Hehe of course! I finally came around to write this <3 I love your writing as well, thank you for your request my love! I got hit with a bit of a language barrier and realized too late what muscle soreness actually means, but oh well- they still take care of you! ;3

How David and Kirsh are taking care of your sore and injured muscles

David:

You woke up from cryosleep after returning from a long space mission

Though Cryo rarely caused any permanent harm, it could have mild side effects, and you quickly noticed that you suffered from them. Your limbs started hurting from the slightest movement, a coffee cup suddenly slipping from your fingers…

The warning signs were subtle at first, until suddenly your legs simply gave out. You did not sway or fall to the side, nope, your body just folded and crumbled.

David, who had been observing you with the foresight that this might happen, caught you effortlessly before you could hit the cold floor.

“Oh dear… the prolonged stasis seemed to have taken a toll on your muscles. Allow me.”

Without hesitation and before you could say something, he lifted you into the air and carried you over to the nearest Weyland medbay, cradling you protectively against his chest.

Once there, David began a full-body scan, searching for any signs of strain, hydration imbalance, or tissue damage. He already knew that there was no injury. Medicine had come a long way, but he still insists on being thorough.

After the scan, his hands began to gently feel over your body, cool and steady palms softly examining and massaging your legs and arms as he “searched” for any further indicators of your symptoms.

His touch is skilled and tender, slow circular pressure working the fibres that had not been used in months - and when you let your eyes fall shut and relax completely into his touch, a faint, devilish grin curls his lips - good that you can’t see it.

“There is no damage - your muscles are just unprepared for the sudden exertion. May I assist you?”

 You and David had grown quite close during the mission, spending many months in space, working together and learning each other's rhythms. (And sharing intimate moments.)

Cryosleep had separated you, although he broke protocol to see you in your dreams, using the alpha reader to interact with your dreaming mind directly - it was better than having no form of communication at all, but he missed the body contact terribly.

Now that you were here, he was intent on making up for all the lost time - the muscle breakdown came right in time, it was the perfect excuse to dote on you.

“Heat will widen the blood vessels and increase your blood flow. It will also soothe the pain.”

He prepares a bath for you, adjusting the temperature by single degrees until he's absolutely certain that it will have the optimal effect and comfort you.

Adds a specific bath salt that promotes circulation, measured with perfect precision - tailored to you and your needs.

The light is warm and dim, the air filled with rosemary-scented steam. He creates a mellow atmosphere, every detail intentional.

David helps you undress, his fingers brushing over more of your skin than necessary. He claims it is a precaution, in case your legs should give out again. You know that this isn’t the entire truth, but you can’t bring yourself to mind

Once you sink into the water, he kneels beside the tub and begins scooping water into his hands, pouring it over your shoulders and down your arms. Slow, rhythmic motions, lingering wherever your breathing subtly hitches.

He frames every touch as medical care: “reactivating your muscle function,” “encouraging circulation,” “assisting recovery.”

But his eyes give him away - warm and openly relieved to be this close to you again.

Kirsh:

You had been playing with the Hybrids - and as usual forgot that you were not built like them. They could launch themselves across the island without a second thought, while you… could not.

After an hour of excessive chasing and roughhousing, one wrong step was all it took: you twisted your ankle, straining the muscles.

The kids were freaking out at your pained wail, freezing before talking all over each other, until Isaac contacted Kirsh.

He arrived quickly - far quicker than you expected - his hands clasped in front of him while he strode towards you, arching an eyebrow at the scene: Slightly holding your leg up like a medic in training, while Nibs clung to your hand and cooed as if you were the child.

You tried to assure them that it was not that bad, but none of them listened, trying their best to comfort you.

Kirsh knelt beside you and rolled back the leg of your trousers, exposing the injured limb. He gave it a thorough once-over, his brows furrowing as he examined the warm, swollen skin. His jaw ticked - he was not pleased.

“This is swollen. Why did you push yourself like that?” Then he addresses the Hybrids. “You elevated the leg. Good. Quick thinking minimises further damage.”

