Witch please

maybe you're shy, and striking up a friendship with the much-less-intimidating flora colossus feels like a safer way to hopefully win over rocket. or maybe you're clever and cunning and sly, smirking and trying not to wink at rocket every time he grumbles about you taking up too much time with his bestie.

either way, groot's as (platonically) besotted with you as you are with him.

you tend to stick close to the big guy’s side, trying to look out for him — as if he isn't almost twice your size. you talk to him as if he's your cat — not that he's a pet, of course. it's just that you sort of ramble your stream of consciousness at him while you work on things, and you listen attentively on the occasions when he speaks — even though your understanding of his speech is entirely dependent on his tone of voice or nonverbal cues.

groot, for his own part, indulges you as if you are his cat: smiling bemusedly at you while you chatter and chirp, gently nudging you aside when you get underfoot. sometimes he dares to crown you with wreathes of leaves and flowers, if he thinks he can get away with it without you batting it confusedly off your head.

and rocket continues to grumble.

now, rocket was actually already intrigued by you before your friendship with groot blossomed — in the same way he's intrigued by any newcomer, that is. he's always been a curious guy, and despite his frenetic, irritable attitude, he starts to linger around the two of you.

"that's my friend," he points out crankily, almost shrill with exasperation. "you're flarkin' hoggin' him!"

groot says something admonishing, and rocket growls and grumps and stomps around, lashing his tail. but he keeps darting speculative glances at you over his shoulder. what is it about you that's charmed groot so much? he wonders.

plus, he has to admit he likes having someone else keep an eye on the big guy. sure, you're not particularly good at flying the ship yet, and you don't really handle the recoil on the big blasters very well — but at least you can be another set of eyes when trouble is coming, and you can remind groot not to do stupid things.

it’s almost a full quarter later that something finally snaps into place for rocket. he’s not expecting it, of course. it’s just another sleepshift: one where he’s working on the thrusters late into the so-called night. groot's waiting for him, sitting on the floor with his back braced against a bulwark in the adjacent cargo bay. like the next tile in a row of dominoes, you're waiting too: slouched against the flora colossus’ side, watching something on your datapad, occasionally chuckling and tapping groot's knee so you can show him whatever's playing out on the screen.

and rocket finds that, in spite of his growly complaints, he can't help but be kinda — well. he’s not annoyed that you’re there.

he makes a face to himself: musing over this unfortunate realization while he clinks away inside the hull, fixing a few broken valves and redirecting some lines from the various fuel tanks. his ears flick at your every quiet murmur and hushed laugh, and groot's rumbling inquiries, and the vague mumble of the datapad videos. rocket doesn't pay much attention — at least not consciously — but his body notices. his muscles loosen. he shoulders ease into something comfortable and relaxed. his tail even wraps around him — almost cozily.

hours pass, and your commentary grows more muffled and sparse. groot's gravelly responses spread thin. eventually, even the voices on the holovids slowly sputter to a halt.

rocket finishes.

he tucks his tools in the pouches at his hip, standing up and cracking his back — then his neck — pleased with the work he's done. eager for a little flarkin’ praise. he practically struts out of the hole in the hull, chest puffed up and thick tail waving like a flag, only to nearly stumble over his own feet.

groot's asleep, and so are you: curled up into the big guy's flank. it's such a domestic sort of scene that rocket feels his heart kinda skip in his chest a little. there's a lopsided tug at one corner of his mouth, and it takes him a full thirty seconds to realize he's smiling.

it's — well. it's sorta cute, actually.

maybe you havin' you around actually ain't so bad.

the paralysis is worse than the terrors themselves. at least, with the terrors alone, rocket wakes up already fighting. so far he’s never accidentally shot anyone — least not anyone who didn’t deserve it — and he’s only punched Star-Lord once, which actually seems like a testament to his own self-control, all things considered.

but when he wakes up paralyzed, he feels so helpless. so weak. sometimes he even wonders if he’s still back in the lab, and all his circs of flight and freedom have only been a hallucination.

so he tries to avoid sleep, not realizing he’s making it worse: pushing himself to the point of exhaustion again and again, taking only sporadic naps at erratic intervals. trying to self-medicate with bottles of angargal’s and twelve-packs of blubber ale.

they all make it worse.

not that he draws the connection.

it’s not till you show up, then start hanging around, that things begin to change. god, rocket probably hates sharing a bunk with you at first — annoyed at having a newcomer bumping around in his ship, a stranger intruding in his family, an innocent little terran taking up his space and interfering with his already-questionable sleep schedule. he stays away from the bunk even more, of course — wrinkling his nose at the thought of you in it.

but his avoidance can’t last forever. at some point, he attempts to sneak a twenty-minute nap, only for deprivation to send him sprawling into hours of deep-dreaming in his hammock. when the sleepshift rolls around, you’re reluctant to wake him — so you simply sneak in quietly to catch some Zs on the shelf-bed, tiptoeing through the shadows.

you wake an hour later to the sound of his tight lungs and wheezy breaths, each inhale and exhale slivered and split like his ribs are a cheese grater. cautious, you rise, your bare feet padding on the grates — and when you see his eyeshine catch the dim glow of the security lights, you understand what’s happened to him.

hey, you’re safe, you remind him gently, your voice a crushed-velvet whisper in the dark. you’re here, in our bunk in the benatar, and you’re safe. i’m going to touch your shoulder, okay? i want you to focus on that for now, so you remember I’m with you, and where you are.

do you feel me? can you just blink for me? just once for yes, okay, handsome?

a moment. a blink. you let out a sigh of relief.

good, you praise him, thumb stroking his shoulder. his fur is softer than you’d imagined — and you had imagined, much to your embarassment. you’re doing so good for me. can you try to take a deeper breath for me? slow it down just a little, okay? i’ll do it with you. we’re going to try for a four-count.

he fails the first time, lungs stuttering and shaking with each broken, ragged inhale, tight and shallow.

that’s okay. we’ll keep trying, you and me. i know it’s hard and you’re doing so well. it’s going to get easier each time you try. i’m just going to talk to you, okay? so you know i’m here and you’re not alone.

a brief, self-deprecating laugh filters from your lips.

and if you hate me and never wanna see me after this, that’s okay. I don’t mean to annoy you so much.

his heart’s already clenching and thudding in his chest, but something about your words makes it twist.

but you ramble on, oblivious to the achy little secondhand wound you’d given him: explaining the mechanics of sleep paralysis in a half-apologetic tone, like you’re afraid you’re telling him shit he already knows. you slide your other hand into his while you chatter softly, your fingers tracing the lines of his palm in a way that puts a new kind of starburst-explosion behind his eyes, because you prob’ly have no idea how sensitive his hands are.

can you feel this? you trace a line down the inside of his forefinger and he’s suddenly feeling more in his body than he’s felt since this nightmare started.

maybe since long before that.

blink for me if you can feel it.

his eyelids flutter.

thank you, sweetheart. focus on this finger for me, okay? i want you to curl it closed for me, all right?

your thumb massages his palm encouragingly, more stars flare behind his eyes, and he realizes — for fuck’s sake — he’s prob’ly gonna frickin’ fall in love with you now.

rocket never woulda frickin’ thought that you would be the fix for his bouts of paralysis — but here he is, six cycles later, with more patience and less hostility, and a good-natured edge to his typical mockery that still startles his fellow Guardians. his eyes are brighter and his fur is glossier; he’s eating more and somehow, his aim is even better than it was before.

and the number of times he wakes up in the middle of the sleepshift with his muscles locked and terror still clinging his fur? well, let’s just say it’s decreased dramatically.

