#ettore

It had been days since Ettore had seen her – really seen her. He had caught fleeting glimpses of her in the mess hall, during the scheduled group exercises, and passed her coming and going from Dibs’ lab, but they hadn’t spent any time together. Usually, they would find an excuse to slope away and do precisely what they ought to be using the box for. She hadn’t sought him out and had avoided any opportunity that he might have to approach her; he couldn’t understand why. Even today, when their work duty schedules aligned so that they shared a free period, she hadn’t come to find him. Ettore was pent up, his use of the box had increased in her absence, but his hand was a poor substitute for the tight, wet heat that she offered. He told himself it was his baser urges that guided his movements towards her cell, but deep down there was an aching emptiness inside of him that pulled him to her. Being separated from the one person aboard the ship who actually looked at him and bothered to see him, rather than recoil in disgust, caused emotions he didn’t quite understand to arise within him. He didn’t like it. He had never craved companionship; how dare she make him feel this way?

Her cell was illuminated, the lights in day cycle when he approached, making the bright white walls and grey flooring appear more sterile than they did in the dim blue of artificial night he usually saw them in. She was laying upon the single bed that was pushed against the right hand side of the small room – the bunks to the left were both empty, for which he was thankful; the other women tended to regard him with fear and suspicion. She was flat on her back, her fingers laced across her abdomen as she stared listlessly up at the ceiling.

Ettore watched her for a few moments, and when she made no move that indicated she would acknowledge his presence, he entered the space, slowly lowering himself to sit on the bottom bunk across from her bed, carefully not to bump his head on the frame of the top.

“What’s up wi’ your face?” he asked cockily, attempting to mask how uncomfortable he was with having to initiate this type of conversation. “Feel like you’re avoiding me.”

She stayed silent for a while, and he was certain she’d ignore him, until she exhaled a weary sigh. She glanced at him before slowly returning her gaze to the ceiling. “I’m bored, Ettore.”

He scoffed in amusement, his brow furrowing. “We’re all bored. Let’s be honest, waiting to die isn’t as exciting as I thought it might be.”

Shaking her head, she turned her head fully to look at him, her expression downcast and sullen. “Bored of this,” she gestured between them, “us.”

The casualness with which she said it felt like a blow to the chest. He did his best to school his features, not wanting to show the shock he felt at her unexpected dismissal of their arrangement, but his world felt as though the bottom had been pulled away and he was in freefall. It hurt, a painful, barbed twisting in his chest that caused his hands to curl into fists. He wanted to lunge across the small space that separated them and throttle her until she swore to take it back. Swallowing down his anger, he pressed his lips into a tight line, absentmindedly rubbing at his knuckles.

“You can’t just end things,” he finally said, his voice quiet. He despised how pathetic he sounded.

She pulled herself into a sitting position, crossing her legs and leaning her back against the wall so that she was facing him. “I’m tired of this,” she shrugged, “what do I get out of it? I’m not allowed to touch you, there’s no real intimacy in it for me. I’m not giving you anything you can’t get in the box.”

This wasn’t a conversation he was ready for. Exasperation welled inside of Ettore and he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and threading his fingers into his hair. He raked them through it, sitting up once more. “This is new for me. I’ve never been with anyone where they’ve…y’know…wanted to fuck me before.”

She rolled her eyes. “You’re a rapist, Ettore, let’s call a spade a spade. And whatever fucked up journey you’re on to try to evolve or make peace with it or whatever, I can’t be a part of it. It’s too much. I can’t fix you.”

His jaw ticked as he clenched his back teeth together and his anger roared to the surface, begging to be set free. He had never considered the word “rapist” for what he was, and he didn’t like the confronting nature of it. He had believed that with every encounter he had with her, he developed a deeper understanding of himself and his feelings towards physical intimacy, leaving a piece of his former life behind with each moment they shared. There was a part of his mind that urged him to simply walk away – she didn’t want him any longer, he should respect that and not humiliate himself by clinging to her. But she was his, and he couldn’t simply let that go. If she wanted something more, then that would be exactly what he would give her.

“Get on your knees,” he gritted out, rising to his feet. He saw fear flash momentarily in her eyes as she huddled closer to the wall, and he exhaled heavily through his nose. “I ain’t gonna hurt ya. You can stay on the bed, just kneel for me.”

He watched as she complied, lifting herself so that she knelt upon the narrow bed. He advanced upon her, looming over her as he circled around, taking in her posture. He liked her like this, and instinct and muscle memory kicked in, demanding he take control, remind her of who she belonged to. Clearly having seen the predatory glint in his eyes, he watched her tense, her arm quivering as though preparing to strike out.

“Wouldn’t do that if I were you,” he warned, “play nice and I will too.”

