The Hail Mary’s laboratory was usually a comforting hum of sterile ventilation, the soft clicking of Rocky’s claws on his Xenonite dividers, and the rhythmic scratching of pencil on paper as Ryland Grace calculated fuel consumption.

Today, however, the atmosphere was thick with a profound, multi-limbed existential crisis.

Rocky sat on his side of the xenonite partition, his central body tilted forward in an Eridian posture that screamed absolute, unadulterated bewilderment. His small, delicate hands were twitching rhythmically, a rapid-fire clicking sound vibrating from his vocal organ.

"Grace," Rocky’s mechanical translator droned, though the underlying Eridian tone was sharp and frantic. "Explain again. I require verification. The tape measure of time you provided. I am confused."

Ryland sighed, rubbing his temples. He looked exhausted, his jumpsuit stained with a mixture of dried astrophage residue and spilled soy-sauce-substitute. "Rocky, buddy, we’ve gone over this. It’s simple arithmetic. I am thirty-three Earth years old."

"Thirty-three," Rocky repeated, his claws tapping against the clear barrier. Tap-tap-tap. "A blink. A tiny fragment of life. You are a larva, Grace. You are a small, fragile, unhardened hatchling who has somehow learned to fly a spaceship. I am constantly terrified you will break because your carapace has not seasoned for a century."

"I don't have a carapace," Ryland muttered, adjusting his glasses. "And I'm a fully grown adult. On Earth, thirty-three means my joints hurt when it rains and I think about buying a house in the suburbs. I am mature."

From the corner of the lab, curled up on a makeshift pile of insulated blankets and spare jumpsuits, you snorted.

You were the third, unexpected variable in this interstellar equation. A brilliant, albeit incredibly stubborn, high school prodigy who had crossed paths with the Project Hail Mary initiative under circumstances that were ninety percent bureaucratic oversight and ten percent "well, they have a genius-level understanding of Eridian harmonic frequencies, put them on the backup crew." When the primary crew died, and the mission parameters shifted into high gear, you had somehow ended up in the extra astrophage-sleeper berth.

You were currently seventeen.

"If Grace is a larva," you chimed in, turning a page of your digital tablet, "what does that make me?"

Rocky’s central eye-analog didn't move, but his entire body pivoted toward you. The Eridian had become fiercely protective of both humans, but his understanding of human biology was largely filtered through Grace's terrible, rushed explanations.

"You are smaller than Grace," Rocky observed, his voice synthesizer dropping a octave into what Grace called his serious-science voice. "Your bone structure is less dense. You consume more simple carbohydrates and sleep in erratic patterns. Grace, what is the chronological status of [Name]?"

Ryland froze. He looked at you, then at Rocky, then back to you. A look of sheer, impending doom crossed the scientist's face. He had purposefully avoided this specific conversation because he knew exactly how Rocky’s hyper-protective, communal Eridian instincts worked.

"Uh," Ryland started, waving his hand dismissively. "They're fine, Rocky. Don't worry about it. They're part of the science team."

"Grace," Rocky said, his tone growing dangerously sharp. Click-clack-click. "Do not lie to a watchmaker. State the number of Earth orbits [Name] has existed."

You grinned mischiefly, completely ignoring the frantic, pleading head-shakes Ryland was throwing your way. "Seventeen, Rocky. I've been alive for seventeen Earth years."

The silence that followed was absolute.

For three full seconds, Rocky didn't move. Then, a sound erupted from his vocal organ that sounded like a bag of marbles being violently shaken inside a metal bucket—the Eridian equivalent of a choked gasp. He stumbled backward on his five legs, his claws scraping frantically against the deck plates.

"Seventeen?!" the translator blared, the digital voice struggling to match the sheer panic vibrating through the partition. "Seventeen?! Grace! Grace! What mean they are younger than Grace?!"

"Rocky, calm down—"

"Seventeen orbits!" Rocky’s arms waved in a chaotic, defensive pattern, his body spinning in a small, anxious circle. "You brought a hatchling into deep space! A literal soft-shell! A tiny, unformed, pre-molt embryo!"

"I am a teenager!" you protested, though you were laughing so hard you had to press your face into a pillow. "I can drive a car! Well, legally, back home."

"You are baby!" Rocky yelled through the speaker, his frantic pacing accelerating. "Grace, you are incompetent caregiver! You are terrible elder! Why is the pebble doing calculus?! Why is the pebble handling toxic astrophage?! Why is baby in vacuum tube?!"

"They're a genius, Rocky! And it wasn't my choice to bring them!" Ryland defended himself, throwing his hands in the air. "They sneaked into the final selection process because they solved the Eridian-coordinate translation bottleneck! I didn't personally kidnap a child and put them on a suicide mission!"

"Is a child!" Rocky insisted, flattening himself against the xenonite glass to get as close to you as possible. His delicate hands tapped against the divider right next to your head. " [Name]. Look at me. Do you feel your bones hardening? Are you receiving proper minerals? Grace, where is the milk? Humans require milk for the tiny ones!"

"They don't need milk, Rocky, they're seventeen, they eat normal food—"

"Silence, incompetent larva!" Rocky snapped at Grace. He turned his attention fully to you, his tone shifting into something incredibly gentle, a soft, low thrumming sound echoing from his chest. " [Name]. Do not fear. I am here. Adrian is here. We are adults. We will protect the tiny, squishy human."

From that exact moment, the dynamic on the Hail Mary shifted entirely.

If Grace was a crewmate, you were suddenly elevated to the status of a precious, endangered galactic artifact. When the mission finally succeeded—when the Taumeeba were contained, the sun-eating crisis averted, and the choice was made to head to Erid instead of a dying Earth—Rocky’s protective protocols went from high to absolute planetary defense system.

By the time the ship arrived at Erid, you had spent years in the company of a frantic scientist and a hyper-fixated Eridian. You had grown a bit taller, your voice a bit more mature, but to Rocky, you were still the seventeen-year-old hatchling who needed to be shielded from the universe.

And then, you met Adrian.

The Eridian atmosphere was a crushing, super-heated soup of ammonia, meaning you and Grace lived in a custom-built, sprawling human habitat dubbed The Castle. It was a massive, reinforced structure filled with Earth-normal air, proper gravity, and large xenonite viewing bays that looked out into the dim, bustling underground city of the Eridians.

Adrian, Rocky’s mate, had been briefed extensively before your arrival. Rocky had sent light-signals ahead, thousands of them, detailing every aspect of the vulnerable human hatchling they were bringing home.

The first time Adrian came to the viewing partition, you were sitting at a table eating a bowl of reconstituted oatmeal.

Adrian was larger than Rocky, with a carapace that had a deeper, more textured blue-gray hue. They stood next to Rocky, and the moment they saw you, both Eridians tilted their bodies in a synchronized, protective lean.

"The pebble," Adrian’s translator murmured. The tone was softer than Rocky's, imbued with a deep, resonant weight that instantly felt like a warm blanket. "Rocky told me the stories. It is so small. Rocky, it has no shell at all. Just skin. How does it stay together?"

"I use glue," you joked, looking up from your breakfast with a bright smile.

Adrian’s claws clicked in a frantic, distressed pattern. "Glue?! Grace! The pebble is falling apart! Bring the medical paste!"

"They're joking! It's a joke!" Grace shouted from the kitchen, sounding deeply tired. He walked into the common area holding a mug of coffee. "Adrian, don't listen to them. They've been spending too much time with Rocky. They're completely fine."

Adrian did not listen to Grace. In fact, within a week, it became abundantly clear that both Rocky and Adrian had mutually agreed that Ryland Grace was an unfit parent, and they were taking over full custody of your well-being.

Because Eridians couldn't enter your environment without dying, and you couldn't enter theirs without being instantly crushed and cooked, they expressed their doting affection through engineering.

Every morning, the airlock's sterilization chute would cycle, and a small, custom-made Eridian drone would trundle into your living area. The drone, painted a bright, friendly yellow (which Rocky had learned humans associated with warmth), carried gifts curated by Adrian and Rocky.

One day, it was a perfectly spherical, polished piece of Eridian stone, smoothed out so it wouldn't hurt your "frail, squishy hands."

Another day, it was a complex, mechanical puzzle made of pure iron, designed to keep your "fast, hatchling brain" entertained.

" [Name]," Rocky’s voice would come through the habitat's intercom system, always accompanied by Adrian’s supportive thrumming in the background. "Adrian has constructed a new clothing-shell for you. It is made of woven fiber-metal. It will protect you from predatory Earth creatures should they manifest in your room."

"Rocky, there are no predators in my room," you laughed, pulling out a heavy, incredibly flexible, and surprisingly comfortable metallic jacket from the drone. It was lined with soft insulation they had replicated from the ship's stores.

"Better to be safe," Adrian’s voice joined in. "The hatchling must be armored. Grace is lazy. He does not wear his armor. He is foolish. You must be wise, tiny friend."

You put the jacket on. It was a bit heavy, but it felt like a hug. You walked over to the giant xenonite window and pressed your hand against the thick glass. On the other side, Rocky and Adrian were standing side-by-side. Seeing you wear their creation, they both began to sway from side to side—a rhythmic, joyful Eridian dance.

"Look at the pebble," Adrian clicked softly. "A very stunning hatchling. Very sturdy now."

"Yes," Rocky agreed proudly, his claws tapping against the glass right where your hand was. "The strongest hatchling on Erid."

Grace walked into the room, took one look at you wearing a custom suit of Eridian chainmail while eating a bowl of cereal, and sighed. He looked out the window at his alien best friend and his mate.

"You guys are spoiling them," Grace complained, though there was a fond, relaxed smile on his face. "They have chores to do. We have to analyze the crop yields for the hydroponics bay today."

"No!" Rocky shouted through the speaker, his body tilting defensively in front of Adrian. "The pebble will not do labor! Labor is for hardened shells! The pebble will rest and grow their bones!"

"I'm literally eighteen now, Rocky," you pointed out, leaning against the glass. "I had a birthday last month, remember?"

"Eighteen is nothing!" Adrian declared fiercely. "In Eridian years, you are a negative number! You are a thought! You are a whisper! You will sit on the soft cushions and eat the sugar-carbs we sent."

You looked over at the drone, which was currently unloading a massive plate of sweet, baked treats the Eridians had synthesized using human-safe organic compounds. They looked like giant, golden-brown honeycombs and smelled like cinnamon.

You looked at Grace, raising an eyebrow. "Sorry, Ryland. The council has spoken. My bones are too soft for agricultural analysis today."

Grace rolled his eyes, but his expression was soft. He walked over, patting your shoulder—the heavy, metallic shoulder provided by two overprotective alien parents who lived in a hyper-pressurized world of ammonia, but whose hearts were completely universal.

"Fine," Grace smiled, looking out at Rocky and Adrian. "But if they get a cavity, you two are inventing an Eridian dentist."

Through the glass, Rocky and Adrian clicked in triumphant unison, their bodies swaying as they watched over their favorite, most precious little human.

The second your empty glass hit the wood, the whole place erupted. Cheering, whistles, someone slapped the bell behind the bar like it was a damn boxing match. Even Penny raised her eyebrows from across the counter, clearly impressed but already calculating how much trouble you'd cause in the next ten minutes.

You threw your arms up like you'd just won a championship, yelling out something unintelligible that made Fanboy yell back, “SHE’S UNSTOPPABLE!” and honestly, yeah. You kind of were.

“That was the hottest thing I’ve seen all week,” Jake said with a grin that could probably fry an egg on the nearest surface.

You turned, your head a little fuzzy, your lips still wet, and you locked eyes with him in that way the way that made people nervous, the way that made grown men second-guess all their choices. Jake was leaning back in his seat like he owned the damn place, legs spread, that lazy smirk tugging at his mouth, eyes doing things that should honestly be illegal.

You stepped down from the bench with the casual grace of someone who had no business still being upright, walked right up to him like you were in a slow-motion movie, and dropped your hands onto the back of his chair as you leaned in close. Close enough that your noses nearly brushed, your mouth just inches from his, and your breath tasted like beer and adrenaline and every terrible idea you had ever had.

Jake's lips parted, barely, like he was ready to close that gap, eyes flicking down to your mouth with all the grace of a man losing a game he thought he was winning.

And then, you laughed. You pulled back, slapped his cheek with exactly the kind of affection that made him blink in surprise, and said, “Nice try, Seresin,” before grabbing Phoenix’s drink and strutting away like you hadn't just short-circuited half the bar.

You didn’t look back, but you could feel the heat of Jake’s stunned stare drilling into the back of your head, and honestly? You were living for it.

───────

Not far from the noise and half the squad’s terrible chanting, Bob sat quietly at a small round table near the corner, shoulders a little hunched and nursing a cold glass of cola he hadn’t taken more than three sips from in the last hour. 

The condensation had pooled under it, forming a perfect little ring, and he was absently tracing it with the tip of his finger, eyes flicking occasionally toward the bar but never staying there long enough to get caught staring.

Rooster slid into the seat beside him with a lopsided grin and two drinks in hand; one for himself, one that he placed in front of Bob with a hopeful raise of his brow.

“No, thank you,” Bob said instantly, as politely as ever, the corners of his mouth twitching up into the softest smile as he pushed the offered glass back with a gentle nudge. “Still got mine.”

Rooster chuckled and leaned his elbows onto the table, swirling his whiskey around as he gave Bob a pointed look. “You know, for someone who gets stared at like that every time she looks your way, you sure are committed to keeping your head down.”

Bob’s ears turned pink instantly. “She doesn’t—” he started, then stopped, then cleared his throat. “She’s just… being friendly.”

“Oh yeah,” Rooster said with a nod, full of playful sarcasm, “definitely the kind of friendly where she nearly kissed Hangman just now and then left him looking like a kicked puppy.”

Bob blinked, a little stunned, then took a very careful sip of his cola, mostly to buy time and to hide how fast his brain had started spinning.

Right on cue, Jake dropped himself into the third chair with a dramatic groan, throwing his head back like he’d been emotionally wounded by a Shakespearean tragedy. He reached across the table without even looking and grabbed Bob’s drink, taking a long sip before Bob could stop him.

“Hey—” Bob started, eyes wide, brows lifted in that quiet little protest that was never loud enough to actually work.

“She almost kissed me,” Jake said, voice filled with betrayal and beer. “She looked at me with those eyes, leaned in like she was gonna do it, and then she laughed. Laughed! Like I’m some kind of a joke. I’ve been emotionally dismantled, man. I’m not okay!”

Rooster snorted and tried to cover it with his glass, but Bob still heard it. He looked between the two of them, visibly confused and mildly horrified, and said softly, “You drank my cola…”

Jake waved a hand dismissively, still mid-rant. “I’ve been blue balled, Floyd. Absolutely slaughtered! Torn apart by her tease tactics. Do you know how many women have actually turned me down before the kiss? None. Zero. Zilch. This is uncharted territory. This is the end of an era. My era!”

Bob just stared at him, mouth parted, eyes wide, shoulders hunched like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to laugh or if this was somehow a moment that needed real sympathy.

Rooster let out a loud, careless laugh, the kind that made people at nearby tables glance over with raised eyebrows, and Jake immediately turned to him with a glare, sharp and squinting, like he couldn’t believe he was being laughed at during what was clearly a moment of personal crisis.

“What,” Jake snapped, dragging the word out like it was a threat, one hand flung toward Rooster in exasperation.

Rooster just leaned back into his chair like he had all the time in the world, nursing his drink with that usual smirk that made it impossible to tell if he was joking or being entirely serious. “You and Raven?” he said, voice casual, like he was just stating facts. “You two are too much alike. That’s your whole problem, dude.”

Jake furrowed his brows like he’d just been hit with a dictionary. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I mean you’re the same,” Rooster replied, gesturing lazily between him and the air, “like, exactly the same. You both walk into every room like it’s yours, you both flirt with anyone who gives you half a look, you both get bored unless something’s on fire, and honestly, you both kind of love causing chaos. You’re her with a bad haircut.”

Jake reeled like he’d been slapped with that one. “I am nothing like her,” he argued, his voice climbing a little, “she’s unpredictable, she’s loud, she does that thing where she flirts just to get people all hot and bothered and then walks away laughing like she didn’t just emotionally destroy someone—”

“Yeah,” Rooster said, looking directly at him now, “and who else does that, huh?”

Jake pointed at himself. “Not me.”

Rooster gave him a long, slow stare, clearly not convinced. “I know her type.”

Jake blinked and leaned forward now, like he was trying to get ahead of the thought before it landed. “I am her type.”

Rooster grinned. “Wrong, I know her type.”

Jake looked at him like he was waiting for the punchline, like maybe Rooster would laugh and say it was a joke, but he didn’t so Jake tilted his chin up, already defensive. “Who?”

Rooster didn’t say anything. He just turned his head slightly, just enough to glance past Jake’s shoulder.

And there, quietly wedged between them, like he had been the entire time, was Bob.

Still sitting perfectly still in his seat, both elbows on the table, his hands loosely holding the empty peanut box he had been reading for the past five minutes like it was the most riveting thing he’d ever seen. 

His shoulders were drawn in just a little, his posture tight like he was trying not to take up space, and his lips were parted slightly like he was in the middle of mouthing a word printed on the back of the box.

The faintest blush still coloured his cheeks, and his glasses had slipped slightly down the bridge of his nose, but he hadn’t noticed or maybe just hadn’t bothered to fix them.

Jake followed Rooster’s gaze slowly, frowning, and when he finally landed on Bob, his eyes narrowed.

Rooster didn’t look away. He just kept his eyes on Bob and took a slow sip of his drink.

Jake turned to him again. “No.”

Rooster just raised a brow.

Jake turned back to Bob.

Bob, who now seemed to feel the weight of two stares drilling into him from both sides, slowly lifted his head, blinking like he had been deep underwater and was just coming up for air. 

His eyes flicked to Rooster, then to Jake, then back to Rooster, then down at the peanut box like maybe it had answers, then back up again, and he looked completely overwhelmed.

“...Did I do something?” he asked softly, eyes wide, voice low and uncertain, like he was genuinely worried he’d somehow gotten himself involved in a conversation he hadn’t signed up for.

Jake blinked once, then sat up straighter like someone had just accused him of something criminal. “Hell no,” he said, scoffing, shaking his head so hard his hair bounced. “Come on, me I understand, but him?!”

Bob turned his head slowly, eyes still wide, clearly trying to keep up. “What’s going on?” he asked carefully, voice small, fingers curling tighter around the now slightly crumpled peanut box in his hands.

Rooster took a long, lazy sip from his drink, not looking at either of them, then shrugged like this whole thing wasn’t about to spiral into some kind of war. “I’m just saying,” he muttered, setting the glass back down, “every time Raven’s around, I catch her eye-fucking Bob like it’s her job.”

Bob choked instantly, eyes going comically wide as he nearly dropped the box and knocked his knee against the table. “What?” he said, voice cracking, the blush on his cheeks blooming into full-on panic as he looked between them. “I—I don’t think—I mean—I have no idea what you’re talking about—”

“She what?” Jake exploded, half standing, eyes wild as he stared at Bob like Bob had betrayed him without even knowing it. “There is no way. You’re messing with me. She flirts with me, man. I’m her type. This—this makes no sense.”

Rooster shrugged again, leaning his chin into his hand like this was all incredibly boring to him. “Nah. She flirts with you because she knows it gets a rise. It’s fun. You’re easy.”

Jake made a noise like he was being physically attacked. “Easy?!”

Rooster just kept going like he hadn’t said anything remotely controversial. “But every time Bob walks into a room, she looks at him like he’s a snack. And not like a chips-and-salsa kind of snack, but like a full-course, ruin-my-life, let-me-be-a-problem kind of snack.”