it’s not me, you laugh when he smirks and calls you his medicine, his sleep-aid, his little humie cure-all. it’s just that you’re going to bed at a regular time and getting up at a regular time. drinking less. actually sleeping instead of trying to avoid it, and not lying on your back in that hammock.

he only shrugs and grins and tugs you toward the low shelf-bed he shares with you now — sleeping curled into a circle against your flank, or weighing down your belly. you climb in beside him, and he winds his arms as far as he can around you, squeezing you teasingly like you’re his favorite stuffed plushie, pressing his nose to your temple while he chides you smugly:

wouldn’t be doin’ any of that without you.

i’d guess that it takes at least a few cycles before he starts acknowledging you when he doesn't have to. and thank god he finally does, because you'd been starting to feel really lonely and isolated up there. drax and mantis are always off causing mayhem and pete's constantly trying to convince gamora to sneak off somewhere, and groot's buried in his game most of the time.

but once the two of you actually start talking, it probably isn't too long before rocket warms up to you. you're clever, and warm, and you seem like you really care, which he manages to casually inform you is rare in his experience. and sometimes, when you're having a bad day — staring into the melancholy void, bones flooded with a kind of sadness that feels too pervasive and constant to take you by surprise anymore, or maybe numb with old memories, and thoughts of a future that hollow you out — sometimes, when you're having a bad day, you catch him watching you with something in his eyes that feels like recognition. familiarity. connection.

those are the days he's extra nice to you — at least, by his standards. bringing you a warm fresh cup of your favorite hot beverage of choice, or grudgingly offering to teach you how to fly the benatar.

pete's always muttering about his unspoken thing with gamora, but this feels like a real "unspoken thing": the silent comfort of someone who seems like he understands you, without ever uttering a word.

it's on one of these days — when rocket’s made you breakfast, even though your sleep has been all fucky lately and you missed the first wake-shift meal that the others had shared that rotation — that you find yourself staring at the rim of your coffee-mug and your plate of grilled orloni, watching the steam curl out of your bowl of synth-cinnamon indigarran-oats. and you ask him about it.

what's your love-language?

he blinks over at you, ears flattening in confusion. my fuckin what?

your love-language. you hesitate, then take a bite of your oats. they're a little too hot, but they don't burn your mouth, and you're surprised by the pleasantness of the texture. they're the perfect amount of sweetness, too. it's a terran term, i guess, you tell him thoughtfully. it's basically, like, how you like to be acknowledged. appreciated.

he doesn't respond, and you don't look up from your meal — still feeling morose, maybe, in the first few hours of wakefulness.

like, some people like to be told nice things, you say with a casual wave of your spoon. to be reassured that they're useful or good, reminded that they're important to someone. that's called words of affirmation. for other people, there's something called quality time...

and you go on to explain each one to him.

i thought maybe you were a gifts-person, you tell him at last. on account of the breakfasts and the coffee and the guns. but then i thought, maybe acts of service? you're making pretty much every thing you give me. and you sometimes do my dishes.

you wrangle up a tired grin for him, realizing you've been rambling, and he hasn't spoken a single word. when your eyes meet his, you realize he's gone utterly still: not even a flicker in his ears or a twitch in his tailtip.

i dunno, he admits at last, slowly. his head cocks to one side. i don't tell people i like ‘em or appreciate ‘em very much. i don’t really tell people nice things at all.

you blink back, and feel yourself soften. you tell me nice things just fine, you tell him, lifting your coffee mug pointedly. you spare him a lopsided little grin. when you want to, anyway.

he snorts.

so how do you like to be told them, then? you ask gently. nice things, i mean.

he shifts from foot to foot: awkward. i dunno, he repeats. considers, then opens his mouth to speak ~ grimaces, and shakes his head. i don't think i, uh. i don't think i ever got enough to know.

his voice crinkles at the end, like he's embarrassed by that — as if he thinks he's the one to blame. as if, had he only been more lovable...

you'd been feel distant and pensive all morning, but something inside you is suddenly distilled: a purpose, maybe. one you've grabbed for yourself.

you don't need to be ashamed of that, you tell him abruptly. that shame belongs everyone else in your life who should have loved you, and should have made sure you knew it.

you nod once, firmly — too lost in your own thoughts to catch the slight widening of his eyes, the clench of his fists, the way his tail tucks in against his ankle: all vulnerability.

we have a new mission, you say instead. top-secret. just you and me.

yeah? his voice is thick with curiosity, and something else.

mmhm, you nod. figuring out what your love languages are.

you spend the next quarter making it a point to find new ways to show him how much you care for him — pretty much every rotation. notes of appreciation, picking out one specific trait or action of his that you've been impressed by or secretly adored. translating it painstakingly into kree so he could read about how clearly you'd noticed it, how you'd remembered it, how much it had meant. read it, and keep it. with your spoken words, too, you shower him in praises and compliments, both alone and in front of the rest of the crew. each time, he scoffs and scrubs the back of his hand over his whiskers. but you can tell he's glowing under all that fur: flustered, and flattered, and so fuckin pleased that his toes are probably curling in his boots.

then you test him out with little gifts of your own: left for him here and there, or shared and explained in detail while you hang out in the dim cockpit after everyone else has gone to sleep. treats and sweets. he likes chocolate-covered espresso beans, you'd learned, though they're a dangerous thing to give him. bottles of booze, too. and little bits of tech, no matter how old or broken — though you’ve found he particularly likes the shiny bits. he grins at each one, looking smug and satisfied, and his pockets grow heavy with whatever library of treasures he’s decided will bring him good luck today. he pulls them out on occasion to rub his thumbs over them, or look at them bemusedly: perusing his little gifted treasures. sometimes when he catches you watching him, he even winks at you before shuffling the clinking bits back into his pockets.

once or twice a cycle, you'd also tried to do his chores, but he'd only seemed annoyed by the effort. you'd though that meant you could write off acts of service as one of his love languages, and you’d almost done it, too. but then one night, purely coincidentally, you'd cut up some bandages for him after a fight. he'd actually teared up at the kindness: shameless silver puddles rivering into his fur-covered cheeks. after that, you'd realized that even sitting by his side and handing him tools while he works will make him sigh with contentment, the muscles easing in his shoulders in something close to peace.

and you can't dismiss quality time, either ~ not with the way he starts demanding your presence all rotation long. these days, he’s refusing to take side-commissions if you're not on his team. he stays up late with you and plays Krylorian card-games while you read in the copilot's seat, or tinkers with gadgets while you doze off on the unused mattress in his bunk.

cycles pass. you think about asking him again. have you decided yet? which way you like to receive messages of love? which means the most to you?

but you don’t. you expect you've learned the truth already — which is that rocket has just been too love-starved for almost his entirely life.

he'll take whatever kindness you want to give him.

it’s okay, though, you tell yourself. you're happy to oblige him.

so you relax into this new routine of camaraderie. there are still melancholy mornings and hard days, but each seems easier than the last. you spend each day giving each other the best you’ve got, and growing closer. i like to think that, in time, you both realize that you've become more and more confident that even when things are at their worst, you're not alone in them. your respective memories may sometimes haunt you and the future might feel like it’s looming; the universe might seem large and empty, but the two of you have each other.

and the sky is forever and beautiful.

it's not until another two quarters have passed that it happens. you're chilling in your own quarters with him: you, sprawled and reading on the bed; him, seated on the floor and leaned against the edge of your bunk, tinkering with something. some vague part of you is aware of him hissing and rolling his shoulders — trying to work out the tension and the muscle contractures that you've slowly realized are a part of his daily life. he can’t help it, and neither can you. his pain is just the natural result of all his knotted sinews, contorted around prosthetics and implants — the screws and bolts driven deep into whatever natural bones he still has left.