He could still feel the tension radiating off of her in waves as he came to kneel behind her, the springs in the thin mattress protesting beneath their combined weight. Slowly, his hands trembling slightly from the restraint he was exercising, he gently grasped the tops of her arms. He could hear the shakiness of her breath, feel the tightness in her back as he pressed his chest against it, but he was undeterred. He ran his palms down the length of her arms, his pace glacial and his touch featherlight, until he reached her wrists. Gently, he turned them palm up, allowing his fingers to drag across her flesh, his touch exploratory. He felt her relax, the tension leaving her body as she rested more of her weight against him. He had never taken his time with her like this before, never stopped to really drink her in or notice the little details about her. He knew she was heavily tattooed, but if he had been asked to describe any of the designs before now then he couldn’t have said what they were. Now, he noticed the mandala tattoo in her elbow ditch, and traced his fingertips over the outline of it, committing its intricate design to memory. As he dragged his hands back up to her shoulders, he tugged her tighter against him, ducking his head to nuzzle into her neck. He inhaled deeply, the warm scent of her hair making his chest tighten and ache, even as he felt his cock stir to full hardness. His hands moved to the waistband of her scrubs, tugging them down along with her underwear.

“We shouldn’t, we’ll get caught,” she murmured, though even as she protested, she rose up, aiding him in removing her clothing.

“Don’t fucking care,” he whispered hoarsely, freeing his cock as he grasped her bare hip, nudging the swollen cock against her slick entrance.

He gave a few shallow thrusts, forcing her tight walls to yield to his intrusion, and had to bite back a groan as he finally sank all the way inside of her. It was like coming home. The familiar tightness of her wrapped around him once again, after so many days without it, was almost his undoing right then and there. He held back, keeping his thrusts languid, almost gentle as they knelt together. He moved his hand from her hip to her throat, but this time he didn’t tighten his grip as he usually did – this wasn’t a grasp for domination or possession, he simply wanted to hold her. Each flutter of her pulse beneath his fingertips made his cock twitch inside of her, her soft, breathy moans not nearly as frantic as when he rutted into her like an animal. This was different, softer, it felt like it meant something, and it was almost more than he could stand.

When she came, the rhythmic squeezing around his shaft proved too much and he followed close behind her, pressing his pelvis flush against her rear as he spilled inside of her. He fell back on his haunches and she slumped against him, panting harshly. He wrapped his arms tight around her waist, not ready to let her go yet, unprepared for the clarity that would follow post coital bliss. She tilted her head, and his breath hitched when he felt the press of her lips against his jawline, the softness in direct contrast with the sharpness of his bone structure – she had never done that before, he’d never allowed her to. The gesture cut through the haze and it was then he noticed the stray tear that was rolling slowly down his cheek. There was a warmth spreading like warm treacle through his chest, travelling to the rest of his body, and he knew that if he stayed here, dwelt on it, then the single tear upon his cheek would be followed by many more. He would burst open, be faced with feelings he simply didn’t have the capacity for. No. Not this. Not now. Not yet.

Hastily, he pulled away from her, righting his trousers as he stood and tucked himself away. He kept his back to her, coming to stand in the doorway as he discreetly swiped away the wetness on his face, his head bowed.

“We’re done when I say we’re done,” he uttered, and strode quickly away down the corridor.

If he had taken the time to look back he would have seen the soft smile that graced her features as she sank back against the bed once more. They were far from over.

Even here in the greenhouse, she could still hear the ship’s systems beneath the sound of clipping leaves and weeding. She was knelt in the dirt, gloves on, trowel in hand, doing the only thing that ever gave her some peace in this place. It was dirty work but quiet, safe. Unlike everything else on this floating coffin.

She knelt up, leaning over a rosebush, the thorns prickling her forearms as she reached for some soil she had yet to spread. Her eyes caught a glaring flash of orange from a cluster of flowers behind the tended ones. They'd been here since she started doing this little duty, untended and messy, with stems twisting in green and yellow, and their fleshy petals bursting in bright orange like a mouth with a dangerous red centre. It smelled sweet, almost chemical like.

Fuck knows what they were, she'd have to read up on them.

She almost let her curiosity get the better of her, before his voice made her heart fall out her arse.

“What are you doing?”

She needn't even see his face to realise there was a smirk on it. Annoyance bubbled in her gut at the mere sound of him, traipsing across her freshly tended to garden with a confidence that didn't seem earned.

“Working,” she answered without moving, “should try it sometime.”

He laughed, leaning against the workbench, arms crossed, like her annoyance tickled something inside of him. She glanced up, eyes narrowed. His chest was damp as if he'd just been to shower. She willed herself not to notice it.

“Have you come here just to annoy me?”

“Not specifically you,” he muttered through a grin, “but you're the only entertainment here so.”

She rolled her eyes, turning back to her flowers, “then go entertain yourself somewhere else.”

He scoffed, “entertain, huh?”

She ripped a weed out the soil just a fraction too hard, “yeah instead of— starting fights and tugging your tiny dick outside the communal showers.”

