconds of warning in a total blind spot. If you hadn't been there, I’d be dead.”

Grace went entirely still against you. 

“You saved my life,” you whispered, your eyelids feeling heavier by the second. The morphine was pulling you back under. “Don't do it again. Bad for your heart.”

A tiny, breathless huff of a laugh shook Grace’s chest. 

Grace drifted the rest of the way down until his cheek was against your pillow. His breathing fell into a slow rhythm, matching the steady beeping of your heart monitor. One of his hands remained loosely tangled in your right fingers. You were a protective dead-weight anchor that kept you both pinned to the bed.

The medical bay faded around the edges. The harsh fluorescent lights dimmed in your consciousness, replaced by a thick, safe silence. You didn't think about the four light-years you had traveled, or the memories yet to return, or the dying suns, or the extent of your new injury, or the difficulty it would add to succeeding in your mission. You held onto the warm man beside you and let the momentum of the Hail Mary carry you both into a deep dreamless sleep.

…

• he gets better at it, the two of you make sure of that. you had originally introduced kissing lessons as a joke, but ken had been so damn excited about learning that you couldn't find it in you to say no— even if your face felt like it was on fire the whole time. thankfuly the doll didnt seem to mind.

• its a lot for him to remember at first ("don't rush into it, the other person may be caught off guard," "some teeth is okay, but too much and you'll get hurt," "take care of your dental hygiene," "make sure that they aren't trying to pull away before,") but youre a good enough teacher that he can't bring himself to care.

• really the whole thing is a charade merely disguised as lessons in order to spend disgusting amounts of time together. but when both of you are sitting on your living room couch, one hand on ken's chest and the other cupping his jaw softly while you plant a sweet kiss on his lips, you can't help but think it was the greatest idea you'd ever had.

you pull away from ken for the first time in nearly a minute, tongue coming out to dart at your swollen lips as you looked at him.

the blond was sitting against the far side of the couch, chest heaving and eyes scruntched up at the corners as he looked at you. his shirt (a tasteful hawaiian flannel, with striped shorts and flip flops to match) was wrinkled and unbuttoned. he looked, for a lack of better words, dumbstruck.

"is it always like that?" ken asks after recovering a little, scooting towards you more as he asks the question. his tone is one of excitement and wonder, and you cant stop a grin from breaking out on your face. "can we do it again?"

"woah woah, hold your horses cowboy." you huff out a small laugh, not missing the way his head perks up at the mention of horses. "give me a second to breathe. i don't know exactly how your lungs work, but i need at least a minute to recover after a kiss like.... that."

"was it not good?" came the next query. you heard the blatant insecurity in his tone, and read even more of on his face. you couldn't stop your chest from seizing a bit at the sight, immediately doing your best to reassure him.

"it was amazing ken, really." you spoke with a broad smile. you weren't just saying that, either. compared to the first kiss he had given you, this was worlds ahead. better than some of your past partners, if you said so yourself— not that they provided any real competition. none of them had tasted like fruit or whimpered when you ran a thumb over their jaw. god, you could listen to that sound all day...

"there are different kinds of kisses is all." you continue your explanation, weaving your fingers with kens in the meantime. running your fingers over his pulse point, you feel it jump a little. "some are shorter, some are rougher, and some are more intense. doesn't mean one is better than the other— that decision is up to you and your partner."

"that's you, right?"

"yes buddy, that's me." ken preens at you, doing a little arm pump at the confirmation that he was right.

"so which one do you like more? 'cause i could do all of them— can we do all of them? i mean, if you want to!"

right, back to the task at hand.

you feel a mischevious grin tugging at the corner of your lips, reaching out to grab the proverbial opportunity that had been given to you.

"i don't know ken, i've never thought about that before. you know, we may just have to try them all. what do you think?"

the giggle he lets out is a good enough answer for you.

• theres a certain charm to the way that ken goes about asking you for a kiss after he gets the hang of it (or about as much "hang" that a living doll can get). sort of akin to a child who wants to ask for something, but is too shy to speak up. more often than not, you'll find him hovering around or behind you. never close enough to touch, but definitely close enough to crowd. he barely registers it either, only stepping back if you ask aloud, and always with a bit of a crestfallen expression. its those moments that you have to take the extra time to explain 'no ken, i'm not mad, i need you to move so i can reach the stove'

• you've, essentially, created a monster. a tall, beach blond monster who can only be satiated with a kiss. good luck trying to explain the do's and don't of PDA to him... you're going to need it.

𝐇𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐲 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦

• with henry, the kiss always comes from a sense of desperation. a crushing need to be close to you, to grab you as tight as he can and not let go— almost like he's afraid you'll dissapear into smoke if he doesn't.

• his favorite place to kiss you, aside from the obvious, would be your hands. he positively preens when you run your hands through his hair or dance them across his face as gentle as can be, so it's no surprise that he takes a special interest in them. henry always leans into them with a careful look, placing a slow kiss to your palm or knuckles before saddling closer by your side to plant more. they're never less passionate than the ones he pressed to your mouth, just.. different.

• henry likes knowing that he's yours, and vice versa. a kiss reassures him, in a way, that you're still there— wherever there happens to be that day. often times it's your appartment or walking down the streets together. occasionally a shop or two if no one seems to be around to complain.

• theres a deeper part of henry, a darker part of him, that yearns for the taste of copper during a kiss. the urge to bite at your lip until blood spills into his mouth, tongue immediately soothing over the mark in reassurance, is constant. even in the sweetest moments those feelings will show their ugly head, prompting a shudder to roll through his body at the very thought.

• occasionally, he imagines you doing the same to him.

henry is burning up. he can hardly breathe as his hands search for purchase on your clothes. he's panting heavily, pupils blown out to the point where you could barely see the ring of blue around them. his head feels like it's full of static— his lips even more.

a stray drop of blood drips onto the floor unceremoniously, barely staining the tip of his shoe. a few more lie beside it, having fallen just moments before. a testimony to the teeth-shaped indent on his bottom lip that tasted like you.

you're in no better shape than henry is, really. you're breathing just as hard as him, and there's a splotch of red smeared messily by the corner of your mouth, ("like lipstick," henry thinks faintly) although he knows it isn't yours. did he want it to be? no, that was for later.