so you're not consciously aware of his grumbling, indrawn breath or his hitching shoulders — no. you're too used to it. you just keep reading on your datapad, unthinking — lost in the companionship of the moment, the quiet clatter of his work, the words on your screen.

which is the only reason why you casually drape one arm down off the mattress, your hand sifting through the fur along his shoulder and sinking under the strap of his jumpsuit: soothing and easing the twisting muscle with an instinctive squeeze of your furrowing fingers, a thoughtlessly-kind and careful knead of your palm.

perhaps you should have realized. you're pretty sure you know what he used to be, after all — before some monster got their hands on him and turned him into the person he is today, the person you're so grateful to know. and what you think you remember about his original species is this:

two-thirds of the sensory perception areas in a raccoon's cerebral cortex are dedicated to touch. they learn primarily through the palms of their hands, the sensitive pads of their fingertips. they see things based on the brush of the whiskers that bristle from their claws; they recognize things they've held cradled in their hands — even if it was only once, years ago.

for a raccoon, to touch things is to know them.

you've watched the way he handles his flight controls, his mines and firearms, every screen and set of buttons he's ever come across. as soon as his fingers dance over them once, he's got them memorized.

doesn't like to be touched, you'd thought when you'd first met him, but that's not quite right, is it? it's only that someone else has wounded him — taken that strength of sensitivity and turned it into something vulnerable, something that could hurt. and maybe doesn't like to be touched really just means likes it so much that it feels dangerous.

rocket doesn’t bare his teeth this time. he doesn’t even shake you off. instead, his hands still, and you feel his shoulders sag under the firm press of your probing fingers. his head rolls back on his neck, and he groans in a way thy turns into something else: a rumble under his fur, low and hollow.

a purr.

that's it, he manages to mumble. you stare at him, too stunned to look away even as your hand keeps moving of his own accord. his eyes close, and his wire-tight tension continues to soften under your touch. he sounds half-wondering, and half-asleep already.

that's my frickin' love-language.

headcanons & imagines | navigation | fanfiction masterlist related imagines: love languages part one: gift-giving/acts of service | petting rocket till he purrs | rocket "fixes" your car | raccoon sensory perception

rocket doesn't talk to you much — at first because you were new and he didn't trust you, and then because you were kinda cute and sweet and he started gettin’ fuckin’ tongue-tied, as if he'd never talked to a frickin' humie before.

nevertheless, he makes it a point to sprawl on the sofa in the commons bay every eighth day of the cycle, which is when you trundle your little bag of supplies up from your bunk and set them out one by one, carefully arranging each little bottle and brush and cotton-ball. the whole time, you're happily humming a song under your breath, all without even realizing it.

yeah. cute.

that's why he puts up with it — slouched against the back of the couch, thighs spread and arms crossed, head tilted low so he can watch through half-lowered lids while he pretends to be dozing. the smell, i mean. that’s why he puts up with the smell. chemical and astringent, burning his nose — covering up the mellow, musk-sweet scent he normally associates with you. the first few times you'd started doin' your nails — before he'd realized how damn likable you were — he'd almost snarled something mean about it. cursed you out for bringing something so toxic on board and forcing them all to sniff it; accusing you of trying to fuck up his air filtration system (not that any mere terran chemicals could fuck up his air filtration system). he'd only held himself back because nebs had given him a warning glance, and because he'd promised pete he'd be on good behavior while you adjusted.

later, he'd realized you'd actually positioned yourself thoughtfully beneath the intake vent, like you'd been aware that it would smell bad and were trying to spare all of them. and around the same time, he'd remembered that the terran sense of smell frickin' sucks, so you probably didn't even realize how awful it was.

but it hadn't mattered in the moment. his nose had crinkled and his teeth had bared themselves, and he'd had to turn away to keep from showing you his irritation — or opening his frickin' mouth. instead, he'd stalked out of the commons bay, scowling as he'd left.

by the third cycle, though — by then, he'd been curious. a little about what you were doing — but mostly about you.

by the fifth, he'd found himself lingering: tinkering in the corner, grunting wordlessly at you when you'd startled upon finding him still there. you'd offered him your cautious slope of a half-smile and maybe, against his will, some part of him had been charmed.

he'd found reasons to stick around every time after that, smell be fuckin' damned. most recently, he's taken to pretending to nap, on account of the fact that it gets him a little closer to you by givin’ him an excuse to be on the couch, and it lets him watch you without you knowing. you try to be so quiet when you think he’s sleeping — dropping your hum down to something breathy and soft.

and it's so frickin' cute that it gives him a little frisson at the base of his spine.

today's color is electric blue, apparently.

he watches through a heavy fringe of velvet lashes — coaching his breath into something that looks like sleep — as you rub away the remnants of last week's polish. he watches as you trim and file your gently-rounded, blunt humie nails. he watches as you roll the shimmer-blue bottle between your palms, then twist the cap open. for fuck's sake, it reeks — but if he were to leave, he wouldn't get to see the tip of your pink tongue peeking between your lips like it is right now.

you're so careful with your color distribution, and the way you use one nail to swipe away the excess paint on another. he could probably paint your nails more quickly than you, he thinks — and more precisely, too. it's just the way his hands work: clever, fast, delicate and dangerous. once he gets the feel for something, he's got it memorized forever.

there's an allure to the idea of using his deft fingers to take over your little task. he could lean over your fragile humie hand, maybe even hold your fingers pinched between his while he layers on the paint. he watches you blow on your nails like you always do — then imagines doing the same.

for a few long moments, you both sit in quiet: only the sound of you humming gently while you fan your fingers through the air, an accompaniment to his steady breathing. you sigh like you always do once the paint is cured, and he hides a grimace: knowing you're going to get up and leave soon, and he's going to lose this companionable silence with you.

and then he sees it.

your eyes, dark in the shadows, sliding sideways under your lashes to slant toward him. he watches you cock your head consideringly, and one of his ears twitches in curiosity before he can stop it.

you don't notice, though. god, you're an oblivious little thing.

your gaze lingers on his crossed arms — no. on his hand: the one that rests in the crook of his elbow, claws long and dark, curving over his forearm with a dangerous glimmer and right into your line of vision.

your wide eyes dart to his, still shielded by his lowered lids. then back to his hand. up again.

and to your pretty bottle of electric blue.

his ear twitches again, but you're too fixated on his claws to see it. your tongue flashes out again: a pink swipe across your lower lip. you edge forward in your seat, looking — frickin' tempted.

and k'ythri help him if he ain't charmed all over again.

he watches through feathered lashes as you hesitate. lean closer. shake your head like you're trying to talk yourself out of it, then glance at his face again. stare at his hands like they fascinate you.

slide off the edge of your chair, knees kissing the grated floor with a hushed clink.

shift just an inch closer in his direction.

well, fuck. there's no way he'll be able to keep up this pretense of sleeping if you frickin' touch him. but he wants it — fuck, he wants it — your hand cradling his, the way he'd imagined doing for you. who cares about the goddamn smell if it means you’re gonna touch him? when it means you’re gonna mark him up with your pretty-colored paint, like a fuckin’ claim anyone can see?

you shuffle forward on your knees, teeth sunk into your wetted lip, and a sudden intensity furrows your brow. oh, you got a mission now, huh? adorable frickin’ brat. your blunt humie fingers grip the blue bottle, and your eyes flicker over him as you cautiously — oh so cautiously — reach for his hand.

his breath stills in his lungs. he arches a brow and cracks open an eye — no longer bothering to pretend — but you’re too focused on your mischief to notice. and for fuck’s sake — he fuckin’ loves it. loves watching you, wondering whether you’ll jump or squeak when you realize you’re caught.

your blue-tipped fingers kiss his wrist, shy and nervous.