“Oh, so you do watch me?” He raised an eyebrow.

She sighed and pushed herself to her feet, pulling off her gloves and bracing herself for the smug expression on his face. “You are such a colossal twat.”

“Rich coming from you,” he spat back, pushing himself off the workbench, making her heart race just slightly. “You walk around here like you're not just another piece of crap like the rest of us, like your shit doesn't stink.”

“At least I actually do something useful around here,” she countered, throwing her gloves on the ground, “unlike you, stalking around like a feral mutt.”

His jaw tensed, but his smile stayed. It was unsettling, watching the way his eyes took her in, searching for the weak point. “You must be so fucking lonely. Touching yourself on your side of the wall, pretending you don't want someone to hear.”

“Go fuck yourself,” she shoved him, palms flat on his chest, and even though it barely moved him, the touch shocked him.

As if acting on pure instinct, he shoved her back, not quite knowing his own strength. She seemed to trip over her feet, hurtling arse first into the bed of bright orange flowers. It cushioned her fall just slightly, enough not to hurt. But it was the pollen that the flowers coughed out that disoriented her, sweet, cloying, hitting her nose all at once.

She blinked, and the air seemed to shimmer.

Heat curled in her belly, sudden and unwelcome. She felt her skin flush bright and needy, pupils widened and her heart racing against its natural rhythm. When she dragged in a breath, it only made it worse. Her nipples hardened under her shirt, painfully almost, and she pressed her thighs together to relieve the ache that formed heavy, to no avail.

“Fuck’s wrong with you?” Ettore furrowed his brows, watching her chest rise and fall from a new burst of aggression.

Her eyes raised to him when he spoke as if only just aware he was still there. A haze covered her vision. She could hear the beat of his heart, the rush of blood in his veins. And nothing else seemed to matter. Her lips parted.

Ettore took half a step back, “you good?”

Her eyes crackled with a near feral gleam as she scrambled to her feet, covered in soil and sticky pollen, and grabbed his shirt to crash her lips to his. It was sloppy, desperate, panting. And Ettore mumbled into her mouth, the strength of her grip surprising him and taking him off balance as his back met the workbench again.

“What the fuck?” he spoke against her lips when he could get air in, but she couldn't stop. Wouldn't. Her nerve ends were sparking and he was right here, warm and solid, exactly what her instincts were screaming for.

She moaned softly, pushing her hips to his, her other hand rubbing the growing hardness there recklessly. Her nails clawed under his shirt, leaving red little trials across his pale skin.

“Jesus—wait—” he muttered, grabbing her wrists. He was so used to being the one in control, he didn't like it one bit that he and his body was at the mercy of someone else, someone he hadn't expected to be so strong against him. He was half annoyed at himself for freezing up for so long.

But her lips found his throat, sucking and biting the sensitive skin, and his grip faltered. She was grinding against him now, dry fucking him like a mindless animal. Like she didn't care about anything else. She moved like she needed a primal closeness, like she needed to smell his natural sweat, feel the tackiness of his body against hers, but annoyingly all he smelt of was the dull powdery musk of the prison soap.

He could have pushed her off if he really wanted to. But maybe some part of him didn't. He swore under his breath, “you're high as fuck.”

Her voice was raw and needy, “I need—”, it came out more sob than a sentence, desperate. And fuck if it didn't make his cock twitch.

He pushed her back against with a cursed, ‘fuck’, her body landing once again amongst the orange flowers and another puff of shimmering pollen released around her, clinging to her skin like springy glitter. Her legs tried to catch around his waist, squirming for contact she didn't have yet, dragging him into the dirt with her as he fought to rid her of any clothing below her waist.

“You don't know what you're asking for,” he murmured, crowding her body with his, already pushing his sweatpants down to line himself up with her heat, pressing the blunt head of his cock against her slit.

She twisted beneath him, bucking her hips desperately, her fingers clawing at him with impatience, “shut up— please, just—”

He laughed, low and rough, enjoying the appearance of her like this, a way he'd never seen her before. The laugh died quickly when she grabbed his cock, hard enough to draw out a low hiss of part pain and pleasure.

“Easy,” he growled as she guided him to where she needed him most, her body feverish with the need to be fucked. Her glassy eyes met his, and without waiting Ettore pushed in with one brutal thrust, grabbing her face and swallowing the broken cry she let out with his lips. She clenched around him instantly, her nails creating welts in his back in a way that made his vision swim.

There was no gentleness. Ettore fucked her into the dirt, hips snapping forward and grinding her into the crushed petals beneath. Each thrust pushed out of her lungs and drove the pollen further into her bloodstream. The madness building without an idea of where it would end.

The dirt that had been on his fingers had smeared on her face as he grabbed her jaw, making her lips part, the moans falling out of them with abandon. Her thighs trembled, and he pulled out just enough to hear her whimper, before slamming back inside, deep, painful, as if he wanted to carve himself into her.