Before you could protest, you were already lifted into his arms and carried to the infirmary. You did not argue - or rather, no arguments were permitted.

“No. You are not walking on that.”

He scolded you openly the entire way - that you were careless, that you overestimate the boundaries of your body, that you should be a role model to the Hybrids and know better than that. 

He’s so grumpy at the fact that you hurt yourself, but his fussing over you is also super adorable - and you have to fight yourself not to smile and look at him with the biggest puppy eyes.

The pain is momentarily forgotten as you admire him from this new perspective.

Kirsh set you down on the medical bed and immediately got to work. He wrapped ice packs in a towel and pressed the cooling fabric around your ankle, muttering under his breath that this was your own fault as you flinched at the cold temperature, that you brought this on yourself.

But his touch stayed impossibly gentle - fingertips barely brushing your skin, gaze soft despite his grumbling. You knew perfectly well he was not actually angry. He was worried, and this was how he showed it.

Once the initial cold pack is in place, he prepares a proper compress, wrapping it tightly enough to stabilise the joint, loose enough so it won’t constrict.

When he is satisfied with the placement, he slides one arm behind your back and the other under your knees and lifts you again, ignoring any protest you try to make.

“You are not using that foot. Not today.”

In your room, he sets you down on your bed with extreme care, adjusting your position until he is certain you are comfortable, his expression a blend of irritation and concern.

He takes two pillows and arranges them under your injured leg, lifting it so it rests above heart level.

 “Do not even consider standing. I will handle everything you need.”

He retrieves painkillers and a glass of water, placing them into your hands, and when you settle back against the pillows, he adjusts the blanket over you, smoothing the fabric along your side with a gentleness that contradicts every annoyed word he said earlier.

You expect him to leave - he does not. Instead, he sits down beside you, one arm slithering behind your back, hand resting on your waist, preventing you from even thinking about getting up.

He stays seated beside you, shoulder pressed lightly against yours, retrieving his tablet from one of his pockets to work from your bed.

 “Rest, and inform me if the pain increases.”

Reader x David messing around on the space jockey chair

Off Course

David 8 x Reader Wordcount: 0,9k Warnings: Smut, David does the fingering ;3 a/n: Sorry it took so long, have this little piece of teasing smut <3 I used the messing around for Reader literally messing around with the buttons, and the 18+ part ;3

The pilot chair stood in the middle of the observatory like a throne, the blue star map cascading around it in shimmering strands and drifting specks of light - beautiful, ethereal. No matter how often you saw it, the sight was always breathtaking.

David sat in it as if he belonged right there, perfectly at ease with the ancient, alien technology surrounding him, his focus absolute.

Cloudburst

Sean Fifield x Reader Wordcount: 1,9k Crossposted on Ao3 a/n: God- I researched geology for this one, because I for some reason can't just write a cute oneshot, no no, this must all make sense. Ngl I sat on this one for days and just couldn't get the words down, but managed to finally finish it. I love Fifield so much, and I hope you like what I came up with uwu

Stationed on a hydrofracture site, you were mapping the terrain and scanning the aquifers and hydrothermal conduits beneath it.

On paper, your team’s task was simple: identify where and how thick those layers were, determine whether they were contaminated, assess how much water they held. Then find the correct injection points, blast high-pressure water into the clogged passages deep underground, and bring the flow back to the surface.

In theory? Easy. In reality? Way more complicated and time-consuming, though important. Especially in a world where drinking water had been scarce for centuries.

Heavy grey clouds stretched across the sky, blanketing the sun until the afternoon dimmed into a muted, colourless haze. The premonition of rain had lingered all day - the birds had gone quiet, searching shelter from the upcoming storm. Out here, the weather could change on a whim, and the wildlife was always the best indicator of what to expect, more accurate and reliable than any weather report.

Still, you convinced yourself you had enough time, that even if it began to rain while being outside, it surely wouldn’t be that bad.

You spared one last glance at the sky - darkening but still calm - and decided that yes, you could surely make it. Just a quick dash to retrieve the sensor that had been spitting out unstable readings for hours - the fluctuating spikes and inconsistent backflow had driven Fifield into hours of muttering. And cursing. Grumbling about corrupted data and eventually accusing the device of simply hating him personally.