"f'you're gonna do that, you better use pink," he growls.

for those who don’t know, mcu-rocket’s favorite color is canonically pink. ╮ (. ❛ ᴗ ❛.) ╭ i don’t make the rules

Such a needy thing, he was. Simon didn't care how you were kissing him, how you held his head in your hands as he kneeled before you, practically crawling up your body as you stood there and gave him kiss after kiss. He just wanted more. You kissed him deeper, unglamorously shoving your tongue down his throat as far as you could go to get the closeness he craved and combing and tousling his long hair with your fingers. His arms locked you into place, a tight grip as he hung off of you and touched you. It didn't matter where. He just needed to touch you.

"More," he whispered against your lips.

You pushed him backwards onto the bed and crawled over him, pushing his sweater up to reveal his toned chest, framed by another harness. He looked cute in it.

"Didn't think the Eden folks were the type," you said. Or does the Butcher belong to someone else? Someone who doesn't like to share?"

"Not... at the moment, no," he said shyly. "I wouldn't be here if I was."

"You alright? You're so tense."

"It's been a long day," he said. "I'm a little out of it."

"Well, I need you to be in it if you wanna keep going."

You stroked his hair. "Talk to me, Si. I know there's something you're not telling me."

He sucked in a breath. "I've never done this before."

"Oh, is that all?" you asked.

He nodded, averting your eyes. "Yeah. Eden never let us. I just don't wanna let you down."

"You could never let me down," you whispered, pressing your forehead to his and nuzzling noses with him. "There's nothing you need to do."

"There's stuff I wanna do," he said. He held onto your arm, clearly not wanting the touch to stop.

He kissed your neck and pulled you on top of him. "I wanna be close."

He ran a hand up the back of your shirt. "I wanna feel more of this."

He rocked his hips a bit, grinding against your thigh with a needy groan. "I wanna feel good. I wanna feel good with you. I wanna make you feel good."

He pressed his knee against your clothed crotch enough to make you moan. Oh, that was so not gonna get you there, but it already left you wanting, wanting almost as badly as him.

"Please," he said softly.

You couldn't help it. You'd always been a sucker for the soft ones. So wanting, so willing, so desperate. So you didn't hesitate. You undressed him more and more, covering his body in kisses and feeding into his desperation, his stress melting away as his muscles relaxed under your touch. No tension. No hesitation. The more you kissed and caressed him, the more he moaned and mewled for you. And you definitely loved what you got to uncover. You started him off easy, sucking his cockhead and stroking his shaft, watching him squirm for you. He tried so hard to hold out, but he soon became frantic that he was so close and you had to give him a breather.

"Fuck, it's so good..." he whined. "Oh, fuck, I almost came..."

"Maybe you need a little more control over that," you said, playfully rolling onto your back. You lifted up your shirt and tugged your pants down just enough to hint at what you had going on underneath your clothes. An offer.

Simon nodded and straddled your hips, feeling you up with a gentle, nervous touch.

"Go on," you said softly.

He pushed your shirt all the way up and pulled it up over your head.

"Like that?"

You laughed. "You got it."

"I'm just not used to being so... gentle..."

"Really? It comes so naturally to you. And we've been holding each other all night."

Gentleness really did come naturally to Simon, especially as he tugged your pants off and kissed your inner thighs, legs held firmly in his hands. His fingers gently worked your hole open, though his hand got tired from pumping them in and out of you. Easing himself into you felt even better. You both moaned. And he held you tight as he thrust into you, not so fast that it was unpleasant, but with that same desperation he did everything else with. The need. The urge. He whimpered and whined into the crook of your neck as you ran your hands all over him.

"That's it, Simon, fuck, that's good..." you moaned.

He only moaned your name in response. His hand found your hand and he intertwined his fingers and yours. He even gave it a little squeeze.

"Sweet boy," you whispered. "So sweet for me... And so good..."

He moaned.

"You feel good?" you asked.

"Mhm..."

He was gonna send you over the edge any second now, especially if he kept making those beautiful sounds. Far from innocent or pure like one would expect from a beginner, he held onto you whichever way was the most intimate, the most connected, fighting to not spill himself into you too soon and swearing like a sailor. He craved the contact so much and those hands on your body clenched and caressed.

"Fuck, that's so... so good... Do you... feel good too?" he panted.

"Oh, yeah," you replied. "I'm so close, Si, don't stop..."

"Fuck, I can't... I'm gonna..."

He gripped your hips and thrust as deep as he could, screaming as he came, almost afraid of how much control he was losing, but you were losing control just the same. And you were glad to be doing it with him.

He flopped on top of you, holding you like he was before, but now he laid on your chest, no doubt able to hear your pounding, racing heart. You stroked his hair and he stroked your skin, right by where his head lay.

"Was it good?" he asked softly. "Was I... good?"

After cycle after cycle of treating his mutations, his boils and sores and his dry, cracked skin, and of course the stump where his arm used to be, you were able to get Simon to a point where he could rest. You had the resources to spare now and you'd already lost him once. You weren't going to lose him again. As you made your routine checkups and changed his bandages, he slept and slept like he hadn't slept in years. And he certainly wasn't the same as before. Touch had become foreign to him, so now every brush against his forearm or cheek made him lean into it. The first time you washed his hair since he'd been back with you he broke down in tears. His remaining arm was almost always around you, a part of your shirt hooked on his closed fingers.

In some ways he was still the same. He still had his jokes and did the same bits, like his exaggerated stories about his childhood on mars, he still read the old horticulture manuals and old earth novels, and he still liked the same foods. He ate a lot more of them, too. They barely gave him enough to eat in prison and he took full advantage of your ship's fabricator machine and freeze-dried bagged foods. Sometimes you wondered if he was even chewing with how he wolfed every meal down. Every early cycle, he went up to you, wrapped his arm around you, and pressed his forehead to yours. You'd get a kiss, and he'd linger there and sway in place with you, but now he stayed there longer. He'd sway and sway as his breath turned to heavy sighs, approaching sobs, and he'd start to work himself up and start crying and you'd help him collect himself. That one hand would shake.

The constant craving for touch didn't stop there. He'd been pent-up. With no privacy to take care of himself and having spent so much time in recovery, the second you cleared him (to the best of your ability) he said the first thing he wanted to do was fuck.

You took the lead, pulling him in for a deep kiss and pressing him against the wall. Your hands ran through his long, dark hair like you'd done when you were first cleaning him up. What remained of his left arm still instinctively moved to hug you and he felt you up more out of pure frustration and that need to just feel all of you. He pushed himself against every part of you, head against your hands, lips against your lips, arm around your waist, embarrassingly quick hard-on against your thigh. Could you even blame him?

Just pushing your tongue into his mouth made him whimper. Pressing your leg into his groin made him moan, so long and so loud.

"Too much?" you asked.

"No, no..." he panted. "Don't stop. Please..."

He continued to only communicate in moans and whimpers as you led him to bed and started undressing him. His body was covered in scars now and you'd grown so accustomed to seeing him like this, but the same Simon still remained. Still beautiful. Still all yours.

"You really patched me up good," he said. "I never thanked you for that. So, uh... thank you."

You were certain he did, at some point, maybe in a tired, injured, irradiated fugue state, but you appreciated the gratitude. It was enough that he was back.

"It was a labor of love," you said.

"Kinda looking for a different kind of love right now, you know what I'm saying?" he said with a grin.

"Pace yourself."

You kissed down his chest and stomach, every inch, hands roaming his body. He'd grown more sensitive in isolation, yearning for months. His body had almost forgotten you entirely.

But it still remembered plenty. Goosebumps when you ghosted your fingers along his sides, his back arching in pleasure, the little wet spot in his underwear.