Bob made another squeaky little sound in his throat and turned fully toward the table, clutching the peanut box like it was a holy text, his ears now red, his voice barely above a whisper. “I—I think you’re mistaken,” he stammered, looking anywhere but at either of them, “I really don’t think she—I mean—she’s just friendly, I’m sure it’s not—”

“Oh come on!” Jake shouted, flinging his hands in the air like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he had stepped into an alternate timeline where nothing made sense anymore. “This is actually insane. I flirt with her all the time, I wear nice cologne, I do the smirk thing, I lean against walls. What does he do? Sit there? Blink politely?! And that’s what gets her attention?!”

Bob looked absolutely horrified. He sat frozen for a moment, blinking rapidly, still clutching the peanut box like it was the last solid thing in his universe, and then, very quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the music and laughter around them, he snapped.

“What are you guys even talking about?” he asked, voice sharper than usual, not mean, just overwhelmed, confused, a little cracked at the edges like he’d been cornered in the middle of a game he didn’t know he was playing.

Jake pointed a dramatic finger at him, looking genuinely betrayed. “You stole my wife!”

Bob reeled back. “What?! No! I—I didn’t—what are you even saying?! I haven’t done anything! I haven’t said anything! She doesn’t even—she hasn’t—this is ridiculous, I’m not even—look, I’m just sitting here!”

His voice broke halfway through, hands flailing a little in panic, glasses slipping further down his nose, and Rooster actually had to lean forward and grab one of Bob’s wrists before he knocked over someone’s drink. Bob looked utterly flustered, already blushing so badly he could probably cook an egg on his cheeks, chest rising and falling like he’d just run laps.

Jake and Rooster exchanged a look. Then, they both moved at once.

Jake grabbed Bob by the shoulders and turned him gently but firmly in his chair, while Rooster reached over and tilted Bob’s chin toward the centre of the room, both of them crowding in on either side like conspirators in some ridiculous, unspoken plan.

“Look at her,” Rooster said quietly, leaning in, voice low in Bob’s ear.

“Really look,” Jake added, his tone weirdly soft, like all the loud theatrics had suddenly drained from him.

Bob frowned, still confused, still flushed, but he blinked once and followed their direction, slowly turning his head, eyes scanning the bar, until they landed on you.

You, who were still standing by the jukebox surrounded by the others, all of them laughing at something you had just shouted across the room, your head thrown back with your hands up like you were telling a story, your cheeks flushed from the alcohol and the heat of the crowd, your grin completely unbothered, unstoppable, radiant.

Bob’s breath caught a little.

You hadn’t even noticed him staring, you weren’t even facing him directly, but he was looking now, really looking, like the shape of you had just rearranged something in him. The way your eyes danced when you laughed, the way your hands moved when you talked, the way you carried yourself like the entire bar existed just for your amusement, like you belonged everywhere all at once.

Bob couldn’t look away now. He took you in like he’d been starving for weeks and didn’t know it until now, like someone had hit the lights and the music all at once and all he could see was you.

And then, maybe because the universe had a sense of humour, or maybe because you could feel eyes on you even from across a crowded bar, you turned.

Your gaze swept lazily over the room, still laughing at whatever Fanboy was saying, still cradling someone’s beer in your hand like it was your own, but then your eyes landed on him.

You felt as though someone was staring at you, and you wanted to see who dared to look at him. You turned your head slightly, and your eyes met his, sharp and clear like a spotlight piercing through the background.

You remained silent. You didn't turn your head away. Bob felt his breath catch in his chest so painfully because you did nothing but look, really look, as if he were something worth examining, something you had already decided to destroy.

There was something in your eyes that knocked the thoughts clean out of his head. Not soft, not friendly, not even teasing. It was intense, it was focused, it was heat without warning, and Bob swore his heart skipped at least three beats and maybe restarted in a completely new rhythm.

His brain was trying to do something, maybe form a sentence, maybe just function, but everything short-circuited at once and all he could do was sit there and take it, jaw slack, eyes wide, face on fire.

Because you were looking at him. Like that. And he was pretty sure that if that stare lasted one more second, he was going to do something stupid and permanent.

He was going to—

“Oh come on!” Jake groaned, loud and long and absolutely miserable as he threw his whole body back into his chair like the world had personally wronged him. “Did you see that?! That was—that was straight-up eye-fucking, man, with capital letters and a neon sign!”

Rooster took a sip from his drink and leaned back, his voice calm and unbothered as he said, “Told you, man,” like he hadn’t just watched Jake’s pride collapse in real time.

But Bob didn’t move.

He didn’t say anything, didn’t blink, didn’t breathe properly, just sat there completely stunned, eyes still locked in your direction even though you’d already turned away again, already laughing at something Phoenix and Fanboy had said, already pulling someone into a side hug like you hadn’t just dismantled him from across the bar.

He was still sitting there, still staring at the spot where you had been, still dazed out of his mind, hands resting in his lap like he’d forgotten he had fingers, and somewhere down by his chair, the crushed peanut box had fallen and landed sideways on the floor without him noticing.

“Bro,” Rooster said suddenly, leaning in and snapping his fingers right in front of Bob’s face, “hey, Earth to Floyd, are you—wait, are you getting hard right now?”

Bob physically jerked like someone had slapped him, eyes wide as he whipped his head toward Rooster, mouth opening and closing without anything actually coming out for a full two seconds.

“I—I’m not—what?! No! I’m not—I wouldn’t—I didn’t even—” Bob stammered, his voice climbing an octave with every syllable, hands coming up like he could defend himself from the sheer accusation of it. His ears had gone so red they practically glowed under the bar lights, and he looked horrified in the most painfully sincere way.

“I can’t believe this,” Jake groaned beside him, slumping into the table like he was being punished by the universe itself, face pressed to the wood like he couldn’t physically carry the weight of his own disappointment anymore. “I flirted for months, I put in effort, I smiled with my eyes, and all it takes is one soft-spoken stare from a guy who reads peanut boxes like poetry and she’s ready to pounce?!”

Bob let out the most distressed sound anyone had ever heard from him, something between a gasp and a whimper, and looked like he was seriously debating crawling under the table and just staying there forever.

“I was not—I didn’t—Rooster!” he half-yelled, voice cracking again, both hands running through his hair now like he was seconds away from full shutdown, “You can’t just ask someone that! That’s—that’s not even—how would you even know?!”

Rooster shrugged, cool as ever. “I mean, you kinda spaced out for a full minute and then started breathing like someone pressed the turbo button.”

Jake let out another wounded groan, dragging his forehead across the table like he was physically trying to melt into it. “This is my villain origin story,” he mumbled, “this is how I go rogue.”

───────

You had really only meant to sneak a glance.

Just something quick, nothing serious, just a casual little look to see if he was still being flustered and adorable or if Jake had calmed down even a little or if Bradley was still wearing that smug older-brother-who-knows-something-you-don’t expression. 

But the moment your eyes landed on Bob, blushing like mad, eyes wide, hands frozen mid-air like he was trying to figure out where they were supposed to go, and his shirt all slightly wrinkled from the way he had been messing with it nervously, your entire body tensed.

And the groan that left you wasn’t soft.

It was long and low and full of frustration, the kind that came from months of silently suffering in your own personal hell, and it slipped out before you could stop it.

Phoenix tilted her head, brows already raised. “You alright or are you gonna combust in public?”

Halo followed the direction of your stare, barely hiding her smirk. “I swear, if this is still about Lieutenant Eye Contact over there—”

You groaned again, dragging your hands down your face like maybe, just maybe, if you covered your eyes, your feelings would evaporate. “I swear on my last brain cell, I’m gonna lose it. I’m gonna actually lose it and scream. He’s sitting there looking like he just learned what sex is and it’s my fault somehow.”

Halo leaned closer, her drink balanced casually in her hand, voice low and amused. “Are we talking about the man you’ve been eye-fucking since last Christmas?”

“That’s the one,” Phoenix said under her breath, tapping the edge of her glass against the bar like she was keeping score.

“I have tried,” you hissed, slumping sideways against the jukebox, “I have flirted, I have smiled, I have worn outfits that would put a saint in a chokehold, I almost kissed Hangman for the sole purpose of emotional terrorism and he” — you pointed in Bob’s direction like it hurt — “he still thinks I’m being friendly.”

Phoenix blinked slowly. “You’re telling me that look you just gave him wasn’t a threat and a promise all in one?”

“I want to bite him,” you snapped. “And not in a weird way. I mean in a feral, I-don’t-care-if-this-is-socially-acceptable kind of way. I want to pin him to the wall and say oops.”

Halo just nodded solemnly. “Respect.”

“He’s so soft,” you went on, practically vibrating now, “like actually soft, not just emotionally soft but like if I kissed his neck he’d probably short-circuit and make a noise I wouldn’t recover from, and you’re all acting like I’m the crazy one—”

“You are the crazy one,” Phoenix interrupted calmly, “but it’s fine, you wear it well.”

“I need to get laid,” you groaned, dragging the words out like they hurt, your head dropping back against the jukebox again with a dull thud that none of them even reacted to anymore. “Like seriously laid. Like knock-me-out-and-reset-my-central-nervous-system kind of laid. My fucking vibrator at home is this close to giving up on me, I swear I can hear it sigh when I pick it up.”

Halo snorted, sipping her drink without breaking eye contact. “Okay, but Seresin’s right there. You could literally just make eye contact and he’d throw himself at you like a cartoon character.”

You scrunched your nose so fast it looked like a reflex. “Don’t be disgusting.”

Phoenix let out a snort of laughter that turned into a cough, nearly spilling her drink. “Did you just gag at the thought of Jake Seresin?”

“I’m sorry,” you said, holding up a hand, “I respect him as a fellow menace but if I ever have to look at his smug face while he’s naked I think I might actually start crying. I’d rather stay abstinent.”

“Okay, but seriously,” Halo leaned in, squinting like she was studying you, “when was the last time you got laid?”

You stared at her.

She blinked.

Phoenix leaned forward.

You blinked.

“...Nine months ago?” you said finally, very slowly, like you were doing the math in real time and were also a little offended by the number.

There was a pause. A full-body, what-the-fuck-did-you-just-say pause.

“Nine?!” Phoenix shouted, eyes wide, jaw actually dropping.

Halo looked personally attacked. “How are you alive?!”

You just shrugged, taking a long sip of your drink like this was normal, like you weren’t actively dying inside. “I think it’s Bob. Like he’s been reversing the effects of my last hook-up through sheer wholesomeness or something. Like every time he looks at me and blushes I forget what sex even is. I think I’ve been... un-fucked. Spiritually.”

Phoenix covered her mouth with her hand, wheezing. “You’ve gone insane.”

“I know,” you said again, voice muffled through your fingers, “and I’m not even sorry. It’s his fault. He says please and thank you and I want to ruin him.”

Halo nodded slowly, like it all made sense now. “You’ve got it bad.”

“Do I?” you snapped. “Because I’ve spent the last eight months wanting to throw that man against a wall and every time I try to flirt with him, he tells me to have a nice day.”

Phoenix was already laughing, her head tilted back, one hand pressed to her chest like she couldn’t believe the words coming out of your mouth. “Have a nice day,” she repeated, practically wheezing, “girl, he’s killing you.”

“He’s polite,” Halo added, eyes wide, voice dramatic like she was recounting a murder, “he calls people ma’am, he waits in lines, he probably says sorry when he bumps into furniture—”

“He does,” you cut in, voice sharp, pointing at her like that was the worst part. “He does say sorry when he runs into chairs. I’ve seen it. He bumped his knee on a coffee table in the rec room and he whispered sorry like it had feelings. It did something to me. I don’t want to be normal anymore.”

Halo covered her mouth and squeaked. “That’s adorable.”

“It’s lethal,” you said, arms crossed, foot tapping furiously against the floor. “I’m losing my mind. I’m walking around like I’m fine but inside it’s just Bob Bob Bob Bob Bob and then sometimes Bob in a towel because I saw that one time and it’s never left me.”

Phoenix spit her drink.

Halo grabbed your arm. “You saw Bob in a towel and you’ve been sitting on that information this whole time?!”

“It was months ago,” you hissed, glancing around like you were revealing top secret government intel, “I walked past the locker room and he had just come out of the showers and he had his little glasses on and a towel wrapped around his waist and wet hair and I genuinely almost fainted. Like black spots in my vision, I had to sit down.”

Phoenix looked devastated. “You sat on that. You kept that to yourself.”

“I tried to forget,” you said, pressing a hand to your chest like it still haunted you. “But it plays in my brain like a damn music video.”

Halo let out a long, low whistle. “You’ve got it so bad. You need to do something. You’re gonna combust.”

“Like what?” you asked, flailing your hands, fully spiralling now. “He probably thinks I’m just being nice! I wore a crop top last week and dropped my pen on purpose and bent over to pick it up and he said, “That's a safety hazard, ma’am.””

Phoenix wheezed again. “That man has no idea.”

“That man,” you said, staring at your drink like it had wronged you, “is my Roman Empire.”

Phoenix gave you a look. The kind that said she was about five seconds away from grabbing your shoulders and shaking the desperation out of you. “Okay then, if Bob’s gonna keep playing the oblivious virgin card, maybe it’s time to get some actual dick and stop hallucinating every time he says thank you.”

You opened your mouth to protest but she cut you off.

“No, don’t even argue,” she said, waving her drink around like a wand, “we’re surrounded by military-grade testosterone, someone in here has to be emotionally unavailable and hot enough to distract you for at least one night.”

Halo hummed and leaned forward, scanning the crowd like a hawk. “Alright then, let’s find her a rebound,” she said like it was a mission, eyes sharp, smile deadly.

You were about to tell them to chill, that you didn’t need a full-blown one-night-stand intervention, but then Halo suddenly pointed with her drink, her voice dropping into something lower, smugger.

“Okay, but like that guy,” she said, tilting her head slightly.

You followed her gaze, and your stomach flipped.

Across the room, leaning casually against the bar, was a man who honestly looked like he had walked straight out of a fantasy novel. Tall, dressed in a dark button-up with sleeves rolled just enough to show his forearms, long fingers wrapped around a whiskey glass, head tilted slightly like he was thinking about something poetic. Sharp jawline, high cheekbones, soft curls pushed back, and the kind of slow, easy smirk that said he had ruined people before and never lost sleep over it.

And his eyes? Locked directly on you.

You blinked.

He raised his glass.

You blinked again.

“Why does he look like he writes sad poems for a living?” you whispered.

Halo grinned. “He’s been staring at you for the last ten minutes. And not like a guy who wants to talk, but like a guy who already has your Spotify password memorised.”

Phoenix sipped her drink. “He looks like if British regret was a person. That man reads Virginia Woolf in bed and then ruins lives with his hands.”

You gawked. “I mean he’s hot but what if he’s a serial killer?”

“I mean,” Halo said, eyes twinkling, “worth the risk, no?”

You groaned, slumping forward like this whole night was being personally orchestrated by the universe to destroy you. “I can’t. What if I sleep with him and then Bob finds out and I have to live with the shame of being dickmatized by a man who looks like he cries during jazz?”

Phoenix raised a brow. “Or... you could just march across the bar, grab Bob by the collar, and solve your little nine-month crisis tonight.”

You stared down into your drink like it was going to give you a divine answer, swirled the liquid slowly, lips pressed together, heartbeat a little too fast and brain way too loud.

Because on one hand, no. You weren’t about to throw yourself at some British man with cheekbones sharp enough to cut glass and a possible emotional support book of poetry in his back pocket. 

You didn’t even know his name. What if he turned out to be weird? What if he asked you to call him “my muse” mid-way through? What if he wore socks during sex?

But also…

It had been nine months.

Nine. Whole. Fucking (not literally). Months.

You hadn't even realised how long it had been until you said it out loud earlier, and now the number was sitting in your chest like a dead weight, echoing louder than the music, making your brain short-circuit with every shift of Bob's glasses and every accidental flex of his forearms and every goddamn “ma’am” that slipped out of his mouth like he wasn’t slowly ruining your life with the power of respectful vocabulary.

You shifted on your feet and tried to act normal, but you were practically vibrating.

Am I really about to fold? 

Am I that down bad? 

Would having sex with a random man just to quiet the Bob voices in my head be considered spiritual cheating?

Is it even cheating if Bob has no idea I’ve mentally married him three times already?

You sighed. “I don’t know,” you muttered, finally answering your friends, still not looking up. “The idea of having sex with a stranger just makes me tired. Like emotionally, physically, mentally tired. The prep, the fake laughing, the pretending to be surprised when they say something dumb, the awkward moment when they ask if I came and I have to lie—”

Halo was already laughing. “Okay, that’s fair.”

Phoenix leaned in, smirking. “But...?”

You groaned and let your head fall forward until it bumped the jukebox again. “But I also feel like if I don’t get railed soon I’m gonna start seeing God in traffic lights.”

Halo choked on her drink. “Sweetheart, you are in hell.”

“I know,” you whined, “and he’s over there drinking soda like a virgin prince who doesn’t know he could absolutely destroy me with one firm sentence.”

“Hello…”

───────

Bob’s soul just fucking left his body the moment he saw that guy, tall and sharp and walking like he owned the place, like he belonged in the frame with you, like he was about to say something smooth and actually pull it off, and Bob didn’t even notice how Jake had started rambling again about something gross, probably his top three sex positions or some shit about eye contact and rhythm and Bradley, for some reason, was agreeing with him, even adding details, even leaning forward like this was an actual conversation people were meant to hear. 

But none of it mattered because Bob wasn’t listening, couldn’t listen, not when he was too busy watching that guy talk to you, like really talk to you, not just throw lines but say something that actually made you laugh, something that made you shift a little and glance down like you were trying not to smile too much, and Bob just sat there, eyes locked and hands clenched and head starting to ring, because since when did you smile like that for anyone else?

Since when did you get flustered?!

Because he had watched you flirt with people for months, had seen you blow kisses at Hangman just to mess with him, had heard you call a superior officer “handsome” with a wink and not even blink after it, had seen you push Coyote’s buttons and knock back tequila and laugh like nothing could get to you.

But now, now you were playing with your drink, looking down at your shoes, tucking your hair behind your ear like you didn’t even realise you were doing it, and Bob was going to explode, he was going to lose it completely, and Phoenix wasn’t helping, she was right there giving you the most encouraging look he’d ever seen, and Halo was leaning in like she was ready to start chanting “take him home” in your ear, and Bob—

Bob was fucking stuck. Just stuck there in the middle of whatever hell this was, feeling his heart crawl up his throat as he watched the guy lean in closer to you, and you didn’t even pull away.

Bob kept watching though, he couldn’t not watch, and he couldn’t even pretend to glance away or look casual or participate in whatever the hell Jake was saying now about how shower sex was overrated if the water pressure sucked, because all he could do was stare across the room like he’d just been hit with something heavy, because you were still talking to that guy, nodding along and laughing at whatever he was saying. 

And Bob could tell it was smooth, could tell the guy knew what he was doing, the way he was leaning with just enough space to be respectful but still make it feel like it meant something, the way his hand casually brushed the bar top right next to yours, like it was nothing, like he hadn’t been staring at you all night like you were the goddamn sun.

And you were eating it up.

You were laughing, you were twirling your straw around your glass, you were shifting one foot like you were nervous or shy or maybe just excited, and Bob’s heart was climbing, actually climbing, like physically trying to escape through his throat and he didn’t know what to do with his hands anymore, didn’t know where to look or how to sit or how to breathe, because you tilted your head and leaned in closer and the guy said something that made you smile so wide Bob felt it in his chest.