"was that okay?" you have the audacity to ask him that while he struggles not to beg for more. you, staring at him with a curious expression and that worried look in your eye— as if you hadn't just given him everything he wanted.

henry doesnt answer you; not verbally anyways. he doesnt need to when he's already back to kissing you again, practically moaning into your mouth as he tastes the tangy salt and blood between you all at once. you reciprocate the action, your tongue occasionally poking at his wound in what he hoped was an attempt to tease him. it was filthy and quite possibly derranged, but that made him love it even more.

• freak to the max about that kind of stuff, what can i say. "always the quite ones," as you once put it. he had just taken another drag of his cigarette at that, blowing the smoke to the side as he grinned that small grin of his. the one he knew you loved.

• any sort of relationship with henry letham of all people is going to be weird and sort-of-macabre, and by extent the kissing, but the two of you make it work. he'll ramble on about the work of the late-great tristian rêveur while you lie there next to him patiently, a little bit of his blood still clinging to the corner of your lips. it's not perfect, but it's undoubtedly and irrevocably the two of you, and that's all that matters.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫

• okay. we've all seen the movie. there's no sense in pretending that this man would kiss you with anything less than the passion of a thousand supernovas. that's just a fact.

• whether you believe it comes from a place of self-confidence and heat, or a much more desperate part of him, driver will always give you his undivided attention. thats just who he is. methodical— obsessive, even. every word and small touch to your back as he pulls you closer is carefully planned out beforehand.

• it's a sign of trust to him, really.

• he's no stranger to soft pecks on the cheek or lips, don't get me wrong, driver just prefers the ever-encompasing feeling of your mouth on his, tongues dancing around each other as you both take your time mapping out each individual detail. everything about you is intoxicating to the point where driver wants to drown in it.. sometimes he thinks he just might. wouldn't be the worst way to go.

• he definitely uses chapstick. nothing too flavorful, (unless you like that, then he'd reconsider) just enough to keep them from cracking or drying out. he finds that it makes for a much more enjoyable kiss either way, and you agree.

• it's also my strong belief that driver has definitely forgotten to take his toothpick out once or twice before going in for a kiss, resulting in a little poke. you always wave it off, but the first time it had happened he'd looked positively mortified (or about as mortified as he could get). thankfully, driver's been pretty mindful about it since then, always making sure to toss the thing or settle it behind his ear before pecking you.

• in spite of the rest of his fast paced lifestyle, driver is not really a big fan of PDA. it's simply too much attention on somebody with too many criminal ties, and he'd rather die than risk your saftey. but on the off chance that he's feeling risky, it's usually after a nice cruise through the streets with you.

driver's steady hands are cradling the sides of your face as the two of you stand beside his car— a new one he just picked up from sharon. you had asked to tag along that day, always jumping at the opertunity to be in the front seat with him. his favorite habit of yours was how your hand always seemed to find his on the road, fingers interlocking as you let him whisk you away on whatever road he had in mind.

the flickering white light from above casts an irregular shadow across driver's face while he recalls all of this. it draws out the intensity of his eyes as his gaze darts from your eyes to your nose and to your lips. even here, standing in a dingy underground parking garage, he can't help but think that you looked stunning.

your own arms were wrapped around drivers middle, squeezing lightly as you admired him back. the two of you often had moments like this. moments where driver seemed incapable of doing anything but soaking you in, almost overwhelmed with the realization that you loved him just as much as he loved you. living on one's own for so long takes its toll on the importance behind human touch, and driver had been deprived of it (of you) for far too long.

nothing was said as you craned your head slightly upwards, lips carefully capturing his own in a soft kiss. nothing had to be; it was a familiar motion between the two of you by now.

driver accepts the display of affection with a barely audible hum, showing his appreciation as his mouth begins to move in tandem with your own. he can taste the faint remnants of the toothpaste you used this morning before he picked you up, and it brings him comfort. everything about you to him is comforting. safe. the one part of his life that he's been allowed to really, truly enjoy. and enjoy himself, he would.

eventually you had to break away, much to driver's disappointment. if he had it his way, he'd be glued at your side at all times, there to angle your lips towards his at any point. but then again, if he had it his way, nothing would end up getting done. your appartment had seen enough evidence of that— you'd lost count of the amount of times you'd shown up late to something because driver couldn't keep his lips (or hands) off of you.

you reach to press one last kiss to his lips, an unspoken promise for more. "come on, let's get inside before someone complains."

"let them." came his only response before dipping back down for another. he ends up chasing your lips instead, mouth twitching into a barely-there smile as you pull away with a teasing laugh. you're already making your way towards the elevator, grinning at him as if to say 'catch up'. you barely make it there before he's got you by your wrist, interlocking your fingers and pulling you into his chest gently.

"sucker." you mummble against his jacket, but driver hears the unmistakeable smile in your tone.

"You're insatiable."

"Mhm."

"I'd suggest a chastity belt but you'd probably be into that."

Colt barks a surprised laugh against your collarbone, breath warm against the dampened skin there. He cranes his neck up, blue eyes crinkled with mirth, and digs his chin into your sternum. His beard stratches the thin skin there, but you pay it no mind.

"I'm not hearing a refusal," you add, feigning shock. Colt rolls his eyes but foregoes an answer. Instead he turns back to your chest, peppering kisses across the bare expanse.

Sighing, you drop your head onto the pillow and let him have his fun. You'd barely gotten through the front door after an agonizingly contactless drive back from the wrap party before Colt damn near jumped you, and within seconds you'd ended up sprawled laterally across the bed. He'd tried to kiss you once you'd both settled into the car, but the Uber driver had shot a look so stern through the rearview mirror neither of you had the nerve to even stray from your sides of the back row.

He pulls away from sucking a faint bruise into your pec only so he can shuck his shirt off, and when he resettles, the press of bare skin-to-skin makes you hum with satisfaction. Your fingers automatically seek out his head, sliding into his hair—not pulling just yet but twirling longer strands around your knuckles. A wordless reminder that despite your positions, you’re still the one calling the shots, and at any point you could easily guide him wherever you want him.