She gasped, weak and overstimulated, so close to that delicious high the pollen craved. And her stomach flipped as Ettore grabbed her thighs and lifted, forcing them up until her knees were nearly to her chest.

“Stay like that,” he ordered, positioning higher over her, “don't move.”

He folded her in half, pushing her body further, pinning her open and helpless. The position let him sink in even deeper, the angle making her cry out as he bottomed out with a brutal snap of his hips.

“Fuck,” he hissed through his teeth, watching her face twist with pleasure she couldn’t fight, “you feel that? You like this, don’t you? Getting ruined in the fucking dirt.”

She could barely speak now, just gasping, nodding, babbling nonsense between moans and whines. Her hands clawed at his arms, but she didn’t try to stop him. She wanted it. Needed it. Her body arched under his, sweat glistening, completely at his mercy. The slick sound of him driving into her echoed in the humid space, mixing with her breathless, broken cries.

He wrapped one hand around her throat, her pulse hammering beneath his fingers, “you gonna cum, just from me fucking you like this?” he muttered, eyes burning into hers, “like a bitch in heat?”

Her answer was a sob, her legs trembling in his grip as her walls spasmed around him, the orgasm ripping through her with force. She clenched so tight he could barely move, but he didn’t stop, he just kept going, chasing his own release with ruthless rhythm.

But just as he felt himself teetering on the edge, he pulled out, slow, deliberate, dragging a long, wet moan from her throat as he slipped free.

“No,” she whimpered, hips bucking up instinctively, trying to follow him, “don’t—please—”

He slapped her thigh, sharp enough to sting, “shut up,” he hissed.

She froze, panting, eyes wide as he knelt over her, fist around his cock, stroking himself hard and fast. She was spread out beneath him, ruined, legs still trembling, her sex soaked and twitching, glistening with slick and dirt and shame.

“Look at you,” Ettore muttered, his voice smug and cruel, “laid out like a fucking cum rag.”

With a final stroke, he came, hot, thick ropes spilling across her inner thighs and glistening slit, painting her skin in filthy, dripping streaks. Some of it landed just above her clit, sticky and warm, sliding down into the mess already coating her folds. She gasped, moaning at the sensation.

He rubbed the head of his cock along her sex, smearing his cum into her swollen lips, not bothering to be gentle. “Look at this pussy,” he sneered.

It was a sight he wanted to look at forever. Something stirred in his body, need. And it was slow at first, like a fever burning up. A wave of warmth that made his skin itch, made his pupils dilate. The scent in the air, the crushed petals, the sweat, the sex, it got thicker. He blinked, licked his lips, and his eyes dropped back to her.

She shifted slightly, letting her legs fall open further, exposing the full, glistening mess between them, like she wanted to show him, like the burning need still thrummed in her own blood. His cum still pooled on her folds, sliding down slowly.

That was it.

A groan tore out of his throat. Like an animal wounded. And he lunged forward.

She gasped when his hands gripped her thighs, rough and unrelenting, forcing them apart again. His mouth descended before she could even speak. No teasing. No warning. Just his tongue, hot and wet and starving, lapping at her like he was trying to devour her whole.

“Oh fuck—Ettore—!” she cried out, body jolting as his mouth sealed over her cunt.

He moaned against her, tongue thrusting between her folds, licking up the mix of cum and slick like it was the only thing that could satisfy this sudden, burning hunger. He licked deeper, rough and messy, tongue dragging through his own spend like it meant nothing, like he liked it. Every groan he let out vibrated through her, sending new shocks of pleasure down her spine.

He pulled her higher, pulling her body up so all her weight was on her shoulders and her legs over his. She was barely coherent now, sobbing and gasping, hips twitching as he tongue-fucked her, nosing up to her clit only to suck it harshly, then retreat to taste her deeper.

He dipped his head again, dragging his tongue back over her pussy, slow and indulgent, savouring the mess he’d made. But then, lower. Past her folds, past the soaked seam of her slit, down to the soft, untouched skin beneath.

Her breath hitched sharply.

Ettore smirked against her, licking a slow circle around her rim, deliberately filthy. Her body jolted, spine arching as she cried out, too far gone to stop him, too lost in the heat to care.

She screamed out as his hands spread her open, greedy and rough, holding her in place as he circled her tight hole, then pushed in, fucking her with his tongue with reckless abandon.

He licked deeper again, faster now, rutting into her with his tongue like he couldn’t stop. Her thighs were trembling violently, her voice reduced to moans that bordered on sobs. And still he held her open, still he feasted on her like it belonged to him.

She felt his cock against her body, had done since he'd abandoned fucking her altogether to fuck her with his tongue instead. Her mind was clouded with sex and lust, and she understood the same claws had sank into him too, when he began to spring to life again, pressed hard against her backside and grinding.