He didn’t even know the guy, had no clue if he was Navy or civilian or just some random who strolled into the Hard Deck like it was fate, but he hated him already, hated the way he looked at you like he deserved your attention, hated the way you gave it to him, hated that you weren’t looking back at Bob like you usually did, hated that you weren’t tossing him a glance just to see if he was paying attention, hated that this time, maybe you didn’t care if he was.

And maybe he’d imagined it all

Maybe all those looks across the bar and all the half-smiles and lingering hands on his shoulder or his wrist or the way you called him sweetheart when you thought no one was listening, maybe it was just how you were, maybe you were like this with everyone, maybe he was stupid to think it ever meant anything more than your usual mess of charm and games and heat, because now, now you were leaning against the bar and actually blushing at something some stranger said, and Bob’s lungs felt too small for his chest.

And Bradley nudged him, said something about looking like he’d seen a ghost, and Bob tried to answer but it came out wrong, because what was he supposed to say, hey man I think I’m watching my entire life spiral out of my control because the girl I’ve been lowkey in love with for the last ten months might be about to give her number to a guy who looks like he journals with a quill pen and kisses with poetry, because even thinking that made Bob’s stomach flip.

And he was still staring, still holding on to the fading hope that maybe you’d look at him, even for just a second, like maybe you’d catch his eye and do that thing where you smirk like you know you’ve got him wrapped around your finger, but you weren’t looking, you were still talking, and Bob could feel something in him starting to spiral.

And he wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take.

“Dude.”

Bob blinked once, just once, because he was still looking at you, still watching how your fingers curled around your glass and how your mouth moved when you laughed, and maybe he imagined it, maybe it wasn’t real, but he could’ve sworn your eyes flicked up like you were about to glance around the room, and he waited, he actually held his breath like a loser waiting for you to look his way, but it never happened.

And then came Bradley, because of course it was Bradley, leaning in close like he was about to deliver classified information, his voice low, his brows up, his tone doing that annoying thing where it sounded casual but also absolutely meant business, and Bob didn’t even look at him properly because Jake, Jake was suddenly there too, on the other side, like they’d planned this, like they’d coordinated their chaos just to crowd him, shoulder to shoulder, pressure from both sides like they were about to shake sense into him.

“Are you seriously just gonna sit here?” Bradley muttered, and it was that tone, the really? tone, the are-you-fucking-kidding-me tone, and Bob wanted to argue, really he did, except Jake spoke at the same time.

“She’s right there, man,” Jake hissed like they were in the middle of some covert operation, “and you’re just... sitting? What, you think she’s gonna walk over here and propose to you?”

Bob blinked again.

“She’s laughing,” Bradley said, like Bob couldn’t see it himself, like Bob hadn’t been watching it happen in real time, like he didn’t know every shift of your weight and every twitch of your smile and every little habit you had when someone managed to genuinely get your attention, “and she’s smiling at him like he’s charming and she doesn’t usually do that, man, you know that, you know that.”

And Bob tried, he really did, he opened his mouth to explain that he was frozen, that he wasn’t physically capable of standing up right now, that his hands were literally sweating and his legs felt like twigs and his brain was caught somewhere between heartbreak and cardiac arrest, but Jake cut him off again, too loud for his own good, because he was Hangman and subtlety was a concept he never quite absorbed.

“Even I’m rooting for you now, Baby on board,” he said, like this was some kind of painful underdog movie, “you’re the quiet guy, the respectful guy, the one with the slow stare and the soft little voice that probably ruins people behind closed doors—”

Bob choked.

“—don’t act like you don’t know it either,” Jake pushed on, like Bob hadn’t already been living in denial for the past year, “you’ve got that whole Clark Kent thing going on and she’s been eye-fucking you since Christmas, and now you’re just gonna let her walk off with the guy who probably starts sentences with ‘Actually, in the original French—’?”

And Bradley was nodding along like this was completely reasonable.

Bob made a noise, something halfway between a breath and a crisis, and tried to look anywhere but at you, but that made it worse, because when he looked at the bar again, you were still there, still smiling, still twirling your straw and tilting your head and doing that thing where your knee bounced slightly when you were into a conversation, and Bob could see Phoenix give you this look, this wide-eyed, giddy, you got this, babe look, and Halo practically beaming beside her like she was your personal hype squad, and suddenly it felt like the floor was shifting, like the air in the bar got too thin.

And then Bradley leaned in even closer, close enough that Bob actually flinched, and his voice dropped so low it was almost unfair.

“She likes you,” he said simply, not a tease, not a push, just a fact laid flat between them like Bob hadn’t already known it, like he hadn’t been clinging to the maybe of it for months, “you just never do anything about it, man, and she’s not gonna wait forever.”

Bob opened his mouth again, completely panicked, completely lost.

Jake smacked his shoulder hard enough to jolt him and muttered, “Do something, Floyd, for fuck’s sake, before she gives Tall British Tragedy her number and breaks your entire bloodline.”

And Bob, poor, frozen, flustered, too-in-love-to-function Bob, just stared back at you like this was all some kind of test he wasn’t ready for, like maybe he’d already failed and this was the part where he had to find out what it felt like to lose something that was never his.

Bob’s eyes twitched behind his glasses, just a little at first, like his body was trying to warn him before his brain caught up, but then it happened again, sharper this time, more obvious, and he knew it wasn’t just a tick, it was rage or panic or maybe both, bubbling in his skin as he watched Phoenix and Halo walk away from you with the smuggest looks on their faces, winking like traitors, like they hadn’t just abandoned you with a man who looked like he belonged in a goddamn fragrance ad.

And you, of course you, tried to shoot them a glare, really tried, but it was weak and late and you didn’t even commit to it, because the second the guy opened his mouth again, you were distracted all over again, smiling, laughing softly, turning back toward him like he’d said something worth hearing, and that was when Bob realised he was going to snap.

He didn’t know how much time passed after that, couldn’t remember how many seconds or minutes had bled into one another while he sat there, too stiff and too warm and way too close to spiralling, because you were clearly flirting now, not just smiling and nodding politely, not just entertaining the guy because you were too nice to walk away, but genuinely engaged, leaning in ever so slightly, talking low, brushing your fingers along the bar while he mirrored the motion on his side, and it didn’t matter that he wasn’t actually touching you, because it was close enough, because the tension was there and the space was shrinking and Bob could see it, could see both of you slowly undressing each other with your eyes like this was the beginning of something that wasn’t supposed to happen in front of him.

And then you stood up. You stood up, and he did too.

He didn’t even realise it, didn’t plan it, just suddenly found himself walking, legs moving without consent, heart in his throat, and then his voice followed, shaky but determined, louder than it should have been as he crossed the room with his chest tight and his jaw clenched and his hands curled too tightly at his sides.

“Raven.”

You turned immediately, eyes catching his, and you tilted your head the second you recognised him, something surprised and amused settling over your expression like you hadn’t expected him to be standing there looking like he was two seconds away from short-circuiting.

“Yes, Bob?” you asked, calm and curious, lips parted just enough to make his brain freeze for a second longer than it should’ve.

He opened his mouth, words half-formed in the back of his throat, but the man beside you was already turning toward him, already offering his hand like he was made of pure class and silk, smiling like this wasn’t the most stressful moment of Bob’s entire year.

“Tom,” he said, accent undeniably British, voice smooth and kind, too kind, like this was all incredibly polite and not at all threatening, like he wasn’t on the verge of taking you home, like he wasn’t already halfway through winning you over.

And you, oblivious or maybe just cruel, smiled and gestured between them both like this was all normal.

“Bob, this is Tom. Tom, Bob. He’s my teammate.”

And Bob just stood there, face warm, hands awkward at his sides, heart screaming, because he hadn’t even gotten to say what he came here to say, because now he was meeting the man who might walk out the door with you tonight, the man who was taller and prettier and had an accent, and Bob had no idea how to compete with that.

Bob’s hand was clammy. He felt it the moment Tom’s fingers wrapped around his, calm and confident, like he’d never known a hint of nervousness in his entire life, and Bob knew his own grip was off, too strong at first then awkwardly loose, and when he said hi, it came out quiet and weird and he immediately followed it up with a second “hello” like that would make it better, and then he cleared his throat like that would help too, like somehow he could reset this entire moment and start over as someone cooler.

He let go too fast. And then he turned to you.

“Could we—” he started, voice unsure again, too high, too soft, and he cleared his throat again because fuck, “could we talk for a second?”

And your face, God, your face looked like you genuinely weren’t expecting that at all, because your brows furrowed and your lips parted like you were trying to remember if you’d forgotten something important, and then you glanced at Tom, probably just instinct, probably just checking if this was weird, if you needed to be worried, but Tom didn’t even flinch.

He was just standing there beside you, all tall and calm and British and perfect, looking at you like he was listening but not interfering, like he didn’t mind being interrupted, like he was curious, and it made Bob’s skin itch.

“Talk?” you asked, slower this time, confused and cautious. “About what?”

Bob could feel his heart thumping in his throat again, loud and uneven, and Tom didn’t say a word, just kept watching you like none of this was strange, and Bob hated it, hated the way Tom was so composed and kind and patient, hated the way he kept looking at you like you were something soft.

“About work,” Bob said, way too fast, voice firmer than before but still not convincing enough, and you gave him a look, the kind that made it obvious you were two seconds away from making up some excuse and walking back into whatever moment Bob had just interrupted.

You let out a sigh. A big one. The kind that came from your chest.

And you gave him this soft, apologetic smile, like you were about to let him down easy, like you weren’t mad at all but you definitely didn’t want to follow him away from the very charming, very hot man currently standing by your side with that soft-eyed patience that was making Bob feel violently unwell.

But before you could say anything, before that smile could fully settle into its place, Bob leaned in just the tiniest bit and dropped his voice. “It’s serious,” he said, and it was gentler now, like all that panic and fire had drained into something quieter, something realer.

And your eyes flicked up to meet his, like you could feel it, like maybe you finally understood that this wasn’t about work at all. “Please?”

───────

Was he really doing this right now?

Like seriously, was Bob Floyd, sweet, gentle, painfully shy Bob who couldn’t even hold your gaze for longer than five seconds without looking like he’d combust, really asking to talk about work, right now, when you were finally, finally about to break your absolutely pathetic nine-month streak of not getting laid, which was, let’s be honest here, kind of his fault in the first place, because if he hadn’t been looking at you all the time like you hung stars and also like he was absolutely terrified of you, then maybe, maybe, you wouldn’t have been stuck in this strange limbo of flirting and tension and frustration and sleeping beside a vibrator that honestly deserved retirement benefits at this point.

So yeah. You blinked. You tried not to groan. You tried to remember your manners.

But then Tom, ever the gentleman, ever the calmly spoken and irritatingly attractive British man who looked like he recited poetry and smelled like wealth, had the audacity to offer with a polite smile, “Why don’t you two talk about it while I’m here?”

And he didn’t even get to finish.

Because Bob, Bob who had just a second ago looked like he was about to melt into the floor, suddenly snapped his attention toward Tom with this polite but firm tone and went, “I’d prefer it was private.”

And then, it happened. A goddamn pissing contest is what happened.

“Oh come on,” Tom said lightly, clearly amused and clearly not realising that he was about ten seconds from being tackled by a man who probably hadn’t said the word “fuck” out loud in years. “It’s a bar, mate. Not a debriefing room.”

“I still think it’d be better if we stepped away,” Bob answered, still nice, still polite, still impossibly soft-spoken, but you could hear it now, the sharpness beneath it, the quiet frustration, the fact that he’d finally reached a limit and was now, apparently, taking a stand right here next to the jukebox.

And you just stood there, caught in the middle of it, not even sure what the hell was happening anymore, because you were supposed to be the chaotic one, you were supposed to be the one who caused scenes, but now you were watching Bob bicker with a English man like the slowest, politest trainwreck of your life, and the worst part, the most disarming part, was that your eyes had drifted, totally without permission, back to Bob.

Because he looked serious. Serious and flushed and focused and every bit like someone who had made a decision and was finally following through with it, and god, that look, that look alone might’ve short-circuited whatever parts of your brain were still functioning.

So ,you did what any emotionally unstable, horny, overthinking, severely overstimulated woman would do.

You stepped in the middle.

Literally.

You put yourself between them, palms raised, body angled to stop them from leaning in any further, because this was ridiculous, this was too much, this was like stepping into a fanfiction you forgot you were starring in.

And then, Tom took your right hand, and Bob took your left.

At the same fucking time.

And for a moment, you genuinely forgot how to speak, because the both of them were still holding your hands like it meant something, still glaring at each other over your shoulders like you were a trophy and they were fighting to the death, and you just stood there, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, absolutely certain that you were being pranked by the universe, because what in the Wattpad hell was going on.

And then Tom tugged your hand.

It wasn’t hard, it wasn’t aggressive, just a gentle kind of pull like he was trying to guide you back to his side or maybe get your attention again, but your wrist twisted just a little weird and the second the pressure hit your thumb the wrong way, you let out a soft, annoyed, “Ouch—”

And that was it. 

Bob stepped forward. Not with words, not with a warning, not with anything but a shift, a movement, a quiet decision to put himself right in front of you like some kind of flesh-and-bone wall, and suddenly you were looking at the back of his jacket and the slope of his neck and the way his shoulders looked too tense to be real, and then he was leaning in, just a few inches, just enough that the space between him and Tom felt like it was about to catch fire.

And Tom was taller, yeah, by maybe an inch or two, and he was still calm, still composed, still fucking unbearable with how gentle his expression was, but Bob didn’t even flinch, didn’t look away, didn’t hesitate, just stared up at him with that quiet fury that only existed in people who usually kept everything buried.

“I think you should back off,” Bob said, soft and polite but absolutely not playing anymore, and you could hear the shift in his voice, could feel the ripple in the air around him like a fuse had just been lit under the surface.

Tom blinked, eyebrows raised, still not moving, still not letting go of your hand. “Look, I think you’ve misunderstood—”

But Bob cut in, not loud, not rude, just firm. “I’m going to say this nicely, because I’m still trying to be respectful,” he said, and you watched the way his jaw clenched as he exhaled through his nose, watched the way his voice stayed perfectly measured like he’d rehearsed it in his head a hundred times.

“But this is a bar full of Navy officers,” Bob continued, tilting his chin just slightly, like he was reminding Tom of exactly where the hell he was standing, “and I promise you, it won’t end well for you if you give anyone a reason to think you’re not welcome here.”

Bob gave a smile. It wasn’t sweet, and it wasn’t fake either, it was the kind of smile that made you blink and stop breathing for a second, the kind that made your stomach flip because it wasn’t Bob’s usual shy little corner-of-the-mouth smile, it was firm and controlled and slightly dangerous, and it made your pulse trip over itself.

Because holy shit, Bob Floyd was not playing.

And for a second, you genuinely thought you misheard him, like maybe you imagined it, maybe Bob didn’t just say what he very clearly said, but then you blinked and he was still looking at Tom like that, like that calm quiet stare could say everything he wasn’t shouting, and you actually felt your lungs stutter because what the fuck just happened, what do you even do when Bob Floyd says something like that so casually, like it’s already true, like he didn’t just light a match and throw it directly at your sex drive.

Tom didn’t say anything at first, just narrowed his eyes slightly, just shifted his jaw like he was still trying to decide whether this was a joke or a misunderstanding or something he could smooth over with enough English charm, and then he turned to you again, slower this time, voice measured and almost stiff like he was trying to keep it light, like he didn’t just get completely shut down in one sentence, and he goes, “I hope I get to see you again—”

But Bob spoke right over him.

Not loud, not mean, not rude, just... final.

“No, you won’t,” he said, and it didn’t even sound like a threat, it sounded like a certainty, like he knew for a fact that this night was going to end one way and one way only and it wasn’t going to involve Tom and his polite accent and his goddamn cheekbones.

And then, because apparently you hadn’t suffered enough, because apparently Bob wanted to absolutely end your life in the middle of the Hard Deck with a sentence, he added, “She’ll be with me.”

And your brain just stopped. Like fully, completely shut off.

You stared at him because you didn’t know what else to do, because your mouth had gone dry and your stomach had flipped and your knees genuinely, actually wobbled a little and you were so glad you were standing still because you were dangerously close to collapsing from sheer what the fuck was that.

Because Bob Floyd had never said anything like that to you before.

Because Bob Floyd was shy and sweet and respectful and he never looked at you too long unless he thought you weren’t paying attention, and now he was standing in front of you like he’d just decided this was done, that the tension between you wasn’t going to stretch out a day longer, that you were his, and that was it.

And the worst part, or maybe the best part, or maybe just the most terrifying part, was that you wanted it.

You wanted it so bad you couldn’t breathe.

Because it wasn’t even what he said, it was how he said it, that quiet steel in his voice, the soft but unshakable way he stood between you and Tom, the way he didn’t even look back at the guy anymore because he knew you were watching him, and god, god, you couldn’t stop watching him, you couldn’t look away, you couldn’t think of a single word to say because every part of you had short-circuited.

And yeah.

You were speechless.

And you were horny.

So catastrophically, unreasonably horny you nearly whimpered, because Bob Floyd just claimed you in the most Bob Floyd way possible and you might never recover from this moment.

You didn’t say another word. You just grabbed his hand, tight and determined and maybe even shaking a little because your brain had finally caught up to the rest of you and decided, yes, this was happening, this was actually happening, and Bob, and Bob didn’t even resist, just blinked in stunned silence as you pulled him along like some kind of feral force of nature who’d decided that tonight was it, tonight was the end of the waiting game, tonight was the fucking finale.

You didn’t check who was watching, didn’t glance at Jake or Bradley or even the girls because the second you looked back you might lose your nerve, might forget how to walk straight, might start overthinking everything and accidentally ruin it, so instead you just walked, fast and angry and certain, dragging Bob through the Hard Deck like a woman possessed, like your heartbeat was louder than the music, like your hands were about to start shaking from how badly you needed to feel something more than just the heat under your skin.

And the second you reached the bathroom that was blessedly empty, clean, the faint scent of lemony disinfectant still lingering from the cleaner who’d left maybe five minutes ago, and you yanked open the door, shoved him in with you, and locked it behind you without even giving him time to speak.

You were panting. You were flushed. You were a goddamn storm system ready to tear through everything in your path.

And Bob? Bob looked like he had no idea what just happened.

He was still trying to catch up, still standing there like he couldn’t decide if he should apologise or fall to his knees, and you didn’t say anything either, didn’t ask him if this was okay, didn’t ask if he wanted it, because you didn’t have to; his eyes already told you everything, wide and glassy and hungry, his chest rising fast beneath that stupid flight tee he still hadn’t taken off, his hands curled at his sides like he didn’t know where to put them, like if he touched you now he might lose it completely.

And maybe that was what you wanted.

Maybe that was why your breath hitched and your knees almost buckled, because he was just standing there, looking at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he didn’t know where to look first, like he didn’t know how to start, and it was killing you, it was absolutely killing you, the tension thick enough to choke on and your skin already buzzing, already hot, already wet, fuck, you were wet, and you could feel it now, every step you’d taken to get here, every heartbeat pounding between your legs like a countdown, like a warning, like something was about to break.

You could feel your panties clinging uncomfortably to your skin and it didn’t even embarrass you, it didn’t make you hesitate, because the only thing you could think about was how badly you needed him to touch you, how much it was already driving you insane that he wasn’t, how completely fucking unhinged it made you that Bob, sweet, soft, shy Bob, was the reason your thighs were clenching and your fingers were twitching and your back was already pressing to the cold tile wall just to keep yourself steady.