He hums a long, throaty sound at the sensation, nipping your skin once more with playful levity, and skirting his broad palm up your shifting ribcage. It comes to a stop a mere few inches from your armpit, where he swiftly flicks his thumb over your nipple.

Clambering back up to your eye-level, Colt draws up a slanted smirk, the tips of your noses brushing. He’s so close his face is faintly out of focus, but the rapidly-rooting desire gleams starkly in his eye, impossible to miss.

“Hi,” he hums, gaze trained low on your loose mouth.

“Hi, handsome.”

Much to your delight, Colt goes pink within a matter of seconds, mouth shifting and twisting with bashfulness. One of your hands slips down to his cheek, feeling the blooming warmth there.

“What do you need?”

Colt’s eyebrows furrow, ever so faintly, eyes darting low for a split second. “You know.”

At that, you mirror his expression, albeit with a far more dramatized edge. Your head tilts against the comforter in mock confusion.

“Hm, I don’t think I do. You’re gonna have to tell me. In great detail, preferably.”

Colt’s head wilts, lands roughly onto your shoulder with a defeated puff of breath. You scrape your blunt nails against his scalp just to feel the suppressed tremor that lances through his shoulders.

“You’re a sick man, you know that?” he bleats. “A sick, evil man.”

"And yet, here you are," you counter, folding a leg up to press your inner thigh to his hip. The pressure of his half-hard cock is impossible to miss with this angle. Self-satisfaction blooms in your chest—it's hard not to get a big head when it comes to Colt, such an eager little thing, wrapped right around your finger.

He plants a brief, wet kiss to the knob of your collarbone, blindly drawing one arm back to paw at your raised thigh, hips driving down to press clumsily against yours. It knocks a lovely, low groan straight out of him, reverberating through you as he finds a jerky pace.

"Come on, sweetheart, you've got no problem humping me like a dog but you're too embarassed to use your words?"

Colt, fully hard now, freezes against you, fingers fixed like claws into the meat of your thigh and his free arm holding some of his body weight off of you, forearm trapped under your upper back.

"Unless you want to get off like this," you taunt, tone loose with indifference. Colt's head shoots up straight, almost knocking into your chin in his haste. His pelvis rolls again, though a movement so shallow and brisk you figure it was more of an automatic impulse. His hand beneath you wriggles up your back, curling around the curve of your shoulder to prod at the nape of your neck.

"Fuck me? Please?" he breathes into your mouth, brows pinched and hair askew—the image of need.

"There you go," you murmur with delight, soft despite the thrill of heady arousal his face and quiet plead have roused under your skin. "Was that so difficult?"

You don't give him any time to reply, hastily tipping him over onto his back. This strong thighs catch your hips instinctively, grinning up at you like the cat that got the cream. Little does he know you were always bound to end up like this—despite your far superior capacity for concealing your own arousal, you've been near dizzy with the urge to fuck him senseless since you hauled him into that tiny bathroom well over an hour ago.

You both shed your pants and briefs, and while Colt battles with his pair caught on an ankle, you retrieve the lube from your bedside drawer. With this, you waste no time, pumping a generous amount onto the pads of three fingers and smearing it around with the same hand's thumb, while you toss the bottle aside and settle on your haunches in between his thighs. His legs are bent and draped over yours, feet planted on the mattress behind you.

Hard and leaking already against his toned stomach, bathed in the yellowish light of your bedside lamp, flushed all sorts of pink and red, Colt is gorgeous. You say as much, rendered a little breathless as you skim your dry palm up his flank and watch it quiver with a sharp intake of breath. You draw it back down, settle your thumb in the crease where his thigh connects to his body.

Your first finger goes in with little resistance and a contented sigh from below. At first you simply press in and pull out to the last knuckle in steady, cyclical motions, gently working lube and looseness into him. Colt's got his head perched on one folded arm, the other lax on the mattress, loosely extended to draw mindless patterns into your kneecap.

It's when you work a second finger into him that you start having some fun. You crook your fingers sharply upward, testing. Colt sucks in a shuddering breath, jolting as though suddenly shocked.

"Ooooh, boy," he says, a little strained. His gaze abandons the ceiling to peer at you down the sharp line of his nose, mouth slanting with dazed amusement. He must read something in your eyes, because suddenly, his own narrow pointedly. "Don't be mean."

"I didn't do anything!"

"I can see you—" he waggles a finger at you. "Scheming."

"Alright, settle down," you dismiss, swatting his hand away as you scissor your fingers, and then snicker when he grits out a low moan, head straining back against the bed. Your free hand drifts to the bend of his knee, drawing it up, closer to his chest. "Hold here."

Breathing out hard through his nose, Colt hooks his palm under his thigh, dutifully securing it in place.

During the press of your third finger into him, you clasp your hand over the back of his, watching his face tighten around a half-swallowed sound. You keep pressing in deeper until you can't, fingers angled unward and drawing firm circles with them that make Colt's hips jump, his arm soar up to cover his eyes.

Alternating your motions, scretching and pressing and circling and retreating, you watch him crumble at your fingers. Something like awe captures you, gawking at the massive swelling of his broad chest and the surges of precome leaking out of his slit, pooling in the dips and valleys of his straining abdominal muscles.

"Jesus," you breathe out, releasing his hand to grip the base of your own cock—hard just by watching him. It hits you then that you haven't come at all tonight; no wonder you're so pent up. Keeping a firm ring around yourself, you pick up the pace of your fingertips, itching to reach for his dick as well but mostly wanting to see how far you can push him, just like this.

Colt's low moans are cut short by a blurt of your name, snipped with pleasure. You watch his nails fade into a ghostly white, curling fiercely into his thigh.

"Hm?" you ask absentmindedly, refocusing again on the way your fingers disappear into him, blood thrumming through your head, joined only by his fractured groans and the wet sounds of your ministrations.

"Wait, wait—ssshhit, 'm really close."

"Hold on, hold on baby."

"No, no wait, I'm ready, 'm gonna come, I can't—"

You curl your fingers up again, and reach over with your thumb to press it flat against his perineum.