He wouldn't have to worry about that for long, you thought as you kissed down his hip and slid his waistband down. Once he was fully exposed to you, you wrapped a hand around it and--

"Oh, fuck, fuck!"

You didn't register it in time and he came all over your hand and directly in your face. He swore and moaned and panted until he was done, looking down at you with an incredibly guilty look in his eyes.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to--I didn't--"

You shushed him and stroked his cheek. "Poor baby. You really are pent-up."

"Yeah," he whispered. "Can we just... pretend that didn't happen? Can we just keep going?"

"Of course."

You wiped your face clean and spent the next few minutes stripping in full view of him and kissing his lips and body some more, until he was hard and needy again.

"Please, I can't take it anymore," he begged. "I need you. I need to feel you."

"Okay," you replied, lining his cock up with your hole and slowly sinking yourself down on him. You both moaned.

"Fuck..." he sighed. "It's been so long..."

"It has," you agreed. "I missed you, Simon."

He pressed his forehead against yours. "I missed you too."

He kissed you.

You began to rock your hips, holding onto his shoulders for stability. Simon threw his head back and moaned and you captured his lips in another heated kiss, hands running down his neck and through his hair. His thrusts started to match yours and he drove himself deeper into you, which made you moan, which made him thrust deeper and harder. You held his face in your hands in a sort of reverence, as though you were saving him, absolving him, cleansing him of his sins. He held your wrist and gazed up at you longingly, lovingly, lustfully, lingering.

"Please, don't stop," he moaned. "I'm close again..."

Almost immediately after he said that, he began to thrust erratically and moan and scream your name and curse in pleasure as he came. That seemed to completely wipe him out, and he sat there limply, his cock twitching and releasing one final little spurt inside you, as he leaned on your shoulder and caught his breath. You stroked his hair and kissed his forehead and cradled him against your chest.

"I think you've had enough for now," you said.

He's completely stone-faced as he walks in. Nothing in his expression or body language suggests much of anything, but you just have the feeling that something's coming. You brace yourself for that something as he crawls into bed beside you and takes his time getting comfortable. His head rests on your chest, right where your heart is. He's not on the same side as your heart because he needs to be able to wrap his remaining arm around your waist. He tangles his legs up with yours to get closer and make twisting himself across your torso a little less awkward. Actually, should he be able to twist his torso like that? He has to turn his chest to face yours now but he's having to adjust his legs so now he's on top of you, but he's just so... twisty? Is that new too?

He lets out a sigh once he's all done and his fingers curl into the fabric of your sweater.

"Hey, you," you whisper, leaning down to kiss his head.

"Hey, you," he replies.

He goes silent. You pet his hair, something that always makes him feel better, knowing he's on the verge of a breakdown. Maybe he's trying to fight it off.

"Thanks, angel," he mumbles.

The first time he spoke to you, he was delirious, likely in so much more pain than you'd estimated, laying on your table hooked up to machines as you worked diligently to save him.

"Are you an angel?" he had asked through tears. "Am I dead?"

You never thought the nickname would stick. But angel means everything when he says it now. He means "I love you." He means "thank you." He means "I'm safe with you."

Something soaks through your sweater and when you look down at him again you see the glittering of tears silently rolling down his cheeks. He looks up at you, so vulnerable and soft and weary. Just like when you first fished him out of the blood and started the long, arduous task of properly treating his many injuries.

"You wanna talk?" you ask. "About how you're feeling?"

"Mm-mm."

That's fine by you. You continue to pet his hair, letting him sniffle and sob softly into your sweater. It could be anything upsetting him. Trauma, stress, anger at everything that's happened, discomfort over the changes to his body--you look down at his feet and see his dirty socks, the ones he started wearing all around the ship ever since he found out his toes were now webbed. The teeth growing out of his cheek are always cleverly hidden behind his hair, same as the gills on his neck. It bothers him more than the loss of his arm or the scarring from those painful boils on his skin. He's changed. He always wanted to show everyone they didn't own him. Not Eden, not the COI, not the blood ocean. But here he is, once again marked, once again owned.

But he chooses to shut his senses to the universe in your bed, your arms. He trusts you to keep him safe while he rests. And he needs a lot of rest. As his tears slow and his eyes close he nuzzles your neck and kisses your jaw. He breathes in your scent and smiles a little when he sighs.

-

Simon woke up.

Wait, Simon woke up?

He couldn't believe it. He was alive, awake, in a hospital bed on some moderately nice looking spacecraft, wearing hospital clothes, with his arm missing again and bandaged at the stump.

"Dammit," he huffed. He should have known it was too good to be true.

Well, the dream was nice while it lasted. That tall space person was good to him. If only they really existed.

He tried to get a feel for things and reached for the clipboard at the foot of the bed. His chart.

"Patient was found unconscious, floating in blood ocean on a log, bearing fresh scarring across the face and body," he read out loud. "Left arm disintegrated into dust upon contact by medical staff and began bleeding as if typically severed."

He looked at his missing arm.

"Despite recent prolonged exposure to onboard X-ray camera and anomalous effects of the blood ocean, patient lacks symptoms of radiation poisoning or mutations."

What?

He didn't have time to think about that before a doctor came in and confirmed what he'd been suspecting. He was free now. He was alive, but that should have been impossible. He'd been suffering from radiation sickness, decompression sickness, nitrogen narcosis, nitrogen intoxication, a concussion, alcohol poisoning, the list went on!

He'd also been filthy. Prisoners weren't allowed the luxury of showers, but that layer of dirt and grime he had before hadn't been present when they cleaned him. It was just blood.

He got reacquainted with Ava, who seemed just as surprised as he was, but she spoke of a similar dream, with a similar person. Even Jack was up and about, a little out of it, but standing and walking? Didn't David say he couldn't stand?

Everywhere he went, Simon was met with smiles and cheers and congratulations. The black box had been recovered shortly before him and they'd already found out so much from the data. That kind of positive attention would take some getting used to. Everyone on that crew was ready to throw him to the blood without a second thought before, and here they were smiling and waving with eyes that said "forget about the time we treated you as subhuman."

But seeing his harness again, cleaned and looking better than when he'd left it, that made his day. He hugged it to his chest and broke down crying the second he had a moment to himself again.

As the "day" stretched on, the mysterious figure who sculpted him back to health seemed more and more like it really had all been a dream after all. Which was a shame. Because he'd do anything to be treated so gently again. The healing caresses that literally put him back together, the way they held him, and the fact that he'd gone so long without being held at all left him yearning for more. God, it felt so good just to be touched, something he felt like he didn't deserve anymore, and the fact that it was a big, beautiful, eldritch being who could crush as well as caress wasn't half bad either. He still felt mortified when he thought about the way his breath hitched and his heart fluttered. And he was sitting there in his birthday suit, which meant they definitely saw that semi. He'd never live that down.

But it was just a dream, right?

When he went to bed, he didn't dream of them. He had a nightmare. He was back in that damn submarine, back in the blood, back to being a prisoner, as blood poured in through the hull and the camera started blasting him with x-rays that made him stagger and throw up violently. He woke up screaming in the empty hospital room, another cold metal box in this dead, desolate galaxy.

Simon hugged his knees to his chest as best he could with only one arm and sobbed, ready for a long, sleepless night. Suddenly, he felt himself being pulled up from the bed and into that beautiful swirling realm of stars and planets, the one from his dream. And then they were there, smiling down at them with the universe in their eyes, carefully reaching down to comfort him again.

"Hello again, Simon," they said. "Oh... I guess your universe rejected the new arm."

"What does that mean?" he asked.

"Not everything made here can survive out there. It just... stops making sense. An arm made of space itself just isn't possible in your universe, it seems. I'm sorry."