And he still hadn’t moved.

He was breathing like you were taking all the air in the room with you, like he didn’t know what the hell he’d just gotten himself into, and you could feel it now, the way your body was starting to shake with it, with all of it, the heat and the tension and the months of wanting, and the fact that you were both locked in a bathroom with less than three feet between you and only one possible outcome left—

And your voice broke out before you could stop it. “Do you know what you do to me?”

And you said it like a confession, like a sin, like something cracked open in the middle of your chest and bled out into the air between you, and your voice was hoarse and shallow and dazed and your back stayed right against the door because you weren’t sure your knees could handle even a step forward, weren’t sure if your legs would even work anymore because you were barely breathing and your palms were sweating and you were dizzy, not drunk dizzy, not flustered dizzy, just desperate, just overwhelmed, just fucking done with pretending you didn’t feel everything at once when it came to him, and when you finally looked up, when you really looked at Bob—

He wasn’t nervous.

He wasn’t stammering.

He wasn’t doing that soft little head tilt he always did when he was confused or shy or trying to figure out what the hell was going on in front of him, because this wasn’t confusion anymore, this wasn’t hesitation, this was heat, this was hunger, this was something unspoken and dangerous and so sharp it made your whole body lock up, because Bob Floyd was looking at you like he had been holding back for too long and maybe tonight he wasn’t going to anymore.

And then he stepped forward.

And your breath caught so hard it felt like something slammed into your lungs, and you didn’t mean to but you took a half-step back, only your back was already against the door, so it just made you straighten a little, made you tilt your chin up as his body closed in on yours, not touching yet, not even brushing, just crowding, just pressuring, just standing there like he could trap you with nothing more than proximity and silence and the way his eyes burned right through your fucking skin.

“Do you know what you do to me?”

He said it like it hurt, said it like a warning, like something he’d been trying so hard not to say and then failed, and the sound of it sent a whole-body shiver down your spine because it didn’t sound like Bob anymore, it didn’t sound like the shy, quiet, soft-spoken man you’d been lowkey in love with since forever, it sounded like something deeper, something hungrier, something wrecked and tired of waiting, and you felt your mouth go dry.

“You think I don’t notice,” he murmured, closer now, voice almost too calm, too quiet, like he was afraid if he let it rise at all he’d lose control of it, “but you look at me like you want me to lose it.”

And your stomach dropped.

Your legs shook.

Your hands itched to grab something, anything, because he wasn’t done, because he wasn’t backing away, because Bob was still coming closer even though there was nowhere else for you to go, and he tilted his head and let his eyes flick down to your mouth and then back up, and that was when you knew, that was when you really knew, because there was no coming back from this now.

“You don’t even realise,” he whispered, just loud enough for you to hear him over the blood rushing in your ears, “what it’s like watching you walk around like that, talking to everyone, laughing like that, wearing that dress like you didn’t know I’d be losing my mind the second I saw you tonight.”

Your chest was rising way too fast.

You couldn’t stop staring at him.

You could feel the heat building and building and your breath was shallow and uneven and your thighs were pressed together and you could swear you felt your own heartbeat between your legs, because Bob Floyd, Bob fucking Floyd, had you caged in with nothing but words and distance and tension and suddenly you weren’t even sure who was in control anymore.

You didn’t move, couldn’t move, couldn’t do anything except stare at him because holy shit, holy actual fucking shit, you weren’t sure your body was yours anymore, weren’t sure your legs were holding you up or if it was just the door doing all the work, because Bob was still right in front of you, still not touching, still looking at you like he had months of frustration burning under his skin and he didn’t know where to put it anymore, and his voice, fuck, his voice was still low and tight and wrecked, and when he spoke again, it hit you straight in the spine.

“I’ve thought about what you’d look like,” he said, slowly, like every word was being dragged straight from his gut, “all fucked out and panting, still begging for more, still trying to say my name.”

Your breath caught so hard it hurt.

“I’ve thought about how wet you’d be,” he kept going, and your whole chest fluttered violently at that, “how you’d sound if I put my mouth on you, how long you’d last before you started begging me to let you come.”

And holy fucking hell, your knees buckled again, this time fully, but his hand shot out and caught your waist before you could even fall, and that was the first time he touched you, that was the first skin-on-skin contact you’d had all night and it was barely anything, just his fingers at your waist holding you steady, but your body reacted like he’d fucking thrown you onto the counter and split you open, because your lungs stuttered and your thighs squeezed tighter and your head was spinning and his hand just stayed there, firm and steady and grounding you like he knew he had to or else you were going to collapse completely.

“And I’ve touched myself to it,” he added, voice softer now but somehow more intense, like it was turning into something vulnerable, something real, “more times than I can count, but it’s never enough, it’s never enough, because it’s not you, and I can’t get you out of my head, and I swear to God, if you don’t kiss me soon I’m going to lose my fucking mind.”

But he didn’t move. He stayed still, staring at you, breathing like he was barely holding himself together, waiting for you to close the distance, for you to make the first move, and your body was burning so hot it hurt, and the silence between you was so loud you thought it might break something in your chest, because holy fuck, this was happening, this was really happening, and all he’d done was speak.

“Bob,” you whispered, and your voice cracked a little, not from nerves, not from doubt, but from the sheer weight of how badly you needed him, how much it burned, how deep it sat in your chest, months and months of restraint clawing their way out of your throat in just one word, and you weren’t even sure if you could keep going but you had to, you had to, because if you didn’t say this now you were going to fucking explode. “Just kiss me, please.”

You barely had time to process the way your back hit the door, hard enough to make it rattle, before he was on you, really on you, his mouth hot and desperate and possessive against yours like he was trying to breathe you in and ruin you at the same time, like this had been killing him and he wasn’t going to wait another second, not even a heartbeat, and you kissed him back just as hard, your hands sliding into his hair, gripping like you needed to keep yourself grounded, like if you let go you might actually fall apart.

And Bob was groaning into your mouth now, low and helpless, the kind of sound that came straight from his chest and vibrated through yours, and it did something to you, something visceral, something that made your knees shake and your brain short-circuit and your fingers curl tighter in his hair just to feel him, just to know this was real, and he pressed his body closer, no hesitation, no question, just heat, just solid, overwhelming heat against every inch of you and you were melting into it, melting into him, gripping the back of his neck like it was the only thing keeping you upright.

And then he pulled back just barely, just far enough to breathe, just far enough for his eyes to crash into yours again, and his forehead dropped against yours and his hand was still on your jaw and the other still on your hip and his chest was heaving like he’d just run ten miles and he still wasn’t touching you enough, not even close.

“I’ve imagined this,” he whispered, voice all breath and wreckage, his lips brushing against yours even as he spoke, “I’ve imagined what you’d look like, pressed up against me, gasping, shaking, begging.”

You whimpered, actually whimpered, because you could feel your thighs pressing together now like they were trying to solve the problem on their own, and your head was swimming with it, dizzy and hot and aching, and Bob leaned in closer, his nose brushing yours, his hand sliding up your side until it was resting right beneath your ribs, holding you like you were breakable but his.

“Do you even know what you do to me?” he asked, and his voice was rougher now, low and shaken and dangerous, and it made your whole body clench, made your breath stutter out again as you stared up at him, completely gone.

You nodded, but it didn’t even matter, because he wasn’t done.

“How many times I’ve thought about this,” he said, and then he tilted his head, just slightly, just enough that his mouth brushed your jaw now instead of your lips, his breath hot against your skin, “how many times I’ve made myself come to the thought of you moaning my name, screaming for me, looking at me like you’re looking at me right now.”

You gasped, actually gasped, because you were looking at him like that, you were giving him every single unfiltered thought and ache and need in your body and he was eating it up like he’d been starving for it, like this was the only thing he’d ever wanted.

“You don’t even know what you’ve done to me,” he whispered, mouth still dragging along your jaw, and your fingers were digging into his shoulders now, your whole body trembling, your thighs pressed together and your hips tilted forward like your body was already moving without permission, like it was chasing the friction, and Bob didn’t stop, didn’t even pause, because he was too far gone now, his voice going darker and hungrier with every word.

“Months,” he breathed, “I’ve been dying for this for months, watching you flirt with every guy who’s not me, watching you laugh and tease and act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing, and I still couldn’t stop thinking about how you’d sound, how you’d taste, how you’d fall apart under me.”

You almost cried. You almost cried right then and there because it was too much, it was everything, and you hadn’t even touched skin yet, hadn’t even unzipped anything, and your whole body was already humming with it, already aching, already so wet it hurt.

And then his hand slid from your waist to your thigh, slowly, like he was making sure you felt every inch, and his forehead still pressed against yours as his other hand slid into your hair, and you didn’t even realise you were holding your breath until he spoke again.

“Tell me,” he whispered, “tell me you want this.”

You let out a sound, not even a word, not even close, it was more like a broken moan caught halfway in your throat and your knees nearly gave out when his hand slid up and wrapped around the base of your neck, not squeezing, not choking, just holding, just owning, just enough pressure to ground you exactly where he wanted you, and you were already gasping before he even moved, already falling apart just from the weight of his palm and the way his thumb brushed your pulse, slow and knowing and devastating.

And then he rolled his hips, grounded into you, slow and deliberate and hard, and you swore the air was sucked out of the room because you could feel it, could feel the size of him through his jeans, thick and aching and right there, pressing up against where you needed him most and your whole body buckled forward into him like you couldn’t take it anymore, like it had already been too long and too much and too everything.

“Use your words, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and wrecked and almost gentle except it wasn’t, not really, because it was also dark and edged and dripping with heat, “I wanna hear you say it.”

And you could barely breathe now, could barely think, you could just feel, could feel the press of his thigh between yours and the way your hips had started moving without permission, grinding forward, chasing friction, chasing him, and your hands were on his chest and then his shoulders and then his neck and you were nodding and gasping and then finally it tumbled out, barely coherent.

“Yes,” you said, voice shaking and high and real, “Yes, yes, yes, I want this, I want you, I want you so bad, please—”

That was all it took.

He kissed you again like he was trying to consume you, like he was starved and you were the only thing in the world that could feed him, and this time it wasn’t slow, it wasn’t sweet, it was needy, it was all tongue and teeth and desperation, it was months of pent-up want coming out like a storm and you met him right there, kissed him back just as hard, grabbed the front of his shirt like you were about to tear it open just to get to more, because it wasn’t enough, you needed more.

And he was grinding into you again, harder now, rougher, like he couldn’t stop himself, like your body was pulling it out of him without even trying, and you could feel him now, full and heavy and aching through the denim, and you swore you were going to come from that alone, from the way his hips kept moving and the way your body kept chasing and the way you could already feel your panties sticking to you like second skin.

“Fuck,” he groaned into your mouth, voice barely there, all breath and grit and broken control, “You feel that? That’s what you do to me, that’s what months of you teasing me gets you.”

You whined against his lips and his hand was still on your throat and his thigh was still between yours and your hips were still rocking and you could feel him getting harder, could feel your own arousal making a mess of your underwear and he still hadn’t even touched you properly yet.

“You gonna let me ruin you in here, sweetheart?” he whispered, hot and heavy and almost sweet if it weren’t for the way his voice dropped on that last word, the way it felt more like a promise than a question, “Right here, against this fucking door?”

“Yes,” you breathed, and you didn’t even hesitate, not for a second, because it was already too much, you were already too far gone, “Yes, Bob, please, yes.”

And your hands moved before your brain could even keep up, fingers fumbling at his belt like you’d lose your mind if you didn’t get it open, like something in you would actually break if you didn’t get to feel him, right now, right here, against this fucking door like he promised, because your entire body was on fire and your panties were sticking to you and your head was spinning and the only thing anchoring you to this goddamn planet was him, was Bob, and the way he was looking at you like he’d been starving for months and only just now got his first real meal.

But then he stopped you.

His hand closed over yours, warm and firm and gentle and Bob, and it wasn’t rejection, not really, it was something else entirely, something that made your breath catch and your heart twist, because he looked at you like he meant it, like he meant you, and you watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice softer now, steadier, more grounded but still thick with that wrecked edge, still hungry, still barely hanging on, “I mean it, are you… are you okay? You’re not drunk or—”

You groaned, actually groaned, head hitting the bathroom door with a soft thud because this was just so Bob, of course he was going to make sure you weren’t tipsy even though you were stone-cold sober and vibrating out of your skin, of course he was going to check in with you first, even though you were seconds away from clawing his shirt off.

“Bob,” you said, and it came out more like a plea than a protest, your chest rising, your hands curling against his shoulders now instead of his belt, “I swear to God, I need you to ruin me.”

And you didn’t even mean to sound so desperate but that’s just what it was, that’s just what he did to you, that’s just where you were now, with him staring at you like he couldn’t believe you were real, like he wanted to wrap his hands around every part of you and keep it.

“I’ve gone nine months without getting laid,” you whispered, panting now, voice cracking like you were halfway to tears from the sheer intensity of it, “Nine months, Bob, and it’s literally your fault because no one’s ever been you and I didn’t even realise it until I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and now you’ve got me pinned against a fucking door and I’m shaking and I can’t feel my knees and if you don’t fuck me right now I swear I’ll—”

He kissed you again before you could finish.

His fingers slipped lower and you gasped, not even because he was touching you but because how he was touching you, slow and almost tender at first, just enough to make you shake with it, just enough to make you whine into his mouth like you were begging for more even though you hadn’t said a word yet, and that must’ve done something to him because suddenly he was groaning, deep in his throat, low and wrecked like he couldn’t help it, and his hips pressed against yours like instinct.

And that’s when you felt it the thick, hard press of him through his jeans, flush against your thigh, and holy shit, he was huge, bigger than you expected, and you let out a strangled breath that might’ve been a whimper if he hadn’t kissed it right out of you.

His fingers slid between your folds like he’d done it a hundred times, like he knew exactly where to find you, and when he brushed over your clit, soft but deliberate, your whole body arched, legs trembling, and he smiled, smiled, like he was proud of himself, like he’d just confirmed something he already suspected.

“Fuck,” he breathed, voice hoarse now, darker, hungrier, “You’re soaking for me, baby.”

You nodded, desperate, mouth open like you couldn’t catch your breath, and when he circled your clit again, firmer this time, more focused, you let out a moan that echoed off the walls and made him growl, actually growl, his glasses fogging worse now, his other hand gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks.

“Tell me,” he whispered, right against your ear, lips brushing your skin, fingers still working you slow and lazy like he had all the time in the world, like he wasn’t one second away from snapping, “Tell me who did this to you?”

“You—” you choked out, barely able to speak through the heat curling up your spine, “You, Bob, fuck—”

“That’s damn right,” he muttered, dragging his fingers lower again, pressing two of them into you with a smooth, practiced motion that had you screaming, forehead against his shoulder, hands clawing at his shirt, “Only me.”

You were gripping his arms now, shaking, gasping, hips grinding down like you needed more, needed all of him, and he gave it to you, curling his fingers just right, just deep enough to make your legs shake, just rough enough to remind you that shy little Bob Floyd was gone, that this man touching you now had teeth and hunger and absolutely no patience left.

“Been thinking about this for months,” he said, voice low and filthy and way too fucking controlled for someone knuckle-deep in your pussy, “Thinking about getting you just like this, begging for me, dripping all over my hand.”

“Bob—” you gasped, eyes rolling back when he started moving faster, harder, hitting that spot so perfectly it almost hurt, and he groaned again, this deep, desperate sound that made your walls clench around his fingers, and he felt it.

“Oh, you like that?” he murmured, kissing the corner of your mouth, jaw tight with restraint, “You like when I fuck you with my fingers, sweetheart? You gonna cum for me like this?”

You didn’t even answer, couldn’t, because your brain had already stopped functioning and your legs were shaking so bad you could barely keep yourself upright, and thank God for the door behind you because without it you would’ve collapsed, folded right there under the weight of his fingers, under the sound of his voice, under the fact that Bob Floyd was saying things to you that should be illegal with the way they made your stomach twist and your pussy clench and your whole body feel like it was about to fall apart.

“Fuck, look at you,” he murmured, low and thick and reverent, like he was watching something sacred happen right there in his hand, like you were something he’d worshipped from afar for too long and now he finally got to touch it, ruin it, claim it, “So wet for me, you’re fucking dripping, sweetheart, I can feel you, shit, you’re gonna cum just from my fingers, aren’t you?”

You nodded so fast your head spun, chest heaving, your back arching off the door as he started pumping into you faster, rougher, more focused now, and every curl of his fingers hit that spot so perfectly your thighs kept twitching, your mouth falling open in shock every time he found it again and again and again like he wanted to watch you unravel, like he wanted to see how much you could take before you broke completely.

And then he leaned in close, close enough that you could feel the heat of his breath on your neck, his glasses barely hanging on at this point, his body fully pressed to yours now, hard cock grinding up against your hip like he needed the friction, like it hurt not to be inside you, and when he whispered in your ear again, you almost sobbed.

“I touch myself to the thought of you,” he said, quietly, honestly, like he was confessing it right to your soul, “I fucking jerk off to the way you laugh, the way you walk around in those tight little shorts like you don’t even know what you’re doing to me.”

You moaned, no, cried something high and shameless, and your hand shot out, grabbing at his belt again because you needed him, needed him, because no one had ever made you feel like this, and you didn’t care how messy it was or where you were or how fucking loud you were getting, because he was still fucking you with his fingers like it was all he ever wanted to do.

“Every night,” he breathed, nipping your jaw, “Every fucking night I’d get off thinking about how you’d sound falling apart for me, how tight you’d be, how wet you’d be, how desperate—fuck—how desperate you’d get just to have me inside you.”

You were gone, completely gone, head thrown back, hands gripping his biceps like you’d die without something to hold on to, and your legs were trembling now, your orgasm building so fast it was almost overwhelming, and he felt it, he knew, because his voice dropped again, soft and serious this time, his hand curling under your chin to tilt your face to his.

“Cum for me, baby,” he said, breathless, commanding, devastating, “Cum on my fingers, let me feel you.”

And you did.

You didn’t even wait for him to catch his breath, didn’t even let him steady himself after making you fall apart on his fingers like you’d been doing it together for years, like he knew your body better than you did, because you were already reaching for his belt again, fumbling, feverish, undoing the buckle like your hands had a mind of their own, and he was just watching you now, chest rising and falling like he’d run a goddamn marathon, lips parted, face flushed and stunned and still so fucking wrecked from watching you cum for him, and the second you pushed him back and made him sit on the edge of that sink, he let out a breath like his soul just left his body.

You dropped to your knees without even thinking about it, hands already yanking his jeans down past his hips, underwear too, and Bob let out the loudest fucking groan the moment his cock sprang free, flushed and hard and thick and twitching, and it was almost too much, almost stupid how pretty he looked like this, glasses slightly fogged, hands gripping the edges of the sink, head tilted back like he couldn’t believe this was happening, like he wasn’t sure if he was about to wake up.

“Fuck,” you breathed, voice gone already, mouth hanging open because you were soaked again just from the sight of him, because of course Bob Floyd had a cock that matched the rest of him, long and heavy and so fucking hard it actually made your mouth water, and you looked up at him once, eyes wide, dazed, overwhelmed, and you swear his face almost broke.

“You don’t have to—” he choked out, voice strained, already unraveling even though you hadn’t touched him yet, but you just looked up at him with this fucking look, like are you seriously trying to stop me right now, and then you licked your lips, slow and deliberate, and wrapped one hand around the base of his cock.

His entire body shuddered.