That's when she was unsure if she would leave the greenhouse whole. Whether clarity would come rushing in any moment now. But for now, lost in the yellowy cloud of pleasure and weightlessness, she could not find it in herself to care.

Ettore had thought he knew what rage felt like. But nothing had prepared him for the way his stomach twisted, the way his entire body locked up when he saw them, saw Monte's lips on her forehead, and the soft way that he had touched her, as if she was a gift to be treasured. 

He could never touch something so delicate. He destroyed everything he ever laid his hands on.

His hands had clenched into fists, nails biting into his palms drawing blood as he stood frozen, watching from the shadows as she slipped away from Monte and towards her quarters. He should have walked away. Should have swallowed it down like he always did. But something in him snapped. Something made him follow her to her room. To the gym. 

To the shower. 

The heat of the water had barely registered to Ettore had he snuck into the shower and shoved her against the tiled wall, his mind still reeling, still raw from the chaos of his own emotions. 

He needed to touch her, feel her, taste her. 

His teeth were clenched as he squeezed ats her throat and body, grunting like an animal as he lifted her and ground into her without a single thought as to whether she was enjoying it. 

This was an outlet. This was a last resort to take her. To rise above the feelings which had been starting to blossom in his chest whenever he was with her. If she wanted Monte, she could have him. 

But he would have his pound of flesh. Even though he knew it would destroy him. 

Seconds turned to minutes of heady pleasure as she started to lean into it his touches, his nose buried in her hair, clothes sticking to his body.

But then, she flinched. A sharp inhale, a wince as her skin met the scalding faucet.

His gut twisted. He wanted to reach out, to pull her body away, to check if she was hurt, and to kiss the wound and ease her pain - but he didn’t. He just clenched his jaw, watching as she shook off the pain, as if pretending it didn’t happen could make it disappear.

If he couldn’t have her, he needed to make her see that he was the only one who truly wanted her, needed her with a desperation that made his chest ache. Monte didn’t deserve her, didn’t crave her in the way Ettore did. Nothing else mattered but the heat of her skin, the way the water pounded against the tile, drowning out everything except the raw urgency in his body.

Oh god the noises. 

The shower pounding above them.

The desperate whines she made.

The sounds leaving his throat when he pressed inside of her. 

Why was everything so so loud?

It pressed in from all sides, the roar of the water, the blood pounding in his ears, the cacophony of emotions he couldn’t name. It was unbearable. Too much pain. Too much confusion. 

Too many feelings that twisted inside him like a blade, when all he wanted- -needed, - was her.

Ettore stole gazes at her flushed face as they rocked together under the spray of water, betraying himself as whispers of adoration escaped his lips that were pressed against her neck, over and over.

“You’re mine, you’re only mine, no one can ever touch you. If anyone as much as looks as you, I'll kill them myself… You. You. It’s you.”

And yet, the way he touched her wasn’t gentle. It was forceful, aggressive and punishing, his body moving with a recklessness that felt hollow. He wanted to make her his, to burn himself into her, but the jealousy had twisted everything. It wasn't how he wanted it to be. But this was the only way she’d have him. 

And then, when she'd finished, she’d moved towards him, fingers sinking into the wet tendrils of his hair. 

He should’ve stepped back. He should’ve pushed past her, walked out of that shower and never looked back. But he was frozen, caught between anger and something far more dangerous, something vulnerable.

She reached for him, her lips parted, something soft and searching in her eyes that made his stomach turn. She shouldn’t be looking at him like that. Not after this. Not after her kiss that had branded itself into the back of his skull like a fresh wound.

Ettore recoiled. 

It wasn’t intentional, not really, q but the knee-jerk reaction came out ugly, harsh. His grip on her wrist was too rough, his shove too forceful. She stumbled back into the tiled wall, eyes wide with shock, with hurt, and the sight of it cut him deeper than any wound could. 

He wanted her, God, he wanted her. But he didn’t deserve to. Not after what he’d done. Not when the fire in his chest was burning with something closer to agony than anger. He had to get out NOW. Before she drew him in. Before she broke his heart. 

The words left his mouth before he could even register.

“Dont you fucking touch me!”

“That’s not what this is, you’re just a warm place for me to put my fucking cock in, you understand? … Go back to your fucking boyfriend.” He barked, sneering out the last word on his tongue.

She stared at him, her brows knitting together in something he didn’t want to name. He saw the moment she understood, the moment realiszation flickered behind her eyes. But she didn’t advance on him again.

She only nodded, her expression unreadable, watching him slip away, leaving her alone beneath the nearly scalding water. 

He leaned against the wall outside, letting the hot steam in the room clouding his eyes and burning his nostrils, hoping that the heat would sear away the jealousy, the shame, the bitter ache of wanting something he had no right to touch.