Just as his hips drive up, grinding sloppily onto your fingers in a raw instinct to chase his orgasm, you slide your fingers free entirely, watching as his cock dribbles onto his skin and he sags, moaning feebly into the crook of his elbow.

You soothe the tremors caught in his extended thigh, using both the remaining lube on your fingers and scooping up some of his pre in order to slick yourself up.

“I said don't be mean,” Colt grouses, peering mournfully up at you. You slide your palm over your tip a few times, grasp tightening over the muscle of his thigh, and an airy chuckle slips out of you as you line yourself up.

“You said stop, I stopped,” you reply with innocent lightness, lowering your torso to peck his ruddy cheekbone. His exasperated sigh rolls into a deep hum when you finally press into him, inch after steady inch.

Pleasure fizzes and thrums under your skin, dizzy with the tight heat around you, clenching spasmodically. You muffle a long sound of your own into his chest, rolling your hips deeper even once you’ve bottomed out.

“Oh, fucking—Jesus,” you grit, stuck to his chest with your mingling sweat. Colt is mostly silent beneath you, save for the hitching irregularities of his breath, catching and stuttering with every lazy grind of your pelvis. He’s released his leg at some point, and now both hands are clinging to you, one planted on the small of your back and the other strewn across your shoulder blades.

“You feel so good, Colt,” you murmur once the initial flare of bliss has ebbed into a steadier constant. You nose at the hollow of his throat, pulling out a few inches and feeling his cock twitch against your stomach. “So tight, perfect for me.”

“No need for flattery, baby, you’ve already got me in your bed,” Colt ribs, but his voice is a little wheezy, a little dazed, so it falls somewhat flat. You push back into him—not quite a proper thrust but something approaching it. You lift your head just in time to see his face crumble, pushing out a stilted huff. Unable to tease any further, you settle into a deep, steady pace, though not yet rough.

“I know, but you love it.”

His brows furrow and swiftly release, gazing up at you with his half-lidded eyes a little bashful. “I wouldn’t say love…”

“Oh, come on. There’s no shame in this bedroom. You love being good for me. My good boy.” To punctuate, you give a particularly firm thrust, letting your whole body roll with it, angling yourself deeper into Colt. He responds as expected: jolts and utters a wavering moan into the ever-narrowing space between your faces, fluttering around you.

You're struck, suddenly, with a fondness so potent it nearly makes the climbing rhythm of your hips falter. Colt clings to you and shakes and moans so beautifully, fitted to your body as though tailored to it. He digs one heel into your ass and involuntarily scrapes his nails down the soft arch of your spine—marks which he'll later kiss and mumble apologies for. He's so perfectly tight on your dick, taking you with such ease and enthusiasm you can only bask in the gales of simmering pleasure that rip through you with every deep thrust and clench of his spongy insides.

"You're staring," he manages after an indecipherable stretch of time, head pressed back against the comforter, a vaguely Y-shaped vein bulging in his throat. You tamp down the urge to bite into it, in favor of leveling his gaze.

"Can you blame me?" you huff, shifting your weight onto one forearm in order to bring your other palm to his jaw, propping your thumb up under his chin to keep his head held back and lovely throat exposed. He rolls his eyes but otherwise ignores your comment, and instead you watch in steady increments as his orgasm approaches.

His brows warp and pinch closer, blinking unevenly until his eyes eventually stay screwed shut; his breath hitches, his throat bobs.

"Close already?"

"Shut up," he groans, though any attempt at frustration is cheapened by the high-pitched quality of his voice. "You shouldn't've—teased so much... earlier—shit..."

"Mhm," you hum, reluctantly releasing his jaw in order to reach blindly behind you, finding his knee and hitching it up to your ribs. The new angle has Colt yelping, squeezing around you like a vice, hips lurching up to meet yours.

He's so loud when you fuck him, it's addictive. Even more so as he's approaching his release, when whatever scrap of dignity he has left flies out the window and he gets particularly whiny. You lean down, drink them all in, hips not relenting for an instant despite the quiver of strain in your thighs and arms.

"It's okay," you murmur into his cheek, dazed, warm and buzzing all over, "it's okay, baby, come on."

He sounds almost suffocated when he comes, shuddering harshly beneath you, clamping down on your cock and spurting across your stomachs. You can feel the tremors in his arms on your back, in his inner thighs where they're pressed against your bare skin. You fuck him through it, only slightly decelerating. He continues to tighten and spasm, even as he begins to come down, and your head spins.

He finally sags beneath you with a cross between a groan and a deep sigh, nails relenting on your poor back, swiftly replaced by sweat-sticky, circling fingertips.

At some point during his orgasm, your face sunk into the crook of his neck, breathing in his musk and just barely keeping yourself from picking up a harsh pace, in search of your own release. Still, the steady, even rolling of your hips soon makes Colt whine.

"Gimmie a—s'too much, give me a minute," he gasps, though his pelvis gives weak, tentative twitches against your own. You don't answer to that, sunken deep into your long-neglected pleasure, now that you've taken care of him. You release his knee in favor of palming at the rising and falling width of his ribcage; it's mostly unintentional, the way you begin pounding into him harder, movements rushed and somewhat snipped with urgency.

Colt grunts, fingers tensing on your skin again, into the indents his nails have surely left. He appears split on whether to grind down onto you or attempt to writhe away from the stimulation, bordering now on painful. The breathless cries of your name, uttered just above your ear only amplify the heat surging through you, condensing in the pit of your gut.

"Too much—s'too much," he repeats, thrashing beneath you, breaths coming in so quick they stumble over each other.

Despite it, he's still hard between your bodies.

"Want me to stop?" you manage through your own trance, between lazy licks and bites to his pulse point. From this close you can hear the tiny huffs each harsh thrust knocks out of him, and when he gives a rather telling wet sniffle your cock twitches.

Colt hums and moans and whimpers, makes all these addictive little noises that draw you further to the edge, but he says nothing. You take it as what it is, and let animal instinct take the wheel. Your thrusts grow sloppier, arhythmic, jackrabitting into him and fueled only by your approaching orgasm and Colt's cries of pleasure-pain.