“Oh my God,” he breathed, jaw clenched, eyes squeezing shut, one of his hands flying up to your hair like he was trying to anchor himself to the moment, trying not to lose his shit too fast, but then your mouth was on him wet and warm and so eager, lips stretching, tongue swirling, and Bob let out a broken sound that made your thighs clench all over again.

“Jesus—fuck, sweetheart—shit, that’s—” he gritted out, hands twitching like he wanted to grab your head, wanted to fuck your throat, but he wouldn’t, he couldn’t, because even now he was still trying to hold back, still trying to be gentle, and it was killing him, you could feel it, you could see it all over his face, the way he was fighting not to lose control when he was so close.

You moaned around him, just to fuck with him, just to feel the way his hips jerked and how his fingers tangled tighter in your hair, and when you took him deeper, relaxed your throat and let him slide all the way in until your nose brushed his pelvis and your eyes were starting to water from it, that was when he snapped.

“Holy fuck, baby, you’re gonna make me cum, shit, fuck, you feel so good, you feel so fucking good,” he groaned, low and desperate, hips twitching, his other hand slamming against the wall like he needed something to break, and when you pulled back just enough to suck harder, bobbing your head, hand still working the base, mouth slick and messy and full of him, he looked down at you.

And the look on his face, flushed and sweating and wide-eyed and completely fucked-out it almost made you cum again.

“Look at you,” he muttered, voice wrecked now, barely holding it together, “On your knees for me, so fucking perfect, so fucking filthy, you’re gonna make me cum down your throat, sweetheart, you want that?”

He then came with a sound you’d never forget, raw and strained and so fucking desperate, fingers tangled in your hair like he’d completely lost track of the world, like all that mattered now was the way your mouth was wrapped around him, the way you swallowed every last drop like you’d been starving for it, like this was something you needed, like it was just for you.

And when you finally pulled off him, lips swollen and jaw aching and spit clinging to your chin, you were both gasping for air, your knees burning from the floor and your body shaking from everything, from the rush and the power and the absolute chaos of what the two of you had just done.

But before you could speak, before you could even get your breath back properly, Bob reached down and pulled you up, hands firm but shaking a little, and he kissed you like he meant to never stop, like he wanted to taste himself on your tongue, like he couldn’t believe you’d just done that, and God, the way he kissed you, all heat and teeth and soft little sounds at the back of his throat, it knocked the air right back out of you.

You whimpered into it, weak and overwhelmed and still so fucking turned on you could barely stand straight, and he kissed you again, slower this time, his palm cupping the side of your face like you were something fragile now, like he didn’t want to let go.

And when he finally pulled back, when he finally let you breathe again, he was still flushed and ruined-looking, but his voice was steady, low, thick, serious in a way that made your stomach drop.

“I’m not done with you,” he murmured, thumb brushing your bottom lip, and you swore your knees buckled, “Not here. Not in a bar bathroom. I’m gonna ruin you,” he said again, gentler now, firmer somehow, “But it’s gonna be in my bed.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the sound starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Usually, their nursemaids would have them by now and would be helping to assist you, but Aliza was sick and Joanna was with her family. Both of them would have scolded you for trying to run when you couldn’t even see your feet, but your kids were a mischievous bunch and you had a sinking feeling on where they were headed.

Aemma, the eldest of the two twins, had been complaining all day about not being able to see her father, as Jace had missed out on breakfast and lunch with her in order to hear a few extra petitions.

It seemed as if the Kingdom was more unruly than usual, and Lords had come from all over the realm to plead their cases.

Wanting to be a good King and make sure that he could adhere to all of his subjects, Jace had opted to spend a little extra time on the throne and a less with his family.

This of course didn’t sit well with Aemma, and as her shadow Jaelin followed right on along with her.

Try as you might have, you weren’t fast enough to catch up to them and your protests for them to stop didn’t do much good, either.

Before you could even blink, your twins were flying past the Kingsguard and bursting into the throne room, with little Aemma’s excited shouting making you want to crawl into a hole right there and then.

“Kepa!”

In no time your baby girl ran across the room, interrupting some poor Lord under a pink banner. You thought that he might’ve been from White Harbor, or maybe he was from Maidenpool.

Whatever it was, you didn’t pay much attention as suddenly, all chatter stopped, and you were the center of attention as you wobbled towards Jacaerys and fixed Aemma with a stern glare.

“Aemma! Come back here!” You shouted after her sternly, and thankfully Jaelin was too afraid of your ‘motherly voice’ to get any closer.

He stopped just short of the Iron Throne, choosing to remain by Ser Darklyn’s side rather than follow his sister up the steps. With horror, you realized that Aemma was headed straight to Jacaerys, exclaiming happily as she threw herself in her father’s open arms.

“Kepa!”

She bounced excitedly as Jace pulled her on his lap, looking amused while you struggled to catch your breath.

Running at your size was no joke, and you ached to sit down somewhere and rest. You couldn’t do that though while your two year old twins were causing mayhem.

It was unbefitting of a Queen, you knew that, but desperation had you hiking up your dress, climbing the the steps, and holding your arms out expectantly while Jace chuckled.

“Aemma. It’s time to say goodbye to Kepa and go back to our chambers. Now,” You told her, but that only resulted in the toddler shaking her head and burying herself even deeper into Jacaerys’ arms.

“No! I want to stay with Kepa!” Her defiant little voice shouted, and you winced as a few murmurs echoed through the court.

You were painfully aware that everybody was staring at the scene, which made it even more embarrassing when you reached out again and failed to grab Aemma.

After about the third attempt to pull her away with no avail, your husband seemed to finally take pity on you and sighed.

“It’s alright my love. She can stay,” Jacaerys said, and upon hearing this Aemma beamed. “It’ll be her seat one day after all. Let her gain some experience; even if it is during the middle of a petition.”

You gave him an apologetic look, and you made a mental note to apologize to Lord…well, whoever you were currently interrupting. You had to admit, the sight of Aemma babbling broken phrases to Jace while she tried to grab his crown was adorable.

You sighed reluctantly.

“Alright,” You said, willing to leave Aemma where she was. At the very least you could persuade Jaelin to follow you and take him away, but as you turned to go back down the stairs you suddenly paused.

Had there always been that many, you wondered?

You hadn’t really paid attention that much, but now that your feet were practically screaming at you to sit down, the idea of going down so many steps didn’t seem so appealing.

Of course, you could’ve just asked one of the Kingsguard to help you down, but you didn’t want to be a bother—as silly as it sounded. You also didn’t want to risk your knees giving out and falling, either.

You were in a dilemma, but before you could even decide, Jace did it for you. Your husband, ever attentive, noticed your hesitation and immediately got up.

“Here, my love. Why don’t you rest and I’ll stand for now,” He suggested.

Even more whispers broke out at this. What Jacaerys was proposing was sweet, but it had never happened before and the idea of the Queen sitting on the throne in the presence of the King was…well it was simply unheard of.

You were sure a few people would call the action scandalous, but at the moment though, you didn’t really care what they thought. Your feet were aching and you needed a place to sit down before your knees decided where for you, so you nodded and accepted his offer.

“Thank you, my love.”

You sighed in relief as you sat on the throne. Albeit, it wasn’t the most comfortable of seats with all the swords and points, and you would’ve much rather been in your cushioned chair in your chambers, but it was better than nothing and the pressure on your feet was gone.

Nodding his head, Jacaerys gave you a small kiss on the side of your head and then he stood with Aemma in his arms, and gestured for Lord whoever to keep speaking.

Had you not been out of breath, you would have laughed at his face and the face of many others as they not only witnessed their King give the most powerful seat in the realm to his pregnant wife, but also witnessed him stand up while bouncing his baby daughter in his arms.

It was an unusual sight, but an adorable one that you cherished.

Motioning to Ser Darklyn to bring Jaelin up so that your family would complete, you smiled in content and Jacaerys once again motioned for the man who had been interrupted to continue his petition.

“Lord Mooton. Please, do continue,” He said with a large smile.

You giggled.

You had never wanted to be a part of the crew.

You were a scientist. That was it. A scientist with a strong foundation in molecular biology and genetic engineering. That was your contribution to Project Hail Mary.

Ryland had never wanted to be a part of the crew.

He was a teacher. That was it. A teacher, formerly a scientist, with a strong foundation in molecular biology and astrophysics. That was his contribution to Project Hail Mary.

Neither of you had wanted to be a part of the crew. But you were.

You both had woken up 12 light years from Earth with no recollection of who you were, where you were, or what you were supposed to be doing. Ryland had woken up first - a mere 20 minutes before you.

Immediately, you had disliked him. Something about his presence just... didn't sit right with you. Maybe it was because he had the same realizations you did. An overlap in interests when it was pretty obvious the crew was specifically picked for everyone's greatest strengths.

And for some reason, you shared strengths with Ryland. Were you not good enough to send alone? They had to send a second scientist with? Who, by the way, got his memories back a lot fast than you did.

He was always one step ahead. One game level above you. All the time. It was really freaking annoying.

So as time slips by and the two of you gain back the essential memories for the mission, gain an alien friend, and set out for the planet Adrian, you are left with a strong dislike for the blonde-haired scientist.

- - -

And rightfully so. Adrian went to shit.

Rocky almost died.

Ryland almost died.

You almost died.

Yes, the three of you got the sampler back up and into the ship - but at what cost?

"I don't think you should be the one to open the sampler," you argue as you follow as closely as you can on Ryland's heels. In the accident, you had gotten slightly crushed by loose material in the dormitory and had suffered a leg injury. Nothing that the robot arms couldn't wrap up.

To you, Ryland's arm injury was the worse of the two wounds, and, because it was on his arm, he shouldn't be the one lifting and opening the sample from Adrian's atmosphere.

Ryland ignores you as he shuffles across the lab. "I told you, I will open it," he says a little gruffly as he sets the sampler down. A moment later, he gathers the contraption Rocky had made so that either of you could get a sample onto a microscope slide.

Rocky is still recovering, and he hovers above the two of you in one of his tunnels. His carapace is lowered, and his legs are folded underneath him to support his weight. The ship is only at 0.5Gs. It's less strenuous on everyone that way.

Tension fills the air. All three of you know it.

Not only is there the spat between you and the other scientist - the savior for both Earth and Erid could lie in Ryland's hands.

Everyone wants to know if there is a predator for Astrophage in that sample. Everyone is scared that there might not be. Then what? Then what happens?

No one wants to think about it, no one wants to say anything about it. So tensions rise, and the air of the ship seems to grow warmer as you and Ryland bicker back and forth over it.

"I've got it," he snaps back, setting the sampler down on the lab table in front of the two of you. You go to open your mouth to retort, but Rocky's voice chimes in quietly, unsure. "Why fight, question? Open sampler. Save Earth, save Erid. No need fight. Work together."

Your (colored) gaze snaps up to look at Rocky's tense form. Ryland stares down at the sampler on the lab table. Neither of you says anything. Rocky was right. There was no need to fight. Now, more than ever, you needed to be on the same team.

Swallowing your pride, you take a wobbly step back and spin on your heel. There's a round stool mounted to the floor a few paces away, and you quietly make your way over there with slightly jolted movements.

You sit and watch Ryland work. It's silent in the lab, other than the noises of the tools and gases releasing in the contraptions Ryland works with. After a few quiet minutes, you look away and over to another part of the lab, lost in thought.

It's when you unknowingly look away that Ryland messes up. It's not on purpose or anything drastic. His hands are decorated with blue latex gloves, like always. But, as he reaches to get the sample slide, his bare wrist accidentally touches part of the sampler.

Unknowingly, his skin comes into contact with the life forms from Adrian. Nothing immediately happens, there's no burn, or anything like that. It happens and the moment passes. He's waiting for you to say something about his technique being off, but it doesn't come.

Because when Ryland glances over at you, you aren't even paying attention to him anymore. You're lost deep in thought, and Ryland doesn't feel like engaging in conversation when he's got important things to look at.

Like seeing if there's life on this slide.

Ryland moves over to one of the several microscopes fastened to the lab's tables. With a deep breath, he mumbles, "Here we go," and looks down through the optics. He's quiet for a while as he focuses the scope, using the fine adjustment wheels to find the correct depth of field.

It's then his heart stops and his breathing stills.

Rocky senses the change and asks, "Grace, question?" Your attention is immediately grabbed, then, and your eyes snap over to look at Ryland's frozen form.

"There's life!"

That single exclamation leads to a wild next couple of hours.

You and Ryland both start designing experiments to figure out how best to isolate the Taumoeba. For once, the two of you work together quite well making and brainstorming protocols and equipment needed. Rocky, of course, is a huge help.

But you're starting to slow down, and Rocky knows it. "L/n, how long since last sleep, question?" He asks with a tilt of his carapace. Ryland is full steam ahead like he's gotten a second wind. You can't blame him. The prospect of actually saving billions of life forms both back on Earth and on Erid makes you want to push through, too.

Your injury has slowed you down, though. Walking on a wounded leg has made you expend more energy than you'd like to admit, and exhaustion weighs on you now. You want to stay up and help. You tell Rocky as such.

"I'm good, Rocky," you say quietly, wiping at your face and pushing some hair out of your eyes. "I can go for a little while longer." The Eridian isn't sure, and he lifts a leg to tap his claw on the xenonite wall. Ryland's gaze snaps up at the sound, and Rocky points over at you.

"How long since L/n last sleep, question?" He asks Ryland. The blonde-haired scientist bites back a smirk. An alien induced bed time. He glances over at you, who gives him a serious, I'm fine kind of a look. Ryland's gaze flashes back up to Rocky and he replies, "31 hours."

Rocky raises and lowers his carapace in what you've come to learn is mild frustration. "You need sleep. Human brain stupid with no sleep." You raise an eyebrow and huff, "Yeah, maybe Grace is. I'm fine, Rocky. Let's work on this next breeder set up."

The blonde-haired scientist's jaw clenches a little at the barb. Yeah, he kind of set himself up for that one. Still, he knows Rocky is right. You did need to rest. You needed to sleep so that by the time he was exhausted, you could take over. There was no time to slack off, but you both needed to be firing on all cylinders. And that means sleeping when needed.

"Rocky's right, Y/n," Ryland says a little softer than normal, and he uses your first name. "You need to sleep. You're more useful when your brain is working. You've slowed down tenfold over the last 30 minutes." He juts his chin toward the dormitory as his hands fiddle with another breeder tank. "Go, me or Rocky will wake you up for the shift change."

You can hear an unusual amount of sincerity in Ryland's voice, and as you glance between him and Rocky, you realize you've been out numbered. Your head lolls down a little toward your chest in defeat and you sigh reluctantly.

You point at both at both of them and grumble, "6 hours. No more than that, okay?" Rocky just releases a quiet trill and Ryland glances over you before giving a silent nod. His fingers twitch over the breeder box he's working on, and he tightens his grip on it to keep them still.

A moment later and you're crawling down the hatch to the dormitory, the motions slow and clumsy due to your leg. The blonde-haired scientist has to force his attention back to work, his leg bouncing slightly on the chair below him.

It's quiet for a few minutes as both Rocky and Ryland work. But Rocky can just tell something is different. Something is bothering Ryland. So he quietly asks, "What is wrong, question? You shake. Everything is fine, question?"

Ryland doesn't lift his gaze from the tank he's working on, but he answers a little quickly, "Yeah, yeah, buddy, I'm fine. I'm just a little anxious to get these tests started. Our savior is right in front of us, you know?"

The Eridian can't argue with that.

Ryland doesn't stop fidgeting, though. He can't. He clears his throat and wipes at his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair for a moment. "You know, what? I- I think I need a moment alone to think about this. I'm going to go up to the cockpit and brainstorm a little more, buddy. You keep working."

Rocky tilts his carapace in slight confusion but he doesn't question Ryland. Human thing, he muses. Instead, the Eridian thrums, "I will work at my bench. Faster. More done down there." Ryland is already pushing off the lab chair when Rocky speaks, and he gives him a thumbs up to acknowledge him.

As Rocky disappears down one of his tunnels and into the dormitory to join you, Ryland makes his way up the ladder and into the cockpit.

He's not really sure what's going on. He feels hot. Way too warm to be considered normal. Maybe it was from all of the effort of running around and making the breeder tanks, but that just doesn't sit right in his brain.

Plus, his jumpsuit feels too tight. It's not even one of Yao's or Ilyukhina's, or even yours. It's his, but it's fitting a little too snug. He feels hot and his cheeks burn with a heat he's not used to. Is he sick? How could he be sick?

On top of that, there's... an ache. An ache that he tries to will away. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten a random hard-on before. Seriously, he was once a teenage boy. He figured it was one of those weird times where the body is so ramped up on emotions - likely the high from finding Earth's and Erid's saviors - that his touch-starved body got a little excited. It's really only a natural reaction and he knows that.

So, he tries to implement his normal methods of making them go away. How he knows they are normal methods? Well... he just knows he had to use them on Earth for some reason. He's not sure why, who, or what would cause his cock to grow hard, but come on. He's a man.

His mind starts on the science experiments he needs to conduct. The engineering of the breeder tanks, controlling the gases going in and out, how to save the different strains he'll breed up.

Before he can stop it, he sees you helping him in his mind. A pain in his ass, sure, but also his only human company. He pictures the few times he's gotten you to smile. Even Rocky had managed to get you to laugh, even if you just rolled your eyes at Ryland's dumb jokes.

His mind drifts from the curve of your smile. He thinks about the lines of your collarbones. He'd seen them once when he accidentally floated in on you changing in 0G. That, naturally, leads him down to the swell of your breasts. The perfect curve and size. He can only imagine how soft and pliable they would be to touch...

Ryland! Dude, what the hell?! His brain screams at him, Knock it off, man! As he lifts a hand from his lap in the pilot's seat to brush some golden curls out of his eyes, it brushes his crotch. It's then he realizes his hard-on has pitched into a full on tent.

A soft whine curls up his throat as he tries to push you out of his mind. But it's odd. It's almost as if a mental block has formed in his brain. The more he tries to not think about you, the more he does. It's like all of his deep, primal instincts and desires written in his DNA latch onto you.

Ryland tries to fight off the thoughts about you with everything he's got. You hate him. He doesn't like you. The two of you are in this awful Adam and Eve situation 12 light years from Earth. He knows he's touch-starved. He knows he hasn't had a good lay in who knows how long.

But the more he fights his brain, the harder it gets to push his imagined image of your bare form out of his head.

Then, Ryland guiltily gives in. Just this once to get this... problem dealt with. It'll be once and done, and I'll just go straight down to the bathroom and clean up after. Y/n should be asleep, so I can handle it. I can do this. He lets his mind fully settle on his fantasy of your naked body.

He pictures your skin sliding against his. How soft you would be underneath him. He wonders what your skin tastes like, how you might sound when he nudges his cock between your thighs. More shyly, he pictures folding you in half underneath him, pulling your legs over his shoulders and putting you into a deep mating press.

That makes him snap out of the haze of his mind for a moment. Hold on, he seems to think. That's not me. I- I would never do that. That's pretty darn involved, and that's not really my style.

Thinking about you underneath him like that only makes his hard-on throb, and it becomes too much to bear. Bashfully, Ryland palms at the tent of his jumpsuit. He groans at the first touch of the material against his sensitive tip, but he quickly clamps his mouth closed.

Rocky can probably see you! And hear you! And come up any moment!

Ryland bites down on his tongue and leans back into the pilot's seat. Then, he works the zipper of his jump suit down with pink cheeks and shame in his movements. His cock is standing at attention and springs free once the zipper is low enough. He chokes down a whimper and gently palms at his length.