His feet carried him uncontrollably, leaving damp footprints in his wake, the smell of her soap and his release clinging to his skin.

Ettore barely saw anything but red. His breath was harsh, his fists clenched, his mind singularly focused on one thing, making Monte pay. 

By the time he reached Monte’s cell, there was no hesitation. No words. Just the crack of his knuckles against Monte’s jaw, the sharp, gratifying jolt of impact.

Monte reeled but barely stumbled, already bracing for the next blow. “What the fuck-” he managed before Ettore struck again, harder this time, wild with fury as a desperate snarl escaped his lips.

Monte wasn’t slow to return fire. He had been expecting this, maybe even waiting for it. His fist connected with Ettore’s ribs, knocking the air from his lungs, but Ettore swore he barely felt it. All he could see was her. Her tears, her anger, the way Monte had made her feel so small, and yet she still went back to him. 

And for that, Monte deserved to bleed.

With a snarl the words escaped him before he could even register.

“You don’t know a fucking thing about what she needs!”

It was brutal, no style, no technique, just raw, unrelenting violence. Ettore fought like an animal in captivity, and Monte met him blow for blow. He was older than Ettore, and towered above him.

Ettore’s skull snapped back as Monte’s fist collided with his face, pain bursting behind his eyes. He barely registered the snap of bone in his nose before hands were dragging him back, pulling them apart. His own blood filled his mouth, metallic and hot. He spit to the side, glaring as Tcherny pushed through the corridor and restrained him, Monte wiping his own split lip with a bitter laugh.

Monte coughed, spitting a thick glob of blood onto the floor. His gaze was heavy, filled with something almost close to pity. 

“You really don’t get it, do you?” he rasped, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “She’s already chosen you.”

Ettore stiffened, his jaw tightening as his blue eyes flashed. His words came out slurred, barely above a whisper.

“...What did you say?”

He didn’t want to hear it. Not from Monte. Not when the image of her with him was still burning behind his eyes, feeding the fury that hadn’t yet settled.

Monte let out a low, bitter chuckle, shaking his head. “She’s too good for you. Too good for either of us.” His voice was rough, worn down by pain, but there was no challenge in it now, just exhaustion. “But if you care about her at all, stay the hell away. She’d love you, and you’d only ruin her.”

That word makes his stomach drop, like the ground had been taken from beneath his feet. And the only thing he can do is to lash out.

Ettore surged forward, but Tcherney held him back, dragging him toward the corridor exit as Monte sagged against the wall, still breathing heavily. Ettore didn’t hear whatever his fellow inmates were shouting. He didn’t care. 

The world blurred, the adrenaline in his veins only fading when he was thrown into isolation, the sterile white of the medbay pressing in around him.

He had wanted to claim her, and make her forget Monte even existed. 

Make her his. 

But as the heat of anger burned away, something colder took its place. A hollow, aching jealousy that dug deep into his ribs, sharper than any blow Monte had delivered.

And when he had pushed her away, when she had looked at him with hurt in her eyes after he had lashed out, it wasn't a triumph he felt. It was agony.

He had hurt the one person who had ever been kind to him.

Lying in the medbay, his face swollen, his body aching, he thought of her. Of her touch, her voice. 

And he hated himself.

Ettore had been here before. He knew the drill, kept his head down, don’t give the good doctor an excuse to sedate him. But this time, it was different. His nose was broken, his ribs bruised, but the worst pain was somewhere deeper, somewhere he didn’t know how to touch.

He wasn’t sure why it hurt so much that she had been upset. That he’d hurt her.

He stared at the ceiling, running his fingers over his bruised knuckles. 

What the hell was wrong with him? 

He wasn’t the kind of man who did this, who fought for someone else, who cared what anyone thought of him. But then, no one had ever touched him the way she had. No one had looked at him with something other than contempt.

For the first time in years, he thought about who he used to be. The kid who had learned early and the hard way that fists got you farther than words. The petty criminal who had stopped asking questions a long time ago. And now? Now he was just a brute, a caged animal, lashing out at anything that threatened what little he had.

What did he even want from her? He wasn’t sure. He only knew that when she looked at him, it made something deep inside him ache.

It was late when she arrived. The medbay was quiet, the hum of machines the only sound. He had barely been sleeping, her stolen headphones playing soft music in his ears, her music.

Listening to this is like hearing someone falling in love. He thought to himself. 

If he knew what love was. 

If he was even capable.

The thought of her face when he’d struck her was stuck in his mind, so soon after he’d been holding her after he’d been the one to make her feel the ecstasy she’d deserved. 

The way his heart had broken when she’d scolded her leg, all because of him and his jealousy. 

He had felt like one of those forgotten stars he would watch from the ship's bridge, burnt out and drifting through the endless void they called home, unseen and unworthy of the light he once chased.