That was just how Fifield was, and you had thought, well… at least the rain would give you both something productive to do! While trapped inside the cramped camp containers, you could both go through the data and finally figure out what was wrong with the damn thing.

The idea had been good. The timing, disastrously wrong.

You had barely freed the sensor from its clasps when low, rolling thunder trembled through the sky - and the light mist of droplets suddenly fattened into sharp, stinging bullets against your skin.

Then the clouds broke, and a wall of rain slammed down.

“Oh, come on-!”

Clutching the sensor to your chest, you bolted, boots slipping through the rapidly forming mud. Cold, hard rain soaked through your jacket in seconds, lashes grew heavy as water blurred your vision, hair plastered flat against your scalp, sticking to your cheeks.

Muck splashed up your legs with every desperate step as you sprinted for the camp, almost slipping and falling multiple times.

Through the roaring sound of thunder, something else cut through, sharp and abrupt - A door slamming open, boots pounding through puddles, and your name shouted with urgency.

You skidded around the last row of storage crates, just as a figure barreled towards you through the curtain of rain. Tall, narrow-built, shoulders hunched against the wind, wrapped in a half-buttoned rain jacket that did absolutely nothing to keep him dry. 

“Are you out of your damn mind!?” Fifield shouted over the storm - not angry, not truly, just loud, because the rain drowned out everything else. His face was knotted with frustration, water streaming down his face, the battered field umbrella in his hand not able to stop the rain that the wind pushed against him, dripping off his nose, clinging to his fiery beard.

He stomped towards you with the determined, miserable energy of a man who did not want to be outside but had come anyway.

For you.

The second he reached you, he shoved the umbrella over both your heads - or as much of it as the wind allowed - and grabbed your elbow, steadying you before you could slip again.

“Jesus- you are soaked through,” he grumbled, eyes sweeping over your shivering form. “Do you have any idea how fast you could go hypothermic out here?”

“You didn’t have to come out,” you protested, breathless from the sprint, hugging the sensor to your chest as if it were priceless. Rain still dripped from your hair, running into your eyes, and you almost stumbled over your own feet. 

His grip tightened instantly, and he shot you a look that said very clearly: Are you actually serious right now?

“I am not pissed about going into the rain,” he snapped, though the snap was oddly soft. “I am pissed that you are in the rain. Half a kilometre from camp. During a bloody cloudburst.”

“I thought I had time,” you mumbled weakly.

“Yeah. Brilliant assumption.” His jaw ticked. “Look at you. You’re freezing to the bone.”

Without hesitation, he pulled the umbrella closer, practically tucking you beneath his arm as he guided you towards the camp container, one steady hand around your middle, gently pushing you on.

“Come on,” he muttered, softer now. “Inside. Out of those clothes and then hot food.”

“You cooked?” you asked, teeth beginning to chatter.

“Not yet,” he said, looking anywhere but at you. “But I’ll throw a can into the pot.”

Arriving at the door, he shoved it open with his shoulder, ushering you inside before following and slamming it shut behind him. Even through the metal walls, the heavy raindrops hammered mercilessly against the exterior.

You stood in the narrow entrance space, dripping, shivering, water pooling beneath you, the sensor still clutched to your chest. Fifield stared at you for half a second, cursing that damn sensor that had started this whole debacle, before stepping forward and gently prying the device from your numb fingers.

“I will deal with this later,” he muttered, setting it aside on the table. When he turned back, his expression tightened in concern. Your hair hung in wet ropes, your clothes clung to you like a second skin, and your lips were already tinged blue.

“Shit,” he breathed, and his calloused hand rose before he could second-guess himself, palm brushing your cheek. The heat spread instantly along your skin - you almost leaned into it. “You feel like ice.”

The worry leaked into his tone despite his best efforts.

“Clothes off, boots too. I’ll get you a towel.”

Before you could protest, he was already striding to the storage compartment, leaving puddled footprints behind.