He works his hand from base to tip in long, fluid pumps. Pleasure spikes at him in sharp, prickly explosions. It almost hurts. He's never experienced anything like this before, but he doesn't think he likes it. But he knows he wants the ache to go away, so he keeps at it.

Maybe I'm just super sensitive, he thinks as he tries rolling his hips into his hand in search of some kind of release. But no matter what he does, nothing changes.

The blonde-haired scientist's pleasure remains stagnant. It doesn't grow. It doesn't shrink. It remains as a constant, burning ache.

It's then, Ryland realizes. This isn't a normal boner. This isn't a normal reaction to being touch-starved or anything like that. If anything, he should have unraveled faster than he'd care to admit.

No, his brain whispers in defeat. There's only one way to fix this. And you're not going to like it.

You.

He hates it.

There's no way he can look you in the eye right now, let alone form a half-coherent sentence. It feels as if every nerve in his body is tingling, burning with desire. It's not unbearable yet - but it's not going away.

Plus, you're supposed to be sleeping. The last thing Ryland wants to do is wake you up because his boner won't go away. Especially when you don't like him... at all!

But... Ryland's resolve crumbles faster than he wants to admit. All it takes is thinking about you, your smile when he sees it, that darn sparkle in your eyes when things are going right and the science is working.

It makes his cock twitch in his lap. The thick length throbs with want as it threatens to slap up against his abdomen. He grunts and knows that in that moment, something is not right with him.

Something is wrong.

As gently as he can, Ryland grabs his cock in his hand again, an untamed whimper falling from his mouth as he tucks it back into his jumpsuit. The simple touch has his hips rutting up without his control, a small bead of precum leaking from his cock's flushed tip.

Another wave of shame runs through his body as the want to cry wells up in the blonde-haired scientist's throat. Fuck, this is bad. He had once been a horny teenager. That was nothing in comparison to how he feels right now.

Ryland does his best to get his head together with the facts of what he knows despite the haze of desire looming over him. He needs to present you and Rocky with the facts of what was likely going to happen.

So, he carefully wipes his right hand on one of the pant legs of his jumpsuit, the sweat and precum mixing together to stain the material. It makes him cringe internally, and he hopes you don't notice it before he has a chance to explain.

Then, Ryland takes a deep breath and climbs out of the pilot's seat. Immediately, the fabric of the jumpsuit rubs against his sensitive cock, and his hips roll forward to try to relieve the tension in his body. He moans softly but then clamps his jaw shut in frustration.

With an aggravated exhale, Ryland forces himself upright and grits his teeth together. He can do this. It's not going to be pretty, but he will tell it to you and Rocky straight.

He's pretty sure it was his carelessness that got him into this position. It's now his responsibility to try to find a way out of this.

With his goal at the front of his mind, Ryland begins making his way down the rungs of the ladder to the laboratory. It's slow moving at first. Each movement from his legs has the jumpsuit pulling taught and slack against his still-hard cock.

He's still holding it together - just barely.

When Ryland's feet land firmly on the floor of the lab, he takes a shaky, deep breath. His heart is racing faster than before. He's sweating, everywhere. His face, neck, hands, arms, chest, armpits, leg crevices, hell, he could be sweating from his crotch. Everywhere is sweaty.

Ryland knows he's burning up - he doesn't need a mercury thermometer to tell him he's got a fever. He can just tell. On top of that, the skin he can see is flushed pink, verging red in some areas.

Not a good sign.

If that's not enough, his vision is growing a little blurry. His glasses are still on, but his actual eyes are losing the ability to focus properly. Somewhere in him gauging his surroundings, the blonde-haired scientist sees movement.

It's Rocky in one of his tunnels, on the way up from the dormitory. "Grace, question?" Rocky asks tentatively, the musical notes blending together as Ryland tries to quickly decipher them.

"Y-yeah, b-buddy," he stutters out as he almost limps across the laboratory. He has to catch himself on one of the tables as he gets a little lightheaded. A sudden burning sensation crawls up his spine, licking at the back of his neck and threatening to flood his head.

"You are not well," Rocky states - it's not a question this time. "You are leaking, but not from your head. What is wrong, question?" The simple question brings a half-hearted smile to Ryland's face as he manages to croak out, "Y-yeah, I am, buddy. I- I need you to get Y/n. Then I will explain."

Rocky doesn't say anything. He's confused, but he knows he can't help. So, he lowers his carapace slightly and scuttles back down to the dormitory to retrieve you. The moment alone gives Ryland the chance to focus his attention on his breathing, trying to will a deep breath of air into his lungs and out of his mouth to calm his reactive body down.

He shuffles so that both of his palms lie flush against the lab bench, and he leans over it, bracing himself. The cool metal is pleasant to the touch, and a sigh of content floods from his lips. Unfortunately, it's only momentary relief, but it seems better than nothing.

As quickly as the cooling relief came, the burning hot desire in his core increases. A needy whine tears its way out of Ryland's throat, his head lolling forward as tears threaten to burn at the edge of his vision. He snaps his eyes shut in an attempt to help his focus, forcing his brain to think about the cool metal beneath his hands.

Then, he can hear you clambering up the ladder quickly - Rocky must have made it sound pretty important. Shit, shit, shit. Ryland takes a quick breath, trying to slow his racing heart, but it's no use. Especially when he hears your voice just a moment later.

"Grace? What's the deal? I was trying to sleep like you guys told me to but Rocky was saying you aren't doing well- Oh," you cut your grumpy rant off when you set your gaze on your flushed, sweaty crewmate. Immediately, despite your best judgment and slightly disgruntled disposition, you take a few rapid, worried steps toward him.

"Stop!" Ryland cries out when he hears you coming closer. The sound of your voice awakens something deep inside of him. Before he can tell his brain No!, his hips snap forward uncontrollably, and his fingers try to dig into the hard metal under his touch.

You halt at his command, your sleepy, grumpy expression molding into more of a puzzled look as you watch him struggle to still his body. With sleep picking at your brain, it takes you a moment before an embarrassed realization settles over you. The movement.

You bite your tongue as you wait for Ryland to speak again, because you're about to duck away with flushed cheeks of your own.

A ragged gasp escapes Ryland's throat, and his face and neck have flushed red. Sweat dots his skin and mats his blonde curls hanging over his forehead. The sound of his gasp makes your ears perk up instantly, the rough noise unconsciously replaying in the back of your mind.

"S- so," he stutters out to start, keeping his eyes closed as he shuffles to stand more upright. Ryland remains facing the lab bench in an attempt to hide his hard-on. It works for the moment and so he focuses on trying to get his next words out. "The- the Taumoeba or other s-species from the s- sampler have had this effect on me."

Rocky scuttles around one of his tunnels above Ryland as you cock your head to the side in confusion. Ryland continues when neither of you says anything. "I- I was the only, only one who was in direct contact with them or- or the sampler."

"But you had gloves on," you say softly, as if to not make things worse. "I watched you work, you didn't mess anything up." The low timbre of your words instantly makes Ryland whine, the noise out of his control. One of his hands clenches down into a fist and he smacks as gently as he can at the lab table in frustration.

"I did," he manages to growl out, the noise rough and unusual coming from the usually soft-spoken blonde. The admission would have sucked to say either way, and Ryland knows it. Shame hits him. He fucked up and now he's uncontrollably horny because of his mistake.

However, his response just makes your eyes widen. That's not good. I didn't see him mess anything up. It was all textbook technique. Ryland pants, grunts, and then mumbles before all of his control seeps away, "I think, I think I got hit with an aromatic compound or I- I accidentally brushed the sampler on my arm. It's caused... this, this condition."

Before you can stop yourself, your eyes flit over his whole body to analyze his condition.

You can see the sweat dampening his skin and the jumpsuit, the bright yellow color deepening all over his frame in odd patches. The usually comfortable but loose fit is roughly the same, except for one area.

Ryland's hunched-over form makes it harder to tell, but it's undeniable when your gaze lands on it. His cock is hard and standing at attention underneath his jumpsuit. The now obvious tent brings an even fiercer heat to your cheeks. You can't help it. You hadn't been with anyone... you'd been too busy focused on your career and then saving the world.

"It, it won't go away," he sobs out, his head falling forward a few more degrees so his forehead rests against the cool metal of the lab table. His whole form is tense and on edge, and seeing him like this tugs on your heartstrings. But something about this just doesn't make sense.

Confusion draws your brows taut together, and you carefully step closer to Ryland as you mull over his words. Rocky, who has been silent this whole time, is beyond confused, begins scuttling back and forth in his tunnel, trying to make sense of two alien species biology. Humans and whatever species caused this reaction in Ryland.

"Your... condition won't go away?" you ask slowly, your presence now much closer to the blonde-haired scientist. He bites down hard on his tongue as he squeezes his eyes shut. Your body was closer, your voice was closer. He could almost reach out, grab your hips- No! He quickly stops himself.

He needs to finish explaining.

The next sentence he grunts out is hard to understand, but you eventually piece it together. "No, it won't. I- tried. It won't go away. It's... it's not normal. It won't stop unless one of two things happens." You silently look up at Rocky, who has stopped above the two of you, his legs slowly raising and lowering his carapace in thought. The Eridian doesn't say anything.

"One," he hisses through gritted teeth, "It'll end when I cum, but not by my hand." The dirty words falling from Ryland's mouth has your heart fluttering in your chest, your mouth running dry at seeing him so... untamed. He swallows thickly and then grunts out, "Or two, it'll end when the chemicals are fully metabolized by my bloodstream."

Ryland lifts his head and then quickly brings it down on the lab table in a quick smack, a snarl of sexual frustration falling from his lips. A fresh bead of sweat curls down his neck, and you watch it disappear into the crevice of his jumpsuit.

"H-how long until it'll be fully processed?" you ask a little nervously, shuffling on your feet to give your injured leg some reprieve. It takes every ounce of control Ryland has not to open his eyes and look at you - he knows it'll only make it worse. He coughs once and then mumbles darkly, "I- I think its metabolism will take longer than I want it to. I'll die from overheating because of this fever before my body can process it all."

His tone sends warning bells off in your mind, and suddenly the severity of the situation sets in. Rocky finally speaks up, chiming in with an urgent and thoughtful question. "Can we cool Grace, question?" Ryland shakes his head left and right as he groans out, "No, buddy. It's not like your radiator organ. The cooler things are I touch, the more I burn up inside. This isn't a normal fever."

Ryland's words are finalized with a whimper when he flattens his fisted palm against the cool lab table. You rush toward him at the sound of what you think is pain, but you stop a few feet away as you try to assess where to help.

"Ryland," you breathe out his first name as you look at him. Panic threatens to flood over you while you take in his overly turned-on state. What do you do? Another sob pulls from his throat at the sound of your voice being even closer, and you watch his body tense up yet again.

"I- I'm afraid of hurting you," he whimpers out brokenly, "I can barely control myself, Y/n." His voice breaks at the end of his sentence, but then he's heaving in a deep breath. "I've thought of two options," he rushes out, the words slurring together. "Either you lock me in the airlock until this all ends, or-"

Ryland cuts himself off as the other thought swirls in his brain. It makes his aching cock throb - the sensation now painful. The other option sends images of you into his head. He pictures the way your cunt would stretch around his cock as he sinks into you. He can see the way your back would arch in pleasure, your hands reaching for him. He can see the way your breasts would bounce with every thrust from his hips slamming into yours.

Those thoughts prompt more precum to leak from his tip, making the wet patch on the front of his jumpsuit grow bigger. You've grown quiet at his words. The implication of his silence not lost on you.

Either he dies in the airlock of his organs being cooked, or you let him fuck you to give his brain the endorphin release to combat the chemicals being metabolized in his blood.

Your logical mind comes to an obvious conclusion: you're both going to die out here anyway. Be that a microscopic alien induced sex craze, starving to death, Ilyukhina's heroin stash, Yao's gun, or the Nitrogen tanks left by DuBois. It was inevitable.

Your rapidly beating heart comes to another. Help him.

Your train of thought is broken by his needy voice cutting through the quiet air of the ship. "I- I can't force you to do anything," he manages to croak out. "I- I get it if you'd rather put me in the air lock. I- I'd never want to f-force myself onto y-" "It's... okay," you soothe, your tone gentle and sweet as you watch his body almost writhe in pain.

"N-no," he cries, "I c-can't coerce you into, into this. I still could hurt you. I don't - I don't know if I'll be able to control myself if we-" Ryland stops himself as his hips try to roll again. Tears run down his cheeks now, splashing onto the lab table under his head.

"I trust you," is the only thing you can think of to say. Your heart is beating the fastest it ever has, adrenaline shooting through your veins and making your fingers shake with anticipation. You quickly tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and mumble, "I- I've never done this before but..."

As your voice trails off, Ryland swears his grip on reality slides. You'd never had sex? And this would be your first if you let him? Fuck! He lifts his head from the table, his cheeks still wet with tears but with his eyes still clamped closed. "I can't- I can't ask you to do that."

"You don't have to ask," you reply, your left hand reaching out to rest on his right shoulder. At the touch, Ryland lurches closer to you, his body swinging around to face you, his eyes ripping themselves open to stare down at you.

His body works against his brain, making him lean into your personal space. He sets his gaze deep into yours and swallows thickly. He feels like a predator, stalking his prey right before they lunge for the kill. It takes him a second to lean back, a scowl of pain etched on his features as he seethes through gritted teeth, "S-sorry."

He means it for more than just closing the distance - he means it for everything that was potentially about to happen.

"Once I start," he whispers lowly, his blue eyes boring into yours, "I don't think I'll be able to stop. You may-" his voice catches and then he finishes, "Yao's gun-" "It's okay, Ry," you match his soft tone. The tears make his blue eyes glitter, and you can see all sorts of inner turmoil burning in his gaze.

You tilt your head to find Rocky's figure cowering in his tunnel directly above you and Ryland. "What is happening, question?" Rocky asks, the notes an octave lower than normal. He's scared. You offer him a smile and state nervously, "Rocky? We will explain all of this later. For now, try to avoid me and Ryland. Stay up here in the lab or go up to the cockpit. Things may get scary, things... could break, we could both yell or make a lot of noise. No matter what - just stay on your side of the xenonite, okay?"

Rocky dips his carapace in understanding and then asks, "Where will you be, question?" You glance back at Ryland, whose skin is only a few inches from you, the heat pulsing off him in waves. You swallow thickly as you catch his gaze, the intensity of it making a shiver crawl up your spine.

"We'll be in the dormitory," you reply slowly, holding Ryland's gaze level. His hands clench by his sides, and he warns in a low huff, "The second you move away, I- my body is going to chase you. I-I don't think I can stop it."

You offer him an encouraging smile and reply, "I'll just have to run faster than you, then." It makes the darkness in his eyes lighten ever so slightly, and it gives you faith that the Ryland you know is in there.

Then, you move. You retract your arm from his shoulder as you launch backwards as best as you can on your leg, away from the lab table and from Ryland. Just as you move, you see Ryland's eyes grow cold and narrow, and then he lunges. The crystal clear feeling of fear shoots through your nervous system as you wobbly dart toward the ladder, and using it like a fireman's pole, you slide down it to give yourself a small lead.

Ryland is only a few seconds behind you as you make your way toward the mattress on the floor of the ship that you had been sleeping on mere minutes ago. It was detached from the wall so that Rocky would have more room for his workshop. Now, it serves as a soft landing pad as Ryland's hands grab onto your waist from behind you.

His fingers dig into your waist kind of roughly, finding your last rib on each side and pulling you flush against his chest. "I'm so sorry," he croaks out as his hips start rutting against your backside, the wetness on the front of his jumpsuit smearing against the back of yours.

"I said it already," you pant out as the air leaves your lungs, "It's o-kay." Your last word comes out with a hitch as one of Ryland's hands quickly slides from your waist up the front of your abdomen to grab at your left breast. He palms at it, his fingers digging into and toying with the soft flesh as his hips roll against yours, shoving you forward a small step.

A small gasp tears from your throat at the feeling of his cock nestling against your ass and his hand so openly playing with your chest. You mind is spinning. It's trying to process, trying not to blush and shy, trying to plan for what to do next.

Unsure of what to do and to think because he's touching you like this, your hands carefully navigate around his groping at you. Your fingers reach for the top of your jumpsuit, hastily tugging down the zipper with uncalculated yanks as you maneuver around his arm. In doing so, you're trying to give him more access to your skin and body.

You also have to admit, despite being quite nervous and anxious for whatever was about to happen... it was kind of hot seeing your usually reserved and quiet crewmate indulge in his body's desires.

The second you free the front of your torso from the material of your jumpsuit, Ryland's hand dips under the zipper to slide over your skin. The warmth and softness of your body elicits a guttural moan from his lips. At the same time, it brings a an odd heat to your core, swirling in a way you hadn't experienced.

That sound? Was hot. His fingers gravitate to finding your right breast now, wanting to give it the same attention as the other. A pleased whimper escapes him as he praises, "So soft for me." You can't help but softly gasp in response to his touch and his praise. His feverish warm hand sends electricity crackling through your veins and anticipation brewing in your stomach.

He does his best to slow his movements down - his control is dwindling as more and more of your skin is revealed. He needs to prep you. He'll hurt you otherwise. He can't do that. If anything, he at least needs you turned on a little bit.

"I k-know you don't like me," Ryland grunts as he swirls his pointer and middle fingers over your right nipple, both consciously and unconsciously loving the feeling of it rising and pebbling under his ministrations. His touch has your back arching slightly, and you can't deny his touch feels nice. It makes it a bit hard to focus on his words, but you do listen.

"B-but I need to- I need you wet." Ryland groans out the dirty words as his cock catches on the curve of your ass and his hips try to snap. "I need to minimize my chances of hurting y-" "Just keep going," you cut him off with a soft mewl, working slowly to shake your arms out of the sleeves of your jumpsuit.

Ryland doesn't say anymore, but he does force himself to let go of you when he realizes what you're trying to do. The gap between your bodies is just big enough that he can help you peel your arms out of the sleeves, but then he's on you again.

Now, his hands land on the exposed skin of your waist. Seeing and touching your bare skin drives this desire in his mind absolutely wild. The fire coursing through his body has his vision edging with red, with one goal at the front of his mind: breed.

It was never anything he thought he was into before, but he just... wants to now. His subconscious notes the gentle slope of your spine, a mole on your right shoulder blade, and the way your hair rests around your neck. Seeing you like this only heightens that desire.

In an instant, his hands twist you around to face him, and he takes a step forward, one of his thighs parting your legs.

In two swift strides, your feet hit the base of the mattress on the floor. With the pressure of Ryland pushing on you, you gently flop backwards onto it, Ryland tumbling down on top of you. Now free from the confines of the jumpsuit, your bare chest bounces at the force of your back hitting the bed.

And, for the first time, Ryland gets an eyeful of your breasts.

"You're so beautiful," he moans appreciatively as he leans forward, his hips slowing their constant but fruitless thrusting as his mouth latches onto one of your mounds without warning.

His warm lips suckling at your breast and the blonde scruff from his jaw tickling your sensitive skin has you arching up into him, the foreign but pleasant feeling eliciting a sharp gasp from you. Beautiful? Must be the microbe's biochemicals talking. Unsure of what to do with your hands, they eventually find purchase threading through his fluffy blonde locks.

Ryland switches from suckling on the mound to place hot, wet kisses there instead. Slowly, as slow as he can manage with the desire coursing through him, he works his way from one breast through your valley of cleavage to the other. There, he gives your second breast the same treatment as the first. He quickly transitions to swirling his tongue and flicking it over your nipple until it grows under his touch and he can suck on it again with renewed vigor.