He made a mental list of things that could and could not come back: treated wounds, a bath, and healed radiation sickness would stay with him, but clothes and a new arm would turn to dust. Probably the clothes, since he hadn't seen them since.

"Well, hey, you tried," he said. "And you did save our lives. I can't thank you enough for that."

"All in a day's work."

They scooped Simon up into their palm to hold him. He gazed back breathlessly, ignoring the tears that still rolled down his face as he took in their sheer size and power. He still felt so small, but not the way that eel thing made him feel small. This was a safe place. This being, whatever they were, cared for him.

"You had a bad dream," they said plainly. "I couldn't heal your mind either."

"You healed it a lot last time," he said. "I, uh... I think I needed a shoulder... hand... to cry on. Thanks for that too."

They beamed. So radiant, so like the sun.

"What happened after I fell asleep?" Simon asked.

"I sent you back. You needed to see for yourself that you'd be safe," they said. "And you needed time to pass normally in order to get proper rest."

"I guess I did feel better," he admitted. "I'm sorry if I said you were wrong or stupid or anything. I was just scared. And tired."

"It's okay to be scared," they said. "And anyone in your shoes would be tired."

"So why'd you bring me here this time?"

"It looked like you needed some help."

They dabbed his wet cheeks dry with more of that stuff they'd made his new sweater out of. Shame that outfit didn't make it back with him. He leaned into their touch, letting out a sigh. How long had it been since they'd put him back? How long had it been since someone touched him before they met?

"Thank you," he said softly.

"You react quite a bit to being handled," they said. "I try not to hear your thoughts, or feel your feelings. But they're so intense that sometimes I can't ignore them."

"I gotta be honest," he said. "No one's held me or touched me like that in a long time. So whenever you do it, I just..."

They stroked his hair. "I understand."

"Can you just hold me until I have to wake up?" he asked. "Can I just... sleep here? I don't think I can handle sleeping alone right now."

"Would you like me to join you? Perhaps in your universe? I can change my form to fit in that bed with you."

Simon's cheeks warmed. "How did you know I wanted--right. Look, y-you don't have to do anything you don't want to, we can stay here, I just... I feel weird hugging your hand."

They chuckled. "It's alright, Simon."

They removed their hand from underneath him and left him suspended once again, as star clusters and comets coalesced in their place until they appeared small enough to float alongside him, though they were still a bit tall. He'd been about the size of a doll to them before but now they seemed like less eldritch and more fantastical in size, if that made sense to anyone else but him. If he had to guess, he'd say they were about nine and a half feet now? And they lifted him into their arms just as easily as before, bridal carrying him as they drifted in place together. Wow.

"Hi," he said with a shy wave.

"Hi," they replied. "Ready for bed?"

He nodded.

In this smaller, more huggable form, they were able to place him in one of those soft star formations that they'd been using and lay down beside him. He could feel a mattress, pillows, blankets, and of course, their warm arms around him as they helped him get comfortable. He rested his head on their chest, where he heard no heartbeat, but felt plenty of life in them. Maybe they could stroke his hair like they did last--

Gentle fingers ran through his hair and pet his head. Oh, that felt good, even if the mind-reading was going to take some getting used to.

For the first time in years, Simon was happy.

"Sleep well, little muse," they said.

Such a small, fragile little thing he was, but what a beautiful tree he made. He lay there, deep down, tangled in his own roots in an endless, dreamless sleep, almost unrecognizable from the man who first descended into this ocean a few days ago. But intact. Intact enough to be remade.

You carefully pushed aside and cut through the roots that held him in place and gently freed him from his bindings. You could see him more clearly now, the missing arm, the teeth growing from his cheek, the growth on his brow, and all the while he oozed with sickness, open wounds and growths full of pus, some of which had already burst, radiation deep in his bones, and pain that you could feel as your mind connected with what was left of his. As you cradled him in your hands, inspecting the imperfect and puny copy of your body that was left of his, you pressed your finger to his neck, his little wrist, under his nose. He still had a pulse. He still drew breath. And as you watched the twitching underneath his eyelids, he was even starting to dream.

It would take time, but he could be saved.

The universe he once knew, it was here, here where you retreated with him, where you could care for him as long as he needed it, where time stopped and the night twinkled with true, living starlight. You left him suspended in space, floating patiently as you gathered your tools, comet tails and asteroids and nebulae, stardust and sunlight and ice of all types, water and nitrogen and everything that falls to a planet as snow or makes up its icy body. Solar flares and pulsars and the winds of perpetual storms. Everything his universe lost that you had in abundance, could be turned into something he could understand by means that he could not. You cut him free of his rags next, until bare skin covered in new wounds, old scars, and lingering dirt remained.

You cleaned his growths with clouds, soaked up radiation with star clusters like sponges, washed him with moonlight until he started looking like his old self again. You'd made his hair soft again, his expression less pained. But his arm...

There was only one solution: to make him a new one from dust and ice and metals and minerals, but it would never replace the one he gave up. The sensation in it was duller, as if it were made of mere scar tissue, judging by your cursory pokes and prods at it. But it had the shape, the size, and as he shifted around in your hands, he moved it like an arm. He even grabbed your fingertip with it. Your thumb caressed his brow. It stroked his hair ever so gently. Just a few more touches and then he'd be good as new.

He began to stir. He still seemed too tired and world-weary to react beyond a glance of acknowledgment, but you still spoke to him.

"Do not be afraid, Simon. You are safe. You are being healed."

"Huh?"

He opened his eyes and began to panic, trying to wriggle from your grasp, but you simply held him and shushed him.

"You shouldn't move around so much with such severe injuries," you said. "I'm almost done. When you are remade, you can return. And you will have your freedom."

"That's impossible," he whispered. "I'm dead. Ava's dead, Jack's almost dead, we're all dead..."

"Not for long," you assured him. "You're here. You're all here still. Waiting in the deepest sleep, in your universe."

"Why? Why are you doing this?"

"Because you deserve your freedom. I wish to give it to you."

His face softened. "Who are you? And what are you?"

"So many things, Simon. But don't worry about that right now. Just know that you're safe. As long as you are within my grasp, nothing can hurt you here."

You brushed his cheek with your fingertip and he pressed it to his tender, defanged face. "Can you just... keep holding me? I... I can't remember the last time someone ever..."

He sobbed, gripping your finger and wetting it with tiny, starry teardrops.

"You'll enjoy this, Simon," you said.

From stardust you repaired his face, his eyes, his skin and bones and blood vessels. You sculpted him back to his former state, hands caressing his body like a lover's touch. Stars became skin and sinew, flesh and fat, limbs and lips and ligaments. Humans would call this art. You called it healing.

Oh, he was beautiful. With quite a strong frame and that lovely long hair, fine layers of fuzz here and there across his body, nothing shaven or trimmed in any way. As you understood, the humans where he was from didn't do that anymore. How blessed you were to see these creatures in their natural beauty, though it was clear that bathing was a privilege the convicted would lose, and you knew it made humans uncomfortable to not be clean.

You also knew how humans could be about being naked. Some didn't mind so much, others might cover themselves in embarrassment, but this one, who knew? He was still transfixed on you, your familiar visage looking at him with such tenderness, but your sheer size overwhelming. Awe, apprehension, hope, a twinge of... was that arousal? You promised yourself to stay out of his mind as best you could, but something about the way he thought, Fuck, you're huge suggested attraction. Some humans loved your sheer size, sheer power; he wasn't the first, nor would he be the last. But you should probably cover him up.

You crafted him clothes of the finest starlight, not unlike his previous ensemble, weaving and sewing and knitting together constellations at your fingertips until it became a luxurious sweater and pants, soft and comfortable, cut to sit right on any body. Your favorite part. You even made him a new harness, complete with the knife holster. It seemed important.