You come with a low moan that feels ripped straight from your chest, wavering at the tail end as you dump your load into his twitching insides, near overwhelmed by pulse after pulse of warm pleasure. It lasts ages—at least it feels that way to you, and by the time you surpass the peak and roll through the aftershocks, Colt tenses and follows right after you. You crane your neck down just to see the pitiful two, three surges of come his dick offers up, and pull out when he starts to hiss with true discomfort.

You sit back on your knees, palms holding his own apart in order to watch your come trickle out of his hole. You certainly can't get hard again, not this fast, but you feel your dick give a weak jolt at the mind-numbingly erotic sight.

With a curse muttered under your breath, you reach over the side of the bed and pull up the first thing your fingers graze—which turns out to be your discarded boxers. You clean up his stomach first, then some smears on your own, and finally his ass.

Despite the weight of exhaustion enfolding you and the general achiness in your legs, you shuffle off the bed to grab some water from the kitchen, an opened bag of chips held shut by a plastic clip, and once back in the bedroom, two pairs of underwear.

Colt chugs most of the water, but stops himself before finishing it, smiling bashfully up at you when he offers the few sips left. You thank him anyway and down the rest before crawling back in beside him.

He hisses when he tucks himself into your boxers, legs drawing up slightly.

"Dude, I think my shvantz might fall off," he solemnly says, rolling into your side and propping his upper body onto one forearm. You snort, eyes shut but hands easily seeking him out.

"Your what?"

"Totally worth it, though," he says in lieu of an answer. You feel him pepper soft kisses along the side of your face, leading ultimately to your mouth. "Didn't even know I could do that."

He settles agaisnt your shoulder with one palm pressed flat against your stomach, thumb sweeping lazily.

"The more you know," you hum, sinking your fingers into his sweaty hair. You probably should've showered. Oh well, you can do laundry tomorrow.

"We are doing that again, though, right?"

at their insistence, he stayed put for a few moments, giving a nod in response to the medical team’s questions. his eyes met yours briefly.

for a moment, the world seemed to blur. everyone else fell out of focus, except for him. maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was just your imagination—but you could’ve sworn you saw the barest curve of a smile on his face. a private acknowledgement, meant just for you.

“alright, great work everyone!” kristoff, the director, clapped his hands a few times, breaking the private trance. “don’t forget! we’re back here tomorrow at six, sharp! great work today, guys. great work.”

you nodded briefly at the director, already turned towards your trailer to avoid being pulled into another conversation. while you normally loved to speak, especially about your work and passion, there was something you were more interested in that evening.

you lingered behind, letting your steps slow without making it obvious. your eyes flicked back, and there he was again. wearing that same faint, almost smug smile, held just long enough for you to catch it. it was just a little more deliberate than last time, enough for you to be sure that it was directed to you. meant for you.

you responded with a subtle motion toward your trailer, careful and casual. his nod back was just as discreet, and the stupid little grin that crept onto your face felt completely justified.

by the time you got to your trailer, the chaos of the set felt distant, replaced by the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the sound of the door shutting behind you. you leaned back against it for a second, trying to let your blood settle.

the adrenaline from the stunt, even as a bystander, hadn’t left you completely. seeing the way he handled the car, twisting and turning as if it was an extension of himself… it left a feeling in your chest that you didn’t even bother trying to name. you’d spent the last few weeks trying not to name it.

you kicked off your shoes, almost walking past before doubling back to rearrange them a little bit neater. the smell of leather and coffee was strong in the trailer, a mix of all the costumes and cheap drink you’d consumed in the past weeks. when a short knock sounded on the door, you weren’t surprised.

you merely turned and found him slipping inside the trailer before anyone caught him. he still had some grease and fake soot on his face—remnants from the stunt he’d just completed. his short hair was sticking up in places, like he hadn’t bothered to smooth it down after removing his helmet.

“hey there, hotshot,” you smirked teasingly, leaning your hip sideways against the inside of the trailer. “i was wondering how long it’d take for you to get here.”

your grin widened when he didn’t even roll his eyes in response to the teasing. instead his smirk turned sharper, and your chest tightened at the sight.

“would’ve been quicker if i could teleport,” he said.

you laughed at that, head tipped back as you couldn’t hold it in anymore. you saw the crinkle in his own eyes before he stepped in towards you. your laughter died, but the smile remained on both of your faces as the distance between you closed in two steps.

“hey,” you whispered, unable to stand the silence.

your hand lifted, brushing lightly over the back of his neck. you watched almost in awe as he leaned into it, lashes fluttering shut for a moment. he didn’t use words, but you could understand him anyways. your noses nearly touched, breaths mingling as your lips drew nearer.

you closed the gap, mouth moving over his slowly at first. getting reacquainted after an entire day apart. your other hand lifted to graze his hip, and you pulled him closer. his hips knocked into yours and he let out a sound so sweet that you had to pry apart his lips to drink it up. the hand on his hip drifted to the small of his back, before dipping lower and resting on the curve of his ass.

the corners of his lips tipped up enough just for you to feel it into the kiss. you grinned back, nipping his lower lip before letting your lips trail down. you settled your lips against a spot below his neck where a fading hickey still remained. 

“makeup department give you any trouble?” you murmured against his skin.

“not as much as medical,” he responded quietly after a moment.

you smiled and bit the spot again, before soothing the sting with a swipe of your tongue.

he let out a low hiss, his fingers tangling into your hair as you began to suck the spot. after a few moments, he began to get impatient, if the way he repeatedly tugged on your hair was any indication.

“eager,” you teased with a chuckle, pressing a kiss to his pulse point.

“we’re on a time constraint,” he responded, sharply tugging at your hair once again. “i’d rather not have the janitors walk in on us again.”

“that was one time,” you defended yourself while smiling stupidly. “and they never recognized you. besides, i thought i apologized for that already. multiple times.”

“you did,” he said. “but i’ll still bring it up.”

your eyes crinkled with your grin, but you let him back you up onto the couch in your trailer. the leather creaked below you as you sat down, getting comfortable. you pulled your shirt off and threw it aside, arms spread over the back of the couch as you looked up at him.

he was standing still above you, brows slightly furrowed as if he was contemplating something.