Unconsciously, your clothed hips roll up to meet his, and Ryland moans appreciatively against your skin as he grinds his hips downwards. With him on top of you like this, you finally can feel how his body is feverishly warm. It's then you know he needs to be stripped out of his jumpsuit.

"R-Ryland," you manage to pant out, one of your hands moving from the back of his head to softly cup his cheek. He doesn't move for a moment, lost in tasting your skin and soaking up the feeling of your softness underneath him. You don't relent, though, and it takes some effort to pull him up to see look him in the eyes. His blue gaze is almost black with the way his pupils have dilated. It's a wild, frenzied look in his eye, and it makes something deep inside you quiver.

"Your jumpsuit," you probe gently, releasing his face to pointedly tug at the material clinging to the front of his chest. The zipper was already part way down his chest to begin with, but the blonde-haired scientist quickly releases one hand from your waist to tug the soft material down even further.

Then, before you can even process it, he's reaching into the bottom part of his jumpsuit with a broken, rich moan. Your eyes are wide and nervous as you watch him hurriedly pull out his hard, throbbing cock. It slaps up to his abdomen, tall and standing at attention. A wave of panic shoots through you. It's... big.

His cock is swollen to the limit of what his body can handle. The first thing you notice about his cock is that it's long. You don't even want to guess how many inches. A lot. The next thing you notice is the girth of it. The shaft is thick down at the base but gets slightly narrower as it approaches the tip.

There's even an angry vein curling up the right side, and you're sure you could feel his pulse if you touched it. His whole cock curves to the right slightly, the tip a pretty, rosy red that matches the flush on Ryland's cheeks. The tip leaks precum since Ryland had been turned on for so long without a release. Being trapped in his jumpsuit has smeared that precum all over the tip of his cock, casting it in a milky white shadow.

You... can't deny it. His cock is pretty. And it turns you on.

Your throat goes dry as you stare at it while Ryland sighs in relief when it's free from the confines of his jumpsuit. "Ry-Ryland," you stutter out, his eyes snapping open at the sound of your voice. You swallow thickly and cough once as his hips continue their efforts to roll against you, his now exposed cock spreading his precum over the expanse of your bare stomach.

Once you've got his attention, you quietly ask, "Sh-should we fully strip?" The question is laced with an understandable sheepishness, but Ryland doesn't seem to pick up on it. If he was in his right mind, he certainly would, but instead, he just nods and leans forward, his mouth returning to pressing wet kisses along your skin. This time, his lips work higher up, nipping and leaving marks over your collarbones and toward the crevice of your neck.

You can smell his sweat now, and the combination of his mouth teasing your sensitive body and his natural scent flooding your nose has got you turned on. You hardly notice the way his fingers work your jumpsuit down over your hips - you're too busy figuring out how to roll them in time with his.

But then Ryland is grunting an order against your skin. "Kick it off." Before he gives you time to think about it, he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder. He bites down fairly hard, and it makes your back arch off the mattress and your legs shiver with a moan falling from your lips. That little bit of delicious pain is just enough motivation to finish kicking the jumpsuit off, the material landing somewhere on the ground to the side of the mattress.

Now, for the first time in your life, you are stripped bare before a man. Ryland covers you with his larger frame and the skin-on-skin contact of your chests pressed together keeps him from fully viewing your body.

The blonde-haired scientist growls in frustration as his cock catches on the zipper to his jumpsuit, and he sits back from rolling his hips against you. There, you can see almost all of him, and he can see all of you.

As Ryland tugs his arms out of his sleeves, a whine curls up his throat when he sees his precum spread across your bare stomach. Not only that, he sees you.

Your (colored) hair fanned out under your head, bruises and dark marks now lining your neck and chest. Your breasts shift as your chest rises and falls rapidly, your (colored) gaze set on him in nervous anticipation. Then, your stomach is covered in him, leading right down to the mound of hair that hides your cunt.

And Ryland groans at the sight of you spread bare underneath him. His cock seems to agree, twitching against his bare abdomen as he finishes freeing himself from his jumpsuit. He kicks his off just as you did to yours, and then he's hovering over top of you again.

Suddenly, you realize your crewmate is a lot leaner than you gave him credit. His biceps bulge on either side of your head, his pecs are sharply defined, and his torso is laced with some of the finest abdominal muscles you have ever seen.

It makes your cunt clench.

"So, so good for me," he grunts as he slips one thigh between yours, parting your legs. The action has his hips rolling forward as his brain realizes it's about to get the hit of dopamine it wants.

Ryland angles his hips down and catches his cock on your slit. He absolutely growls over the feeling of your arousal gathering in your folds, and he pumps his cocks a few times through them to gather what wetness he can. He's starting to lose control of his movements, though. His body has one goal in mind and it's taking everything in him to fight it off to make sure he doesn't hurt you.

Satisfied that his cock is lubricated, Ryland nudges the tip of it right to the entrance of your cunt. Your hands reach up from where they have been clutching at the sheets underneath you to slide around his neck. You cling to him and find his gaze with a shaky exhale and butterflies brewing in your stomach.

He's already watching you, and you can see remorse and something else dancing in his eyes. Then, as slowly as he can manage, he begins to sink his cock into you an inch at a time. He does it with shallow, manageable thrusts until he's fully seated himself inside of your cunt.

Whimpers and whines and gasps of all sorts fall from your mouth as your body reacts to being stretched out in a way you've never experienced. Your eyes snap closed and your jaw drops wide open in a breathy, soft moan. There's only a slight burn and pinch, which you're distracted from by the sound of Ryland's voice.

"I'm sorry," Ryland whimpers as he tucks his head into the crook in your shoulder, hiding his face from you. He's taking that look on your face to mean you're in pain. He doesn't like that.

You return his whimper with a shake of your head, and as you try to find your ability to speak, you pause. Ryland is shaking above you, and for a moment, you think he's crying again. A moment passes but then you realize - he's trying to hold himself back.

And failing.

His left hand slips from next to your head to hold onto your hip, and once there, his grip is tight. You somehow manage to know it's not as tight as it could be because of his wrapped up injury, but it's still a firm hold. A moment later, you hear him hiss into your shoulder, "Breathe, please."

You do as he says, relaxing your body and easing the burn in your lungs you didn't realize was there. Your thighs simply part wide for him. It's like your brain just knows what to do. Thousands of years of evolution written into your DNA at work. Thankfully, your injured leg rests off to the side and neither of you touches or moves it.

Ryland's cock reminds his brain of its one goal: breed.

As you regain your air after processing the feeling of being stuffed full of Ryland's cock, you manage to gasp out, "I- I thought you'd fuck me like you hate me." You force a deep breath into your lungs and tear your eyes open to look at Ryland in an attempt to gauge his reaction. It's then Ryland's hips start to slide in and out of your cunt on their own accord.

Soft, pleasured noises begin to disperse from your lips as your brain tries to catch up with all of the new feelings it's experiencing. Somehow, in all of the bliss and pleasure and nervousness and excitement, it deciphers what Ryland says next.

"But, but I don't," Ryland grunts into your ear as his cock slides into your cunt with a slow roll of his hips. At that, he effectively loses control of his mind and body.

You don't get the chance to respond to what he says. His hips begin really rolling, slowly gaining speed and accuracy as he thrusts into your cunt.

This feeling is foreign and new and somehow amidst the anxiety, nice? The feeling of Ryland's hand on your hip keeps you still as his hips snap to meet yours. There's a firmness to it that tells you that you won't be released until he's done with you. Right now? You aren't really upset about your position.

It's unexpected, sure, but not... entirely unwelcome.

With each thrust from Ryland, he brings a new spark of pleasure to your body. Noises like you've never made are produced due to his movements and the sounds he's making. Ryland can't even try to hold them back. Grunts, groans, growls. They are deep, untamed, primal sounds that tell you his body is happy with this course of action.

"Ry- oh, Ryland," you breathe out as he picks up speed in your cunt. The sound of skin slapping on skin begins to fill the air, combining with the sounds pulled from deep in both you and Ryland's chests. He groans lowly into the skin of your shoulder. He doesn't dare pick his head up, fearful that looking at you will only make him come more unrestrained.

In holding himself hostage like this, his glasses are fogging up, but it's not like he can tell. His eyes are screwed shut as tightly as he can manage. Your cunt feels incredible to his sensitive, throbbing cock. The soft, velvety feeling of your walls, the welcoming warmth of your core, and the way your cunt seems to take him so perfectly with each thrust.

It's driving him wild.

Ryland's hips only grow rougher and faster as he finds and settles into a hard, brutal pace. This is not what he would want to do for your first time, but he can't stop his body. It wants him to fuck you with everything he's got, and he is helpless to stop it.

Meanwhile, all you can do is slip one hand up and into his blonde curls and hold on with that grip. Your other hand removes itself from his neck to wrap around his back, raking down his skin in time with his thrusts and the moans filling the air.

At some point, your eyes force themselves closed despite wanting to watch what you can. Your jaw has fallen slack, lost in this immense pleasure and the jolts spreading throughout your body. It's furthered when Ryland grunts into your shoulder, "That's it, that's it." The small bit of praise makes your cunt clamp down and a moan of, "Ryyyyyy," slip past your lips.

That noise alone makes Ryland snarl, and his hips slam up harder into yours. "So warm, so wet," he grunts, "You're so tight on my cock, Y/n. You feel so good, gosh, I'm- not gonna-"

You think you might know what he means.

His movements have caused your pleasure to condense deep in your core. It's built with every thrust and every noise Ryland has made. Now, that pleasure is forming into a coil that's steadily growing with each passing second.

"M-me, t-too," you manage to whimper out, your back arching up off the mattress and shoving your chest flush against Ryland's. His hand on your hip slides under your back to hold you against him as his hips continue to work.

There's a slight angle change, and in that, the tip of his cock finds that one spongey spot in your walls that has you seeing stars. "Ryland!" you moan louder yet, your whole body quivering from the strength of his thrusts. The force of his hips makes your breasts bounce, but in being held against him like this, you're left with the delicious friction of your pebbled nipples rubbing against the soft, smooth skin of his chest.

"Fuck," he groans out. "You... You feel so good. So good for me. Sh-shit, Y/n!" You're right there with him, whimpering and mewling out the pleasure he's bringing you. The coil deep in your core builds and builds and builds until you cry out, "'m- 'm- Ryland!"

You cum hard and fast on his cock, writhing underneath him as pleasure explodes throughout your body. Your eyes, snapped closed with bliss, see shooting stars behind your eyelids and you stop breathing.

Your cunt clamps down hard on his cock, and Ryland's hips stutter at the shoot of pleasure that travels up the length of his cock. He forces himself to resume the pace, fucking you through your orgasm both to prolong it for your sake, but also because his isn't that far behind.

Ryland speeds up his hips one more time, pistoning in and out of your sensitive cunt. This new speed sends him barreling toward his own orgasm as he grunts out hoarsely, "Cummin', cummin'!"

Ryland releases a long, strangled groan as he cums deep in your cunt. His cock twitches out thick ropes of seed that paint the walls of your cunt white. It takes no effort for his body to rock you both through his orgasm. His brain is completely gone and his body is running on autopilot determined by the biochemicals floating through his blood.

There's a major sense of relief that floods the blonde-haired scientist. The release he gets from climaxing is not just physical. There's a weight lifted off of him, like in a weird way, it feels like he gets a breath of fresh, spring time air after being stuck in space for 12 light years.

That barrier in his mind that focused on breeding has been satiated.

Rapid, fast pants fall from Ryland's mouth as he sucks in air like he's coming up out of water. His arm holding his body over yours gives in and he crashes down into your chest. It knocks the wind out of you, but at the same time, only adds to the pleasure radiating throughout your body as his hips come to a stop deep in your cunt.

Yet in the haze of Ryland's blissed out mind, he is upset.

He's distraught. He feels like an asshole. His brain is telling him that you only did this to save his life when you should have put him in the airlock. He feels like he disrespected you and went against his core beliefs of treating women right.

On top of that, as he feels his cock twitch and that painful ache in his body dissipate, he realizes he didn't use a condom.

Yeah. He's cursing himself up and down on the inside.

Meanwhile, you're in complete and utter bliss. Ryland's cock is still buried deep inside of you, and honestly? You'd be content if he stayed right there as you come down from your high.

Your brain is working overtime to try to process and understand everything that just happened within the last... however long. That's when something Ryland said in the middle of all of this floats to the front of your mind.

Tentatively, with your voice quiet and unsure, you break the silence. "What... what did you mean by... you don't, uhm, hate me?" You loosen your grip on Ryland's hair, instead gently smoothing over the mussed up golden curls as you wait for his response.

Ryland doesn't even know what to say. How does he explain what's going on in his mind right now? He's getting hit with a wave of exhaustion now, likely an effect from the chemicals emitted from the alien life form, and he's beyond embarrassed and flushed. He simultaneously really wants to stay right where he is, connected to you in this way, but also... he really wants to put clothes on and try to hide himself from you.

Because what if...

He feels your hand smooth over his head and he releases a small puff of air from his lungs. Your second hand slowly slides up Ryland's back, over his shoulder, and to his jaw. Your own heart is picking up speed again with your sudden braveness, but you want to know.

As kindly as you can, you draw Ryland up from your shoulder so that he comes face to face with you. He's expecting to see a look of judgment, a look of anger, a look of disgust.

He finds none of that.

Instead, he only sees an open, willing expression. Maybe even... hopeful?

Ryland's throat grows dry at that look. His heart is beating faster and his breathing grows even more unsteady. He swallows and wets his lips, his eyes darting back and forth between your own.

His mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to backpedal, to cover it up, to say something to hide his mistake. But he can't. And that look from you has his splintered mind giving in and admitting slowly, "I... don't."

Surprise slowly spreads across your face like a can of molasses spilled on a table during winter. Ryland glances down from your eyes and stares straight at your collarbones. He sucks in a breath, shuts his eyes, and sighs, "I... I don't hate you, Y/n. I never have."

You are frozen underneath him. You don't dare speak. You don't dare move. All you can do is listen.

When you don't do anything, Ryland takes it as a sign to keep talking, even though that's literally the last thing he wants to do. "When I woke up from the coma," he murmurs, "All I knew was that I didn't like you. Something about you... just..."

He tears his eyes open and glances around, trying to find the right words. You swipe your thumb over his cheek and that draws his attention back to your face. His brows furrow and he whispers, "You just aggravated me."

You smile a little at that and softly chime in with a huff of, "You aggravated me, too." Ryland mirrors your small smile for a moment before his expression grows serious again. "I didn't... I didn't understand why. There was no reason for me to dislike you like that," he eventually says.

He shuffles onto one of his forearms so he can hold himself above you with less strain on his injury. Ryland's eyes dance over your face as he continues, "You were smart, witty, and a damn good scientist. But you just annoyed me." Somehow the words he says come across in a positive light, and you find them warming your chest and your cheeks.

Ryland settles his gaze on your mouth for a moment as his brows draw together. "After a while," he says, pauses, and then tilts his head and raises a brow, "A long while, after Rocky came on board, I... had a memory come back."

Your eyes grow wider at that. A memory? The two of you had this unspoken agreement where if one of you had a memory, you shared it. Neither of you knew what was happening when you woke up, and one by one, you each got memories. Those memories were missing puzzle pieces to solve and defeat Astrophage. Sharing those memories you individually gained back was a part of that.

Ryland sighs a little sheepishly and nods his head once in your hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I know I should I have told you. But... I didn't think you would believe me or... uhm... like? the memory?"

If he didn't have your interest piqued before, he certainly does now. You raise a brow in question, but again, you don't say anything. Ryland takes another deep breath and admits, "It was... you and me. Back on Earth. Stratt's vat, the original lab she set up for when we first got Astrophage, all of it."

"But," he mumbles, "It wasn't... just you and me. We... weren't like how we are here on the Hail Mary. We... joked...and laughed. You, uhm," he chuckles once and shrugs a shoulder, "You'd punch me in the shoulder if I made a really bad joke or if I quoted The Beatles too many times."

Your mouth curls up into a small, one sided smile as your mind begins to race. You part your lips to interrupt, but Ryland keeps going.

His expression is shy and open, and you can tell he's laying it all out for you. "When we were at Baikonur, your trailer was next to mine, and we'd walk to the lab together every morning," he says softly, "There were mornings where I wanted to reach over and grab your hand. I wanted to know what your skin felt like when it was always hidden under a latex glove."

Ryland's eyes flash up to yours. "I wanted to eat dinner with you in my trailer, or in my quarters on the ship when we were out at sea. I wanted to make you laugh every chance I could get just so I could see you smile when everything in the world was falling apart."

If you thought your heart was beating fast before, it's practically fluttering in your throat now. Your breathing is growing faster and shallower too, and you swallow to try to get your voice to work.

Ryland gives you an unsure smile as he confesses, "I... really, really liked you back on Earth. I mean, I had the world's biggest crush on you. I never did anything about it because we were trying to work on this project and I wasn't ever sure if you liked me back. And, oh, I don't know what the coma did to my brain, but it somehow twisted all of those unrequited feelings into a dislike that I've taken out on you for the last however many months."

"I mean, you had and have every reason to dislike me," he mumbles, his smile dissipating. "Both then and now with what I just put you through." Ryland bashfully shrugs one shoulder and admits, "Even now... I... I still like you."

Your eyes are wide with shock and disbelief at Ryland's confession. You don't even know what to say. All of that? On Earth? Now?

You are speechless.

There's only one thing you can think of to do to clearly communicate what you're feeling.

Using both hands to cup Ryland's face, you lean up off the mattress and capture his mouth in a soft, slow kiss. At first, he tries to pull back and panic over it, but then you slip a hand to the back of his head to keep him close, and Ryland sighs, melting into the kiss.

A soft, pleased hum resonates from Ryland, and he brings his hand not holding him up to cradle the back of your head. Once you feel him soften into the kiss, you allow yourself to enjoy it. The feeling of his lips slotting gently against yours, the tickle of his scruff on your face. Even the taste of his mouth is addicting and you find yourself wanting more.

But your lungs are still trying to get back to equilibrium, and you both pull away from the kiss slowly and at the same time. Ryland is the speechless one now, and you hold his face gently and glance over his features in the same way he had for you.

He's all sorts of confused. His hair is sticking up and out in a million different directions, his brows are taut, and you can practically see the questions forming on his mouth.

"It was never unrequited, Ryland," you whisper softly, "I never hated you. I think whatever happened to you in the coma also happened to me, because I also had the world's biggest crush on you."

Your cheeks burn with a shy warmth as you try to come up with your own words to say. Ryland is a step ahead of you, though, as he always is, and he asks, "But... how? When did you...? You've acted like you've hated me since you woke up!"

Now it's your turn to shrug. "Well, I... had a memory a few nights ago when I was getting ready to sleep and I guess it all made sense to me then."

The two of you stare at each other in disbelief for a few moments in silence. Then, at the same time, you both snort and burst into giggles. The tension in the room releases and you can't help but snicker as you come to terms with what information Ryland's provided you.

He sighs and shakes his head with a dumb, amazed grin. "Wow. To think this whole time we've been at each other throats all because the trip here messed with our brains. Unbelievable." You nod along and chuckle, "Well, I mean, at least we got it figured out? Even if under these conditions?"

Ryland winces a little and remorse fills his face. "I'm really sorry," he rushes, "I was so rough on you but I couldn't stop myself and I didn't want to hurt you-" "Ryland, Ryland," you soothe, again slipping your fingers over the scruff on his cheeks. "It's okay. I don't hurt anywhere. I'm okay."