He’d barely even registered her there. There she was, standing in the medbay doorway, damp hair curling at odd angles around her face, her eyes swollen in a way that made him want to scream.

She stopped short of him, as if an invisible line had been drawn across the floor, one she didn’t cross. Her arms folded tightly over herself, hiding the tremor in her hands, holding herself together.

“So… it was you who stole my headphones then?” Her voice was quiet but firm, a soft sniff of her nose betraying the fact she’d clearly been crying. 

And who could blame her. 

He was a monster. 

How could she bear to be in the same room as him after everything between them? After everything he’d done and said?

Ettore cracked one eye open, shifting slightly on the cot, with a suppressed wince. . 

“Borrowed,” he muttered. His voice came out rough, the pain in his nose making every word feel thick.

She didn’t argue. Didn’t rise to it. Instead, she turned away, busying herself with anything that wasn’t. 

He watched her. 

Watched as she reached for a clean cloth. Watched as she stepped closer, closer than he had any right for her to be after what he’d done, and gently pressed it to the cut on his temple. 

He didn’t flinch. Not because it didn’t hurt, because her touch didn’t. 

Soft. Careful. Infuriatingly kind. Even now. Even after he’d treated her like dirt. 

His throat tightened. She paused, her gaze flickering to the headphones resting in his ears. A faint crease formed between her brows before she leaned, slow and deliberate, as if giving him time to pull away, and slipped one bud from his ear, placing it in her own. 

The music filled the silence between them. 

Rachmaninoff. (Symp. no 2 in E minor Op 27 III Adagio).

She stilled. 

The deep, rolling piano notes filled the silence between them. She had told him once, how this music calmed her, how it made everything feel a little less sharp. 

And he had remembered. Of all things. That. 

Something in her expression softened, fragile and disbelieving. A small, knowing smile tugged at her lips, fighting the soft red blotches around her eyes. 

“Didn’t peg you for a classical man,” she murmured, her voice softer now, almost affectionate, echoing the same words he’d said to her only days ago.

Ettore let out a slow breath, shifting slightly against the stiff pillow, his lips quirking upwards despite himself. “I’m full of surprises.”

A quiet, shared laugh slipped between them, thin and fleeting. Then silence again, but it had changed. She sat at the edge of the cot, close enough now that he could feel the warmth of her, the faint brush of her sleeve when she moved. The music threaded through the space between them, something unspoken tightening with every note.

Ettore was the one to break it, surprising even himself.

“...S’nice.” He swallowed. The words surprised even him.

He turned his head slightly as she dabbed at his temple, lifting a bloodied hand just enough to gesture weakly toward the headphones.

“I needed them more,” he admitted, voice lower now. Quieter.

She huffed a small, disbelieving laugh, arched her brow. “ You needed to steal them from me?”

His gaze didn’t leave her, watched her reaction closely as he admitted the truth. “You said it helped.”

She stilled. Really looking at him. 

“You actually listened?”

Ettore shrugged, the motion a little stiff and defensive. “I just like the way it sounds.” A pause. His voice dipped, something unguarded slipping through before he could stop it.  “Made me feel like I was getting to know you.”

Another pause. Smaller this time. 

“Like I was… normal.”

The word lingered between them. Too heavy and too honest. 

His throat tightened the moment it left him, regret flickering sharp and immediate, but it was too late. He’d already said it. Already let her see something he couldn’t take back. 

And somehow that felt worse than the pain wracking his body. 

The word echoed inside his head over and over.

Normal. 

It felt foreign, something he’d heard about, but never touched. 

And yet when he looked at her. When he’d touched her… it almost felt possible for him. 

She took the fear out of his heart. Quieted it. Like a light breaking through something long buried and rotten inside of him. 

For a while they sat together in silence.

They sat together in a fragile kind of stillness, sharing the headphones, the music threading softly between them as she tended to his wounds. Her touch was careful, almost reverent, barely there as she wiped the blood from his skin, fearing to break him further. 

And herself. 

Then… her hand found his. 

It was barely anything, a whisper of warmth, over his hand where it lay on the blanket.

But it shattered something in him. 

He slowly turned his hand beneath hers, fingers grasping ever so gently, somehow more intimate than anything he’d shared with anyone before. 

And by God, he felt it. 

That pull. Sharp and magnetic. Something dragging him toward her whether he wanted it or not. He wanted it. And that was the problem.

“I- I guess that sounds a bit weird,” he muttered, his voice unsteady now. “I just mean- that you- the music makes me forget. Why I’m here. What this place is - I mean.”

For the first time she met his eyes.

Green eyes meeting his blue

There was something there, something he couldn’t name. Not pity, but not quite forgiveness.

“And… what do you think it is that you’ve learned about me?” she asked softly.

His breath hitched and his nostrils flared. Ettore’s gaze dropped to his hands, then back to her face, like he couldn't decide which was more dangerous.

His voice, when it finally came, was quieter than she’d ever heard it. 