"Is it satisfactory?" you asked.

"It can't replace the real thing," he said sadly. "But it's nice to feel close to mom again."

He clutched the knife holster with a smile.

"Thank you."

You smiled back politely.

"What happens now?" he asked.

"You wake up back in your universe."

"What? Back in my-- back in my... back in my universe? No... I can't."

He began to cry. "I can't... I'll just die with the rest of it. They're gonna throw me back in a cell, or-or kill me or something! They can't possibly let me go free. Not after everything, not after I killed Jack, not after filament station!"

Simon couldn't stop crying. He sat suspended before you and cried and cried.

"There's nothing left," he sobbed. "There's nothing left except dying ships and dead stars. I'd rather stay dead."

"You think you've been dead?"

He only cried harder. You cradled him in your hands again, shushing him and trying your best to dry his delicate little eyes with your fingertip. Instead he hugged your hand and sobbed into your palm. You stroked his hair some more.

"I'm sorry," you said softly.

"No, no..." he sniffled, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "I just... I wanna go home. But it's gone. And I don't wanna go back to what's left. I have nothing. I am nothing."

He was inconsolable. Searching his mind, all you could find was anger, pain, desperation, and a deep tiredness that went all the way to the bone. And you couldn't cleanse him of that like you could the radiation. All you could do was hold him and let him cry himself to sleep.

You made him a comfortable bed of leftover starlight and placed him in it. Perhaps he'd feel better if he got more rest.

But crazy is what kept you alive in the end. You managed to find the true final log from the lost ship that failed to send. It was of the researcher begging that if anyone finds the ship to not approach and just destroy it, that they would have set it to self destruct but that they had no time to do it because it was too late. But they said that if it does find you, you have one saving grace. Burn it. If you’re uninfected, escape alone and burn everything. That’s how you ended up in an escape pod watching your ship self-destruct as you drift off into the void of space. You didn’t know where you were drifting off to, for how long, if you would survive to make it there, or if you really were the last human on your ship, but what you did know was that you were safe from whatever the fuck that Thing was.

You were on the brink of dying of starvation when the Eridians found your pod. You thought you were having some sort of weird death hallucination before you passed out thinking that it was the end for you. It wasn’t. You woke up later in what seemed like a hospital bed surrounded by these rock-crab-aliens in strange hamster balls with a translator that spoke to you in robotic voices. You were pretty sure the absurdity of the situation kept you from freaking out.

“Do not be afraid. Are helping human. Statement.” one of them said. “Will make human better. Then introduce to human Simon to see if both can meet Grace. Grace also human. Statement. But first make healthy.” they added.

The eridians were very friendly. Not at all like the horror you had previously experienced on your late ship. They whistled and made chirping noises that seemed to be their home language. They didn’t prob or dissect you like you thought they might. Instead, they would come to your room, give you food that actually seemed very human, and ask you questions about where you came from, and how you were feeling. Sort of like medical observation. They even let you ask questions too, though you never knew where to start. You asked about who Grace was only for them to say that he and an eridian named Rocky “saved the stars” and lived here on Erid. But when you asked if you could meet him, they simple said “Unsure if (name) will be friendly to Grace. Grace every important. Want (name) to meet Simon first.”. But when you asked who Simon was they said “Simon found just like (name). Eridians save and take care of Simon too. Will meet Simon soon.”.

…

… Your first interaction with Simon wasn’t the best first impression. You told the Erindians taking care of you about your ship and what happened. You didn’t tell them every detail, but you did explain that something happened where it deformed your crew mates and made them dangerous. And although the Eridians did acknowledge Simon’s mutations, they found that he didn’t seem to react dangerously once he got used to his new situation nor hostile when he was informed that there was another human that they wanted him to meet. So yes, Simon was mutated to some degree, but he wasn’t dangerous, therefore you would be fine. But when you didn’t know that. The first thing you saw was a human with half of his face lined with sharp teeth and an eye that looked something you saw on one of The Thing’s forms, and that immediately triggered your fight or flight response and had you screaming bloody murder “BURN IT! BURN IT! YOU NEED TO BURN IT!” till they had to herd you away and calm you down.

It took a few days and a xenoplate divider separating you, for your reassurance, to get you to try that again. You both sat against the farthest wall from each other, stealing cautious glances at each other with an air that was thick with tension. It said that one of you wanted to say something but didn’t want to be the one to start it. It felt weird. Like you were two feral cats having a stand off all puffed up. It wouldn’t be until you two actually looked eyes with each other that something seemed to… click? You don’t know what it was but despite his alert stare burning into you, and yours on him, you saw eyes that have seen horror, just like yours.

That’s when your body moves on its own. You unfold from sitting with your knees pressed to your chest to a slow crawl that brings you closer till you’re right against the alien glass, all while keeping that eye contact and occasionally surveying his face. Simon stays where he’s seated, eyes never leaving yours. There’s a few beats before you finally speak.

“What happened to your face?”

It came out with the same bluntness that only a child can deliver even though you were a fully grown adult who should know manners. It wasn’t supposed to be mean. It was a genuine question.

“Radiation.” he answers.

You scoff in disbelief, “I’ve never seen radiation do all that to somebody.”.

“You don’t know where I’ve been.” he remarks before asking you a question, “What happened to you?”.

“My ship got overrun by an alien that infects people and then mimics them before deforming them and trying to kill us,” you answer. “It flipped everyone’s insides out and made their heads grow spider legs and crawl around in the vents till it finds a new body. I was the only one left. I had to blow the ship up.” you add. For some reason it felt important to let him know the horrors you witnessed, but at least it earned you the right to know his.

“I’m a convict that they sent into a blood ocean to find a way to save the stars with no real way out for me. I found a monster that busted my sub open and taunted me the entire trip! I lost my arm and the radiation mashed my DNA with the fucking thing!” Simon explains as he gets up onto his knees and quickly crawls closer to you, almost trying to size you and your story up. ”It segmented our cook by his joints and bent them backwards and walked on all fours! It grew a spike through our captain’s head when he was getting ready to shoot it because he could tell who was human and who wasn’t anymore! I was next in line to get my brains blasted out!” you rebuttal with a yell.

“I was sent down there to die!” Simon shouts.

“I don’t know if I really was the last human left on my ship! I just set it up to blow up and took the first escape pod out! I keep having nightmares that someone was still left and I could have taken them with me! But I just…” a sob lodges itself in your throat before you can finish your sentence. Your eyes weld up with tears and you just lose it. But you don’t need to try and regain yourself in order to cap off what you were trying to say before Simon finishes it for you.

“You just wanted to live.” he states.

“I did!” you wail.

“I’ve been there.” he nods.

Interacting after that takes a very promising turn. You exchange stories about your worlds. Simon tells you about Eden, what it was like, the Iron Lung, The Eel, the quiet rapture, the stars going out. You don’t really know what he’s talking about when he says the stars are dying one by one. As far as you knew the stars were perfectly fine and The Thing was the only terrifying thing out there. Simon does eventually tell you how he ended up in his situation and how he became a convict. You feel like you can’t really judge him too hard though. You signed anyone who might have still been alive and a human their death warrant when you took the escape pod. Yeah, maybe you it wasn’t the same as the things he got locked up for and did, but you’re the same amount of haunted by it as him.