“what?” you laughed. “getting cold feet after four weeks of this?”

he shook his head simply, taking off his own shirt as well before settling onto your lap, his knees on either side of your thighs. you raised a brow, about to ask him if you should take your pants off first, when he rocked his hips suddenly.

the moan you let out was echoed by him, a sudden sound in the quiet of the trailer.

“fuck,” you murmured, bringing both hands around to settle onto his hips. you tilted your head back, letting him come down to mark the column of your throat.

“let’s do it like this,” he said against your skin.

your response was lost as he rubbed his clothed erection against your own, this time more deliberately.

“y-yeah,” you managed to ground out. “like this is perfectly fine.”

your hands on his hips guided his slow rocking, while your own hips twitched upwards to chase more of that friction and meet him in the middle. your mouths were pressed together again in a kiss, but it was little more than an exchange of moans and heavy breaths. he ground his hips faster, and you could feel his cock twitch despite the layers between you.

you wanted to say something, anything, but your brain had short circuited so that nothing was clear except for him and the way he moved against you. the way he fit, like a missing puzzle piece.

one of your hands slid down from his hips to the globe of his ass, and squeezed.

“fuck,” he responded breathily into your own mouth.

you felt him reposition himself slightly, reangle just so. in a way that the friction was nearly unbearable as he continued his motions. the shape of his cock was already familiar to you, but the way it pressed against your own like this had to be a form of heaven.

“i’m—fuck, i could cum like this,” he murmured, lips wet as he spoke against yours.

“then do it,” you responded, the breath suddenly knocked out of your lungs. just the thought of bringing him over the edge like this was enough to make your cock twitch in your pants.

he bit your jaw, and then picked up the pace once more. you rocked your hips up each time, meeting him in the middle of each movement. the layers of fabric between the two of you, and the way you could still feel the outline of his cock made you desperate for relief. you rubbed against him quicker, whispering a mixture of honey-slick encouragement. you didn’t even think they made sense, the words leaving your mouth, but you were too far gone to even care.

you felt him drop his head against the crook of your neck, just barely covering up the sound of his broken moan as his movements slowed down. it took a few moments for your lust-addled brain to catch up, but then you felt the wetness of his pants against your own. heat rolled low in your stomach, and it didn’t take long for you to follow him over the edge.

you panted quietly, one hand rubbing his lower back while the other brushed the short hair along his nape. when he finally lifted his head, his forehead was drenched in sweat, and he was flushed a pretty pink. he looked wrecked, considering you guys hadn’t even taken all of your clothes off. you were sure that you didn’t look any better.

you couldn’t help but brush back some of the sweaty strands against his forehead. “remind me to do this again soon.”

this time he rolled his eyes, a quiet laugh escaping him. “if you don’t get dressed and get out of here before the janitors come by, there won’t be anything happening soon.”

you watched with a fond smile as he got up, collecting a shirt off the ground and prepared to make his way back to his car. you stayed close behind him the entire way.

The call came around 6pm, and you half expected it to be one of your friends, chewing you out for bailing on the bar for the millionth time in the last few weeks, but the shame of potentially bumping into March had kept you confined to your shitty apartment each night.

You answer with a hesitant 'hello' and statement of your name, bracing for a barrage of annoyance at your lack of presence.

"Hey, it's Jackson Healy." You stop dead where you'd begun pacing, the phone damn near falling from your hands.

"Oh god- Hi Jackson, oh god- I was going to come by and apologise sooner! I've just been so caught up with work- was there anything broken? Oh- Did anything need cleaning? I'll pay for it I swear I-" He cuts your rambling off with a gravelly laugh, and you have to lean against the wall at the sound. God, you'd met the man once and he's already got you hot under the collar.

"No no, don't you worry yourself about that, Loverboy took care of it." The laugh makes your chest tighten, and you're suddenly very glad you're home alone so no one is there to witness the bashful grin that tugs at your lips.

"Oh." Is all you can think to say. The mention of March almost stings, because for a brief moment, despite all your mess and chaos, you believed you and him could've been something. Even if that something was a long series of sleazy meetings and teasing fucks. You'd take it.

Maybe Healy could take you instead-

"Are you uh- how have you been?" You stumble through the question, eager to listen to him speak again. it's shameless, the way you want nothing more than to hear his gravelly voice until the end of time.

"Good thanks- yeah.." He trails off, but only for a moment. "Are you free tonight?" The question has your brain short circuiting, and you stammer, resting your forehead pathetically against the wall. What the hell was going on with you?

"Oh uh-yeah-yeah I am." Gone was the confidence you possessed drunk, and you side eyed the fridge- but Healy doesn't let you get that far.

"Good. I'll pick you up in 30 minutes. Wear a nice shirt, we're going to a restaurant."

Holy shit.

Exactly 30 minutes later there's a knock at the door, and you open it with shaking hands to see Healy, resting against the doorframe, glasses perched on his forehead. "You look good." He holds his hand out expectantly, and your heart leaps into your throat as you take it.

"Thanks, you look good too." You settle on answering, and he simply grins, letting his hand slide over your arm to sit nicely on the small of your back as you move to lock your door.

"No need to be nervous." Healy hums, a little closer than he probably needed to be, practically caging you against the door before stepping back like nothing happened.

He keeps his hand firmly on your back as you walk down to his car, and your heart thrums when he opens the door for you to climb in, winking before rounding to the drivers side.

You sit in an oddly comfortable silence as he drives you to the restaurant, and you spend approximately 99% of that time split between wondering why the hell he's taking you out to dinner, and coming to terms with the fact you absolutely do not care.

Healy is a severely attractive man, and if he wants to drag your sorry, embarrassed ass to a restaurant for no clear reason, you’re absolutely going to let him. And only partly because you think it might lead you back to March, who had been avoiding your calls.

“Here we are.” The restaurant he parks outside is nice, much fancier than you could ever take yourself too, and you’re pleasantly surprised when he once again circles the car to open your door and help you out.

“Thank you, Jackson.” You hum, expecting him to pull away now you’re in public, but instead he loops his arm around your waist once more, guiding you towards the door.