“Sometimes this place doesn't feel real.”

She nodded, encouraging him, her thumb brushing softly over his bruised knuckles. 

The motion made Ettore falter.

“But you do,” he whispered. “You feel real.”

Gaining courage, the words start to tumble out before he can stop them. 

He swallowed hard, something tightening painfully in his chest. 

“You don’t belong here,” he went on, voice rougher now. “Not in a place like this.” Another sharp breath. “And I… I don’t deserve you.”

Her brows pulled together, but he shook his head quickly, almost violently.

“No-don’t-” His voice cracked. “I’m not- I’m someone who hurts people. Someone who hurt you.”

The admission tasted like blood. 

“I don’t know how to be anything else,” he said, quieter now. Stripped bare. “I don’t know how to do this.”

She didn’t look away.

“You don’t have to be anything.” she said. 

Too simple. 

Too kind 

It made something twist painfully inside him.

She was too good. Too kind. And yet, she was still here, still looking at him like he was worth something more.

Ettore wanted to say something. Anything. But the words stuck in his throat. He let out a broken breath, his vision blurring, tears stinging against the cuts on his face. 

“I should have kissed you,” he said suddenly, the words tearing free. “After. I thought- I thought we were…”

His voice fractured.

“But then I saw you and him and I- I had to show you- and have you- and-”

Her lips silenced him.

Soft.

Warm.

Real.

The world narrowed to that single point of contact, to the faint taste of blood and breath and something achingly gentle. His body went rigid beneath it, like he didn’t trust himself to move. That any movement of his might ruin it. 

The machines hummed quietly around them, the only sound in the room besides the faint uneven rhythm of his breathing. 

He didn't pull away. 

Didn't dare. 

Her lips moved against his like he was something fragile, something worth handling with care.

It undid him. 

“Just… don’t fight for me again,” she whispered when she pulled back, her voice breaking. “Seeing you like this… I can’t bear it.”

His eyes burned, his chest tightening until it hurt to breathe. 

“Why?” he demanded hoarsely. “Why are you doing this? Why don’t you hate me?”

“I don’t- I-”

“You got scared,” she said, cutting through him. “Scared of feeling something real.”

His jaw clenched, something darker surfacing. 

“I wasn't scared of him,” he snapped. “I was scared of what I wanted to do to him. How I wanted to kill him for touching you-”

Her breath caught in her throat. 

“- but I couldn’t,” he finished, voice dropping. 

She sucked in a breath, her fingers pausing against his cheek. “Ettore…”

“I ruined it,” he laughed bitterly. “I ruined everything. The way we were in that shower it-” He dragged a hand down his face. “It fucking blew me away. And I pushed you away because I knew if I didn’t- if I let myself want you- really want you-”

His voice dropped to something unrecognisable. 

“I’d lose control.”

The track which had been playing in their headphones stops abruptly as he wretches himself from her, turning away, the ear bud falling down into his lap. 

The silence hit harder than the sound ever had. 

“I’ve killed people,” he said, the words coming faster now, rough and breathless. “Stolen. Lied. Ruined everything I’ve ever touched-”

Ettore’s voice is getting louder and husky, words coming out fast like he’d ran a marathon. His chest heaved.

“-and none of it felt as bad as hurting you.”

The truth landed between them, heavy and irreversible.

“And- you’re not just- some warm place to-”

And then it happens again. Before he can even think straight…

She kissed him again.

Not soft this time.

Certain.

Stopping him mid-breath, mid-confession, like she refused to let him disappear behind his own guilt.

When she pulls back, Ettore can feel her breath ghosted against his skin, voice low and steady despite the tremor beneath it.

“Do you really think I haven’t done terrible things to survive this place, Ettore?”

She bites her lip and reaches for his hand once again, squeezing, making his split knuckles burn but he can’t find it in him to even care.

“You’re real too,” she said. “You’re real to me, Ettore.” 

That did it.

The final defenses inside him broke, sudden and overwhelming. 

He looked at her, really looked. 

He gazes at her face, her lips, her eyes. The way she was still here. 

Still choosing him.

His fingers twitched with the need to touch her, to prove she was real, that this was real.

It hit him all at once, sharp and electric.

He wanted her.

Not the way he’d wanted things before.

Not to take.

To feel. 

To be something else, if only for a moment. 

He leaned in, slow, unsteady, his whole body trembling with it. His eyes fluttered shut, then opened again, searching hers like he needed permission he didn’t know how to ask for.

She pulled back.

Just slightly.

But it felt like a fracture.

His chest tightened, panic flickering in its wake.

“Please,” he whispered, the word raw, unguarded. “Just- just let me-”

His voice faltered.

“I don’t know how to do this,” he admitted quietly. “But I-”

His gaze locked on hers, something desperate and fragile in it.

“I want to kiss you.”

And this time, he waited.