The divider between the two of you was removed once the Eridians saw you two getting along. You were allowed free range of a much smaller biodome. They said it was to let you get used to the type of range you’d have in the main one where Grace is. You and Simon never really gave the mentions of Grace much thought even when Rocky and Adrian, the two Eridians closest to Grace, came by to meet you. The one named Adrian explained that Grace had already heard about you and Simon when you were first rescued and was more than happy to have some fellow humans around but that it was important for you and Simon to acclimate to Erid before meeting them. But Rocky then budded in saying that they also wanted to make sure you and Simon weren’t hostile. You heard about that a few times during the beginning of your stay but never fully noticed how weird that sounded.

“Do they think we’ll attack him? Like assassinate him or something?” you question one day, looking up at Simon, who you were previously leaning on while you watched the artificial sky. “Maybe. I am a convict with a history.” he shrugs, “He doesn’t seem like he's with C. O. I. though. His name doesn’t ring a bell for me.” he adds. “Me neither.” you remark. Simon chuffs before nudging you. “Maybe they think you’re actually your little mimic alien thing playing the long game. How exactly do you know you weren’t infected?” he teases. You laugh and give him a playful little push. “Oh, shut up! I just know okay! And even if I was secretly it, I wouldn’t wait this long just to go after some guy I’ve never heard of. I’d… go… after… YOU!” you shout out at the end, curling your hands into a jaw shape over your mouth, making stupid fake monster noises as you, and gently lunging towards Simon.

Simon lifts up his arm to block your ‘attack’ while you make your fake hand jaws chomp down on it, which is just you opening and closing it and going “Om-nom-nom” while you both laugh. You catch your breath and just blurt out “Dude you should have seen it. One of my crew’s heads just opened up like a flower and it was just teeth inside. It was nasty!” as you return to your place leaning on him and Simon responds with a casual “You should have seen The Eel. Those eyes are burned into the back of my eyelids.”.

He had... witnessed it before. Seen some people who had not bothered to hide themselves well enough, even though if caught, they would be shunned at best. He'd always found it distasteful as every part of Eden was considered sacred ground, which seemed disrespectful even to him. Not to mention the act itself looked... naturalistic. Too Earthly.

He'd never been, but from what the elders told him, he'd always imagined Earth like that. A primitive civilization led by their urges, unable to hold back their lowest of needs.

Blasphemy, every second of this would be the highest offense to Eden. But if so, why did it feel so heavenly? Why did every movement, every brush of skin against skin, make him feel more belief in the existence of paradise than anything Eden had ever taught him. They looked positively heavenly. Not the most angelic he's ever seen them, nothing could top when they descended from their universe to rescue the dying man he was then. But this was a close second.

It's all he could focus on besides the growing haze in his brain, drowning out all except the physical sensations and their blissed out expression. Were they feeling the same high as him? They've certainly lost the barely there but ever-present weariness in their eyes, but he doubted he could make them feel as good as he was feeling right now. So divine. And just because of his angel. His angel...

Simon hadn't meant to let it slip. It just sort of… happened. But just because he didn't mean to didn't change the fact that it did happen. And now they was going to hate him forever. Now, at this point, they would tell him he's thinking as if he were still in Eden. Alright, maybe not hate, but definitely think he's a freak of some sort.

When he snapped from his spiraling thoughts, he saw their stunned expression. He'd become utterly still since the word somehow left his mind and materialized into a quiet murmur, but with their proximity, they would have heard it regardless. There is no denying it now. They must truly hate him. Otherwise, why would they—

A mild nod, more to themselves. Their features relaxed like flower petals during gradual bloom. Instead, an inquisitive expression settled on their face.

"Alright... so..."

There it was, he'd shown too much, and now he was going to lose them forever.

"Is this a recent development?"

That was... unexpected. At first, he wasn't sure how to react, and then he realized he did not want to. Recent development? How could it be recent when he was clearly able to see their angelic nature even when his eyes were drowned in blood.

He must have shown more emotions than he had wanted to because they nodded again, seemingly satisfied with his lack of an answer.

"So it isn't. I see. Interesting..."

That answer both calmed and unsettled him. If they were disgusted, they would have immediately pulled away and told him to leave. But the answer itself felt more like a prelude to something rather than a stopping point, which he assumed the best case scenario would be after his slip up.

He was just about to take a breath to ask them what they meant by it, when they moved their hand from their side down to...

Oh.

Oh no.

He may have forgotten to breathe.

"Simon?" They asked, their tone so caring yet level as one asks when wanting confirmation or assurance, completely at odds with where their hand was.

They smiled subtly when their name left him in a particularly undignified sound.

"Uh-uh, not that. That thing you said."

Surely, they can't mean it. They couldn't possibly. That would happen only in dreams he's not even allowed himself to have.

A more firm touch made his train of thoughts short-circuit, and he gasped faintly, eyes already closed. "Angel..."

"There it is."

Now he was definitely sure he was daydreaming. No, not dreaming because only his conscious mind would be able to come up with a situation this perfect. His angel sitting on top of him with a look of utter concentration, like they knew what they wanted, and it seemed they in fact did. He just wasn't sure what exactly it could be.

They gently said his name and he just writhed, a low grunt escaping him. He wouldn't be surprised if they'd noticed his thoughts drifting off and decided to bring him back to Earth. To the fact this was actually happening. As unlikely as it felt to him.

"Do you think of me like that? An angel?" Their voice was soft in the quiet room in the depths of the ship, where they had tucked away before they knew exactly how far this would devolve to.

He was nodding before he could stop to think about the answer, so vehemently that his hair fell into his face slightly.

If they were teasing him, his embarrassment would've made more sense at least. But when they were looking at him like this, so genuinely curious, he wanted to hide further into himself. But his secret was already out thanks to his stupid mouth.

Their hand went to gently push his hair out of his face, giving him a momentary reprieve to the sensations of their hand present up until a few moments ago.

"Are you able to tell me why, or do you just want angel to take care of you?" That word, coming from them, had an experimental connotation, unsure, but seeming willing to try.

Or maybe they weren't willing at all. Simon couldn't be too sure himself since his brain zeroed in on them. Actually. Saying it. They didn't know that he actually saw them as his angel, but it was more than enough to affect him.

It was then that he realized the sound coming from him was a whimper, but he couldn't do much to stop it even if he did try. And oh how hard he was trying. To no avail since just seeing their expression, filled with anticipation, made his throat tighten again. No, he needed to focus, they asked him a question... but what did he actually want?

"Please..." He could only manage a quivering plea. For what exactly he wasn't sure. Clarity in this moment filled with nothing but passion and their dark eyes? Confirmation that they really were alright with doing this with him? Permission to simply fully feel the sheer expanse of all he's ever held back for the sake of Eden's propriety? Whatever it was that he actually wanted, they had noticed before he could.

And they just smiled. So soft. Reassuring. Like they were an anchor that would never restrict him but hold him stable in this sea of new sensations and previously forbidden feelings.

"No, no, there's no need to beg, Simon," they said softly, leaning so close to him he could smell the scent of old books and something that was just so irrevocably them.

They always used his name, and by now, he's figured out it was on purpose. Maybe it was when... Burt, was it, called him 'buddy' or some other nickname, and he'd tensed up to a point that he was unable to hide. And it seemed that they just noticed. They always did, including minor details like this. So even in such an intimate moment where most people would go for pet names, They made sure to say his name.

"Will you let me take care of you, Simon?"

And in that instant, they could ask him to tear the stars from the sky and place them at their feet, and he would do it. Even though his natural instinct was to protect, to guard, to fight for, if they wanted to, if they truly meant what they were saying, then he'd let them. After all, Simon could never say no to his angel.

Never ever would he doubt their angelic nature since not a long while later, they had taken him to paradise, one moan at a time.

 ~~~

A/N: This was originally inspired by my friend @fgfluidity 's fanfic (aptly named Angel), where they have their own Captain OC. Go read it if you want more wonderfully characterised Simon