“Don’t mention it.” He flashes a casual grin, but something in his eyes tells you that you actually shouldn’t mention it.

Dinner is oddly rather uneventful, Healy spends most of the time probing about your life, though you do get the feeling that he may know more about you than he lets on. Mainly on account of the fact that neither him or March knew your name, or even where you lived, and yet he’d called you up and successfully shown up at your front door without so much as a confirmation. Surprisingly, you realise that that fact doesn’t quite set you on edge like it should, and you find yourself more charmed than freaked out. Healy had insisted you owed him absolutely nothing- not even an apology- for what had happened at his apartment, and this was purely a dinner to ‘clear the air’ and fix first impressions.

Healy, as far you were concerned, was an absolute gentleman- and a handsome one at that.

★

“Do you want to come back to my place?” The tension had been thick through dinner, and between his lingering glances and the hand that had somehow found its way to your thigh under the table, your answer was a no brainer. An opportunity to spend more time with the man staring at you like you were the only person in the whole world, was not an opportunity you were going to pass up. You probably looked a little too eager to say yes, but you were way past worrying about being pathetic. That embarrassment could wait until later.

You hadn't been back there long when there was a knock at the door, and whilst it caught you off guard, he didn't seem surprised at all, and turned to you with a warm smile. "I think you're gonna like this, hmm?" He didn't elaborate, and you stared at his broad back as he walked to open the door.

"Healy?" It was March, you were sure of it, and you thought your heart might leap out of your chest with how fast it was beating now.

"Good. You're here." His fingers wrap around March's shoulder, and he all but drags him into his apartment, pushing him towards your space on the sofa as he recalls some event from the day, though it cuts short at the sight of you, sitting on Healy's sofa, a beer in hand.

"March." Your eyes are wide, and his are too. It takes him several seconds of open mouth gawking at you for him to resume his usual composure, a smirk pulling shakily on his lips.

"Hey doll." He winks, but you don't quite think he's fully confident in the gesture, because his grin slips just a moment later. "What-What's happening here?" The reality seems to hit him, because he sounds scandalised as he spins on his heel to jab at Healy. "Not fucking cool! You-You can't ruin my night with him and then steal him!" They're arguing with each other like you aren't there, and for some reason that has a warmth growing in your stomach, and you find yourself awfully fidgety all of a sudden, eyes flicking between the pair of them.

"What? Do I need to ask your permission to take a guy out? March you're ridiculous! You don't own the kid!" Something stirs when he calls you kid, and the almost empty beer bottle slips from your fingers, the noise of it hitting the carpeted floor has them both turning to you.

"I'm sorry-I should go I-" The speed at which they both move towards you is almost startling, and you struggle to pick one to look at.

"No-" They both say at once, followed by a shared glare.

"No, you don't have to go." Healy insists, shooting another pointed glance at March, before moving to sit on the sofa beside you, only for the other man to mirror it at your other side.

Oh.

Oh.

You're starting to think Healy had a little more than a dinner date and a drink at his apartment in mind, and his lack of surprise when March showed up suddenly makes sense.

"Darling." His voice is a deep hum that rattles deliciously in your chest, and you find yourself magnetised to his side, leaning just a fraction closer to him as he speaks. "I wanted to make the other week up to you." His hand slips effortlessly onto your thigh, hooking around the inside of your leg to part it slightly. Your breath hitches and a small sigh escapes your lips, though you hear a grumble of complaint to your right, where March is pouting.

"Yeah and -! Well I wanted to, too." Granted you'd only seen the man twice, but the March you were experiencing now was so far stripped back from the overconfident sleazy talker that you knew, in a way that was almost unnerving.

"Yeah yeah." Healy waves his hand dismissively towards him, which only seems to aggravate him further.

"Doll-" One hand grabs at your knee, the other moving to grasp at your cheek, pulling your attention over to him. "C'mere." He hums, drawing your lips to meet his, feeling them stretch into a smirk as your mouths met. March was back. He makes out like a man starved, tongue slipping across your lips before prodding into your moth, swiping behind your teeth, the hand on your face curling gently around your head to keep you steady, pressed to him.

"Fuck-" You almost forget Healy is there, until there's a weight shifting beside you, and the hand on your thigh wretches your leg into his lap as he sinks just far enough behind you to begin to mouth rather sloppily at your neck.

Your curse into March's mouth, and he simply swallows the sound eagerly, squeezing at your thigh the way Healy is too, and you're swimming now, your brain feeling like mush as they both manhandle you in their own way.

"My turn." There's an actual growl from Healy, who swats at March from behind your back until he reluctantly pulls back, eyes shining as they fall to the string of spit that connects your mouths. "There you are, sweetheart." The deep tone of his voice is sinful as he helps tilt your body towards him, enough that your head can turn to meet his own in his reclined position, partly under you. The strain on your neck makes you whine, but you don't have it in you to care, your only focus falling to Healy, who's now about to eat you alive, enough that you once again forget that theres a second person in this scenario.

A second person, in fact, who's now ripping at your shirt buttons like they personally offend him, huffing angrily when one gets stuck, halting him in his path to sucking bruises into your skin again. "Perfect." He mutters when he's finally pulling your shirt open, practically climbing onto you in order to position himself to begin mouthing across your chest.

"Leave space for me, March." Healy barely pulls back enough to talk, and his words end up half muffled by your lips, but March seems to get the message regardless, waving a dismissive hand halfheartedly towards his friend, mouth barely leaving your skin.

You’re whining and whimpering now in a way you don't think you ever have before, the overwhelming feeling of having two men pawing and kissing you making everything buzzy. You feel almost delirious, and it's not helped when March begins to grope at your chest, groaning against the expanse of your neck as he rubs a thumb repeatedly into your nipple.

You break apart from Healy to pant, head resting uselessly against his shoulder, and you can barely think of where to place your hands, one gripping at March's shoulder as he continues his work, the opposite entwining with Healy's. "Fuck." You curse softly, and you only feel more lightheaded when Healy grabs at your waist, using your linked hands at one side and his own at the other in order to wrestle you firmly into his lap, his chest against your back.

"You okay, darlin?" You can feel the vibrations when he all but groans into your ear, feeling you writhe as March continues ministrations, barely affected by all the change of position.