You followed his instructions, fingers barely working as you undid the bootlaces, kicking them off, then peeling your soaked shirt and trousers from your chilled skin. They fell to the floor with wet, heavy thuds. You were far too cold to be embarrassed about your exposed form.

Fifield returned with an armful of towels and what looked unmistakably like his own spare shirt thrown on top.

“Alright,” he said, his voice a little rough as he stepped close again. He draped a large towel over your front, only setting his eyes on you once you were covered, then he set to work.

The coarse, utilitarian towel rasped over your arms and shoulders with a thoroughness that almost hurt - but the friction also slowly brought warmth back into your skin, so you said nothing and rather concentrated on fighting the heat rising to your cheeks.

“You’re shaking like a leaf,” he murmured, and in his focus he didn’t realise how close his hands had wandered to your chest. Your breath hitched - he felt it.

For half a heartbeat, the world narrowed to only that moment: your ragged breath, the water trickling from your hair, pearling over your collarbones, his hands hovering far too near.

Then he panicked.

“Right- Soup. I need to… soup.” Fifield retreated so fast he nearly slipped, anxiety radiating off him in uneven waves. He marched to the tiny kitchenette, grabbed the nearest supply crate as if it had personally offended him, dumped the contents of a can into the pot, turned on the portable stove and stirred it with far too much aggression.

After a moment, still facing away from you, he spoke. “You scared me. I opened the door and you weren’t back and-” He shook his head. “Dunno. My stomach dropped.”

You blinked, slipping into the spare shirt he had brought you, the fabric warm, smelling like him. “…Fifield, it was just rain. I am not made of sugar-”

“No.” He braced his hands on the counter, shoulders tense, rain still dripping from his beard. He had not taken one second to care for himself.

“It wasn’t just rain. You were out there alone - terrain’s uneven, visibility goes to shit in weather like that, and if you slipped, if you hit your head-”

He cut himself off, jaw tight, breath unsteady.

You rose, padding softly across the narrow floor towards him. He stiffened at your approach, fingers tightening on the edge of the counter until his knuckles whitened. Still, he would not look at you.

Picking up one of the towels from the pile, you stepped close, close enough to feel the tension beneath his skin - and then, gently, raised the towel and tousled it through his wild, soaked and slightly outgrown hair.

He froze.

The towel moved gently through his hair, smoothing down strands that stubbornly stuck to his forehead. “Sean,” you murmured softly, letting the towel drift down to his beard, brushing water from his jawline. “You should warm up, too.”

Slowly, so slowly, you watched his shoulders drop, as though your touch cracked through something he had been holding in for far too long.

His chest rose with a sudden breath, and then he finally looked at you - really looked at you. His eyes, usually narrowed in irritation or rolled in disbelief, were unshielded, vulnerable.

And something within him cracked.

In one motion, he reached out, his hands curling softly around your waist - he tugged you closer with something that felt dangerously close to desperation.

Before you could speak, he bent down and pressed his mouth to yours.

The towel slipped from your hands, falling silently to the floor.

You gasped in surprise, but your body reacted before your thoughts could catch up - melting into him, hands rising to his shoulders, feeling the tremor running through him, pushing yourself deeper into his embrace.

When he drew back, his forehead rested against yours, his breath unsteady, his hands still holding you as though the world outside might sweep you away again.

His voice dropped to a whisper, low, rasping.

“You really did not notice that I was falling in love with you, huh?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest.

He laughed under his breath - short, bitter, derisive - as though making fun of his own helplessness.

“Had to track you down in a cloudburst,” he murmured, thumb brushing your hip, “and even then, you were as oblivious as before.”

Your lips parted, your pulse ringing in your ears, and instead of searching for the right words, you simply leaned in and kissed him again - slow, tender, reassuring.

Pulling back just enough to breathe, your nose brushed his in a soft nudge. Gosh, his hopeful expression was cute. “I am sorry,” you whispered, your voice warm against his mouth. “It is not unrequited, I’m just stupid...” 

Only then did you notice that his own soaked clothes had drenched the front of the clean shirt he had given you. With a quiet laugh, you reached past him and switched off the stove before the soup could boil over.