"Y-Yeah." Your voice catches in your throat as March's lips slide over your chest again, much to both of their entertainment.

"March- I said fuckin' leave some room for me." Healy reaches around you, just enough to tangle a fist in March's hair, pulling his head away, much to his protest.

"I'm busy here, asshole!" He snaps, peering around your head in a way that makes you wonder if there's a little more going on that a simple hookup. It feels like you've unknowingly entered into a relationship that doesn't know it's a relationship yet.

"Yeah? Well go be busy with yourself!" March's eyes narrow at him, and it's like you're not even there now, because he's shuffling back off you, enough that he can lean around to prod Healy in the shoulder.

"You're the one who invited me, dipshit!" He huffs, and yeah, this is starting to feel a little too much like a domestic dispute you shouldn't be part of.

"I invited you here to give you a fuckin' lesson on how to treat a man properly!" Healy's thick arm wraps around your torso, and he pulls you just a fraction closer to him, enough that you can feel the weight of his hard cock beneath you. Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit. You chant it in your head like it can save you from whatever the hell was about to happen, but your heart knows you want nothing more than to be stuck between whatever messy situation was currently unfolding.

"You're always trying to one up me, Healy!" March's voice has that same shrill tone as when Healy had come home to interrupt you both, and you so desperately wanted to pick apart whatever dynamic they seem to have trapped themselves in, because he looks damn near seconds away from crying. "You can't just let me have this!" Healy scoffs behind you, and he barely registers the whine he pulls from you when he shifts in the seat, he's far too focused on the argument he's having.

It's almost hot, in a weird way. He's still dragging pleasure from you whilst also pretty much pretending you don't exist.

They're so wrapped up in each other they're barely even focusing on the entire reason they'd brought you here.

"Let you have 'this'?" He shuffles again, unsettled in his annoyance, and you have to bite back a groan as he does so- you have no idea how he's staying so...calm and so unfazed. "You don't even know his name, March!" He gawks at you both for several seconds, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find words to say, coming up empty.

Instead however, he chooses to make a daring move, and unceremoniously grabs at your dick, not dissimilar to how he'd done so in the bar bathroom, and you have to bite back a yelp at the sudden friction.

"I know he likes this." He snipes back, and you barely comprehend what's going on as his mouth is back on yours, and you simply sink into the overwhelming feeling again, because Healy begins to shift his hips repeatedly upwards.

"Every guy likes that, idiot." He huffs, but makes no attempt to push him off you, not even when March begins fiddling with your zipper.

Healy's hands are tight around your waist as he jerks beneath you, each lazy roll upwards of his body bringing another wave, which you groan about wantonly into March's open mouth. It's clear but the way they're both moving now, that this has long since stopped being entirely about pleasuring you for the sake of it, and more about each proving a point to the other. You don't have it in you to even be mad, not when it all feels so good.

"You're so good for us, yeah?" Healy praises, one hand slipping forward to untuck your shirt as March tries desperately to get your trousers open without looking down and disconnecting your lips.

"Mhm!" Is all you can whine in response, feeling boneless against Healy, who appears to be hellbent on groping every part of you now with the hand that's not massaging your hips.

"Isn't he good, March?" He prompts, and you're unsure if it's just a ploy to get March to pull away, because the second you're not kissing, he's attempting to draw your mouth to his with a hand on your neck.

"I've claimed his mouth." March huffs, and suddenly he's on you, knees barely fitting over yours and Healy's combined, staying upright with an arm hooked around his partners back to anchor him on, the other working you out of your trousers, too eager to even try to pull them down. "You get his ass and chest." Once again, they're talking about you like you aren't there, and you catch them both glaring at each other over your shoulder.

"Not very gentlemanly of you, March." He grins, bucking up into your clothed ass again, jolting you to jerk your hips forward yourself, meeting March's hand.

"You know, I don't think he minds." He grins, wrapping his fingers around the head of your dick, squeezing gently.

“Fucking hell.” Your head falls forward to rest on March’s shoulder, and your hand drops to his lap, beginning to mirror his movements, palming him in time with the way he’s jerking you off.

Not one to miss out, Healy watches with a slack jaw for several moments, eyes fixated on where your dick presses to the fabric of March’s straining trousers, before he begins to buck up in time with both of you.

There’s a chorus of moans happening from all 3 of you, and you thank whatever in the universe is watching over you that not only does Jackson live above a thriving comedy club with no neighbours to complain about the sound, but also that you’ve somehow even ended up in the current situation. Someone out there is looking out for you.

“Kiss him.” Healy grunts, his hand moving back to resume his earlier ministrations across your chest, tweaking your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. This time, March doesn’t argue back, and eagerly dives forwards to make out, all sloppy and messy, pushing you backwards and down onto Healy, who groans at the feeling, cursing into your ear, his pace quickening.

“Fuck.” March is panting, and you’re both slobbering over each other so much that you can barely keep your lips together, spit dribbling down both your chins.

“Shit.” The feeling is starting to get so overwhelming you can’t even concentrate on kissing back, and instead begin to cry and babble incoherently into his open mouth, not that he seemed to mind, especially when it just spurred him on to jerk you off even faster.

“His hearts racing, I think he’s close.” Healy’s hand had settled between your pecs, and he used the grip to move you in time with his thrusts, dragging you slow down against his cock with each movement.

“C’mon baby, you gonna come for me again? Third time’s the charm.” He practically purrs, a hand on the back of your head tilting it down so you can watch the way you’re now humping both his fist and his clothed bulge, your precum wetting the fabric, along with strings of spit dripping from your lips. “Come on, say my name doll, come for me.” He urges, almost as desperate as you are, watching the way your hips begin to stutter.

Your mouth opens to shudder a cry of his name as you come undone, only for thick fingers to bully their way into your mouth, muffling your words around them. Healy had genuinely shoved his fingers in your mouth so you don’t call March’s name.

“Fuck!” March is close behind you, coming in his pants for a second time, grinding up against your palm, and it seems to only be when he throws his head back, that Healy, with eyes trained solidly on his partners body, cums beneath you with a heavy groan.

Holy shit.