"Actually," you giggle a little sheepishly, "I, uhm... kind of liked it rough like that?" That makes Ryland's cheeks flush a pretty rosy color. His mouth rapidly opens and closes as he tries to come up with something to say, but he doesn't. You end up giggling again, leaning up to rest your forehead against his.

His fingers gently slip into your (colored) locks and he sighs in happy, embarrassed defeat. He holds you close as you mumble, "And maybe, sometime in the future? We can try this all again when we're both healed up and 100%."

Ryland's brows shoot up in surprise as he echoes, "Try this again?" You blink in surprise but then grow bashful as you try to back track, "Well, well- we're the only two humans for 12 light years, and you know, we just did the deed. And well, if we both like each other, then I thought it wasn't a bad idea? Unless I'm totally reading this wrong-" "No!" He yelps out, tightening his grip on your hair slightly.

"No, no, no, that's not what I meant, I'm sorry," Ryland rushes out. "I just... can't believe all of this. This was never how our first time was supposed to go but here we are, and I... I just want to take care of you the way you deserve."

Your expression softens and you lean into his touch. You nuzzle your nose against his and nod faintly. "No, I know what you mean, Ry. I can't believe it either, and you just blew my mind," you say quietly. "You're... something, Dr. Grace."

Ryland smiles and softens into you again. It takes him a moment to get the courage, but then he whispers against your lips, "I love you, Y/n." Hearing those words makes you smile brighter than the stars surrounding the ship and you whisper back, "I love you, Ryland."

Without hesitating this time, Ryland closes the distance between the two of you and captures your lips for himself.

"Now, why would I joke about somethin' so serious?" was his sudden reply. Your scrunched eyes popped back open again as you stared up at Babe, watching his body leaning against the wall like it was natural for him to do so. Natural, like he owned the place, like he was meant to be here, observing you with those piercing brown eyes of his.

Like you were meant to spill the beans on your nonexistent love life to one of the studs of Easy Company. Cute. Must be feeling sorry for the awkward bookworm in intelligence; you even had his dress jacket draped around you for warmth, and he stood there, somehow not shaking from the cold that had bitten through your own dress attire. He stood there and waited for you to say your piece, like he always did, and you sat there and pondered.

He waited patiently.

This was dangerously, really. Risky. The truth of the matter was...you liked Heffron. A lot. Like, in a way that you knew would make him look at you like you were a pesky bug squished on the underside of his boot if he found out how you really felt. This whole situation was not sparing your skyrocketing blood pressure, and his proximity to you, close enough to feel his warmth and smell his aftershave, was not good for your self-esteem, self-control, and your self-denial.

You had to get it together. He was just feeling sorry for you; must be a Catholic thing, be nice to the underdogs and the poor, and all that. And you were...you were very unnoticeable. Which was a good thing in intelligence, being so boring and able to blend into the background that you were able to retrieve confidential messages, but personally, it didn't do you any good. No one noticed you, and no one cared. Spent all your time daydreaming if your eyes weren't buried in between books, and then scurrying here and there, doing your job, and being...boring.

And then, there was the self-denial, the inflated ego, because Heffron said you weren't boring. First day there, and he strode up to you and introduced himself, as if he had that planned for the day. Pulled you out from the background, his bright hair and easygoing grin adding color in a sea of muted green. It was because of Babe that you had friends. It was because of Babe that some people started to notice who you were. It was Babe who paid attention to your discomfort, your quirks, who waited for you to finish your thoughts while others would've bulldozed you over.

It was Babe who stood in front of you, and only you, away from the limelight. He wasn't the roguish devil that Wild Bill Guarnere was, but he was magnetizing. Everywhere he went, he drew crowds. The two of them together: it was hard to fit through the door of an establishment when the "good ol' boys" were seemingly holding court. Yet, he was here, in some alleyway away from the lively bar, away from the hoards of dazzling people with their dazzling charm and whirling dresses and eager grunts trying to get lucky for the night. You didn't doubt that there were demands and pleas for Babe to stay, both from G.I.s and pouting ladies, and some folks were probably looking for him right this moment.

Yet, he was here. Boots shined, greens pressed, shaved and proper for a rare night out to town, wasting all his potential on a nerd that people forgot the name of and just referred to as "Heffron's buddy behind him." He should be back there at the bar, not leaning against a battered brick wall in some shady alleyway away from the party. You should be here alone, recovering from being overstimulated by being around too many people. Babe Heffron should be downing his fifth beer, clowning on some salty joes.

Anywhere but here.

"Oh, I don't know, Babe," you finally said, staring quietly at a mouse who met its counterpart and scurried away happily together. Damn, even mice had game while you had none. "It—It all seems pointless, really."

"Not pointless if I listened to it all." You had to force yourself to calm down when he languidly took a seat next to you on the stairs. When his knee touched yours, you swear you were having a cardiac arrest. Yeah, you were done and dusted if you were mentally screaming for help over an action that meant nothing to him.

Yeah, you were a clown for choking up when he reached out and pulled his jacket up to cover more of your neck and shoulders. It meant everything to you, but most likely, nothing to him, at all.

"Cold out." Funny how you were burning up inside. "I'm not the biggest joe out there, but I think you could slide your arms in some for extra heat.

"C'mere. I'll help."

You must've been in a sorry state if needed to help you put on a jacket. But what was worse? The fact that you docilely followed his suggestion, or the fact that it wasn't a mere suggestion. It was more than words the way he patiently waited for you to slide your arms in their appropriate sleeves. His knuckles brushing the back of your suited arm. His breath tickling the side of your neck. The very action of him assisting you with something you could fully do yourself.

"Better?"

The act of knowing. Because Babe knew the then and the later. He knew you'd protest some, so he did what needed to be done. Spurred the action forward and had you folding your body into his jacket without room for argument. No one handled "act first, ask for forgiveness later" with such tact better than Edward 'Babe' Heffron.

You weren't immune to such sleight of hand, either. How could you be? There was just something about a man with a plan, whose actions spoke first, who acted without wavering...

"Now, tell me if I got things right."

It was irresistible.

Dangerous.

He fished out a pack of cigarettes from his front pocket, raising a stick to his mouth before offering you one. You declined, as usual, but noted how he invariably offered you one every single time. Just like everything else. Just in case. Just a behavior that had you smiling in thanks, earning you a lazy grin as he lit his cigarette and took a drag.

"Ideal man likes animals. Takes walks in the park. Holding your hand, and all that."

"Y-Yeah."

"Does art stuff. Likes a meal with a good beer or two. Takes you out to town. Not afraid to show you off."

You flushed a tad at that last bit of the summary, but you didn't deny it.

"Reads a hell of a lot and takes you to museums," he continued, and you marveled at his impeccable memory at your list. "A gentleman."

"Yeah."

"Smart."

"Yeah..."

"Alright."

There was a strange pause before he stated the last point, and you wondered if it was all in your head. For a while, the two of you sat in silence, and it was now your turn to wait patiently and wonder what he was thinking. It was uncharacteristic of him to be quiet this way as a response. Babe always had a rapid quip or followthrough for any scenario. You expected him to tease you a bit or tell you that everything was going to be okay, to pick your head up. But he didn't. He emitted a haze from his tab and let the din of the night fill in for the words he didn't say.

Awkwardly biding your time, you watched him smoke his cigarette down to the filter before he crushed it under his boot and threw it into a garbage can a few feet away. He sat there, slowly fiddling with his fingers, staring at nothing, before he finally spoke.

"My parents never let us raise pets at home, but I call myself a da to the wee kittens that ran around the shipyard where I worked. I raised 'em all nearly myself."

You blinked at the random statement.

"Been to nearly every single park in Philly. Camden, kind of. I'm not too fond of Jersey. Place is a shithole, if I'm being honest.

"And—" He laced his fingers together, pressing his forearms on his knees. "I know how to shave my calluses down. I just don't do it sometimes because the machine gun kinda fucks things up. But I can do it when I'm not expected by the army to...you know...stack some bodies."

Where was he going with this?

You blinked owlishly as he continued, his hands now separating to curl and uncurl repeatedly, and you debated on whether or not to reach out and put your own hands on top of them. It was hard not to. He never talked about it, but you knew he had problems with his hands; it was a wonder he was able to pass the medical exam and get into the service, especially for the paratroopers.

People called you creepy for noticing things that others didn't. You knew Babe would never call you that if you inquired about it, but for a man's man such as Heffron, it would still be a blow to his ego. Any other person being defensive and wanting to withdraw from you, you could tolerate.

But not Babe. Never when it came to Babe. You'd honestly banish yourself to Antartica before chancing your luck and losing the only person you ever truly considered your friend.

The only person you ever truly considered to be something more.

Don't.

"I can draw a cat."

You blinked again. "Oh."

"And a frog, I think. I can learn how to draw more.

"And I may look like a runt—"

"Babe!"

"—Look, it is what it is, alright? Not stressin' 'bout the truth. Anyway, I'm not too big of a guy, but nobody's said I can't put down some good eatin'. And the booze: Well, that parts self-explanatory."

He could definitely hold his drink. You've witnessed him drinking Bull and Wild Bill under the table, and then have room for more without starting a fight. He also had the most adorable flush in his skin once he got in his cups, but like you said: A man had his ego.

His reaction at being told such a thing would undoubtedly be cute, as well, but you weren't going to press this, either.

Because you weren't going to rush the careful words he was choosing. You weren't going to rush the way he looked at you, and really looked at you. Long and slow, looking at you the way Babe Heffron looked at you, and no one else. Like he could see right through you, and had words he wanted to say, but held them for your sake.

And tonight, you wanted him to be free of the words he'd never said.

Wasn't one of your virtues patience, after all?

"Any fella that can show you off's a lucky bastard," he said with intention, and the sudden shift in narrative had you startled. You started to reply but held your tongue as he continued with his speech.

"A fella that can read real well and go to those fancy museums. Probably went to those fancy schools. A fella—"

It started to click. It all started to click, but at the same time, you dared not confirm it because you had an ego of your own, no matter how conventional of a person you were, and it bruised easily. Mama said you were too tender-hearted for your own good.

A hard shell for a soft heart. A front crafted throughout the years to preserve that part of you who wanted to be understood, to be wanted, to be brazen, but you used your ego as a shield. It was better to not assume things if it dashed your hope to pieces.

It was better to quell this strange excitement, these feelings, from rising to the surface and bubble up into words that you wanted to say in response to words he couldn't. It was better to not react. It was better to not think. Assumption in intelligence was an utter abomination, as stated by Captain Nixon. You were good at what you did because you were one to not bother to be assumed, and in turn, you never did.

And yet.

"—that ain't me."

And yet.

"A man that's far from the likes of me."

And.

"B-Babe?"

Yet!

"But, I—I want your ideal man to be me," he breathily finished, and he shut his hands into tight fists as he let the remainder of his words fill the alleyway that held just you and him. You and Edward Heffron, huddled together on crumbled stairs in some bombarded European town stepping on bombarded dirt and experiences that the average person your age should've never had to endure.

"God, I want that to be me."

You and Babe, a somebody to someone for once in your life. You and Babe and his shaking hands and the war and your hopeful, naive heart beating a thousand beats per minute under the stars, away from everyone else. Euphoria and fear and awe and incredulity rushing throughout your body uncontrollably to leave you gaping like a fish. A wave of emotion so deep that it made you want to cry at the sheer magnitude of it. Everything happening was a first. And if you were actually sober enough from your rapture, you'd have noted that this must be what poets wrote sonnets for, what knights swore to chivalry in faraway lands, what artists created under the spell of their muse.

This must be...This must be...

"I know I'm not smart like the man you want. Shit, I haven't cracked open a damned book in ages besides mags—Damn, those aren't books.

"And the last time I tried to go into that main art museum in Philly, I couldn't afford it. 'Sides that, the folks workin' there wouldn't want my poor ass, anyway," he said in a stiff manner, and you didn't miss the tick in his jaw as he confessed to a chink in his ego. "I didn't bother goin' to any other museum since then.

"And school: My ass couldn't even make it through high school. Had to work, but shit's an excuse, I guess. Hated school." He kept his eyes fixed on his boots. The behavior, the slump in his shoulders, the trepidation evident in his body language, was unbecoming of the spitfire of Easy Company that had grown men running. "Nobody went to college in my family, so why would I be any different?"

"Babe," you shakily whispered, finally awake from the haze of incredulity that took over you.

"But I—I can be that."

Uncurling his fists before curling them again, he suddenly swung his gaze to fix on you, and impassioned eyes locked onto your own, his brows furrowing with resolve. There was still an uncertainty in the way he addressed you, but his shoulders were straighter, and he held his head higher than at the time he gave the comparison that broke your heart.

"This war's hell, but I'm open to adopting a stray cat we find along the way."

"Babe," you whispered again.

"I'm not too sure about taking walks in the park because everything's been fucked up, but I'll knife down these calluses and make 'em nice so your hands don't hurt holdin' mine. And I'll try learnin' how to draw birds and dogs and things that aren't just frogs and cats. I'll steal some pencils and paper from Captain Quaker—I mean—Captain Winters. No offense, but it's not like he needs like five million pages and shit like that in the field. The hell he doin'? Journalin'?"

"Babe."

"When you're with me, I'll never let you pay a penny. I'll buy us all the food and drinks we want, and we can tell people to fuck off so we can eat alone. I'll let you put our snacks in my ruck so you don't have to carry them.

"And when it comes to you." The manner in which his gaze softened had you breathless, desperation leaving you still to his declarations. "When it comes to you, it'd be impossible for me not to show you off.

"Because you're the smartest person I know. The kindest. And you're good at everythin', and you did go to those fancy museums and that fancy school, readin' all those books it'd take me a million years to understand."

"Babe."

"I'm not close in that regard. I'm not that kind of fancy man. I'm not smart. Can't afford college like that even if I can get in. But I can be that, and I'm gonna be," he firmly stated, and if you weren't careful, your dear heart was going to burst out of your chest. If you weren't careful, you were truly going to weep at how genuine his words and his eyes and the resolve in his shoulders spoke nothing but the truth.

"I'm gonna work hard. I'm gonna buy an actual book that ain't mags, and I'm gonna read it and then buy another one. And then another one. Grow some brains. It's never gonna be as good as yours by a long shot, but I'm gonna try."

"Babe."

"Uh...Sad to say, there aren't any museums open. I checked. Because...war."

You'd laugh if you weren't choking up from emotion.

"But I know you like digging for stuff. Old animal bones and treasures, and you even told me about different rocks and how old things are. I can't learn things for shit, but I swear I remember every single thing you told me because you told me. And I still don't know the fancy history and science stuff you talk 'bout but I can learn and dig for those things as much as you'd like. I'll dig out a fuckin' crater if I have to. I'll—"

"Babe, please."

Gently, with both bravado and fear, you reached out and touched Babe's cheek with your fingertips. It was warm, it was forbidden, and you almost made a sinful sound when he leaned into your touch and fluttered his eyelids closed at the contact. He was akin to a deer in headlights. How utterly vulnerable he looked, his eyes clear and true when he looked at you once more.

Your touch was what made him pause his anxious soliloquy. Your gaze was what held him captive and to wait with baited breath. Your glossy eyes had turning his head to fully place his cheek in your shaking hand, and finish the final act of his play.

"I know I'm not a 'gentleman' the way you expect, like how people see the officers and their nice upbringings. Wasn't raised that way, and my ass never bothered to be one.

"I've got zero patience, too. I don't try to start nothin, but I'll finish shit if I have to. Not what those 'nice' people do, I know."

Gingerly, you settled your other hand on top of his clasped fingers in support.

"But I'd never do you wrong. I only wanna treat you right because you only deserve the best," he rambled on, and you could feel how he fought to fiddle with his fingers again under your palm.

"I know I'm not the ideal man you want, but I'm fightin' to be that. I'll work hard and...and after the war, if we survive all this shit, I'll go back to school. I'll hit the books. I'll study. I'll scrape up every last penny and try to go to college—Mmmmph!"

Both of you were caught by surprise by your antics. They were unlike you. But your biding hope had taken its stand then, and it pushed aside its hard shell to be honest for once in your life.

So what if you got hurt because you assumed. So what if you were the one crazy here, and everything you were doing was a mistake, and you'd gone far past the proprieties of friendship.

If it meant that you could feel the heat of his skin and his lips on your own and reveal that part of you that longed for love, you'll take the guilt and the heartbreak. Maybe it was the war. Maybe it was being here, two young souls grown old with blood and death and seeing things they shouldn't have seen. Done things they shouldn't have done. Maybe it was from years hiding away, blending into the background, your back against the wall of every meeting and party, unassuming. Maybe it was the need to be free and honest and concede that you were a passionate person, you were just like any other person longing for connection, and that Edward James Heffron meant everything in the world to you.

And that you possibly meant the same back.

It was everything beyond you could ever fantasize and imagine. It wasn't a dream: You may have started the kiss, but he was quick to return your affection, and then some. More than some, actually.

So sweet and gentle was the prelude, and the postlude couldn't ever have been something you could ever assume. His hands on the small of your back, pulling you close to him, and he'd kissed you in ways that couldn't be portrayed in portraits and sculptures in museums that never gave Babe a chance. He held you like a man desperate for a lifeline out of rough waters, and you were his salvation. He kissed you madly.

He kissed you and made you hear the most sinful grown when your fingers slid through his hair, and you gasped when he settled his hands on your waist and expertly settled you so you straddled his lap. The new position gave you time to use your brain, but it sure wasn't easy when he made your jaw and throat the new focus of his attention.

You shyly cupped his face, bringing it back up to your own, and touched your forehead to his. "Did...did you really mean all that, Babe?"

Softening his brow, it was his turn to slide his hand on your cheek and brush his thumb on your heated skin. "Never said anythin' I don't mean—Oh, shit. I got distracted. Sorry 'bout that." Some of the forgotten anxiety began to creep back up in his hands, but you were quick with the observation. You interlaced your fingers with his as you waited for him to speak his mind.

"I...uh...I know I'm not your ideal man, but...I'd really love the chance to be that. And I'll work hard to be that if you'll let me be that.

"Please."

You boldly kissed his right temple and smoothed his hair back. Under the lamplight, it gleamed like burnished bronze. His skin had flushed in that gorgeous shade of red you loved so much, and not a single drop of beer could be held accountable for that.

It was all you.

All you.

He was everything you ever wanted.

Bashfully smiling, you placed your hands on his shoulders, uncaring if the fondness was overly evident on your face. Enough subterfuge. Enough of forever being the wallflower. Enough of denying his hands sliding down onto the small of your back while his eyes brimmed with hopeful anticipation.

You've upheld self-preservation for far too long, and there was only one person you'd toss all propriety to the wind for.

"Babe, you always were and are the only man for me.

"Could you please let me be the only one for you?" you asked, turning the amalgamation of his anxiety into a reflection of your own hunger.

"Could you please let me be that person you already are to me?"

He smiled. He smiled, and no treasure you ever dug up or million dollar relics in expensive schools and museums could compare to the dazzling display of authentic relief. Hope. Desire. All for you and because of you, and damn it all if some tears leaked at seeing his crinkled eyes and bright teeth and a face that displayed innocent youth.

How beautiful he was when he smiled. How beautiful you felt when he cradled you close before tilting his head and kissing you again. Soft, this time. Slow. He took his time with memorizing your skin and lips, your hair, the planes of your back. He took his time holding you, kissing you, showing you through his actions what his answer was before he attempted lip service.

"The only person who's supposed to be askin' that is me," Babe jokingly replied, and you quickly snapshotted that languid grin you loved so much in your head for sketching later.

"So...uh...could a gentleman in trainin' take your fine self out for a real dinner that's not some c-rat in a foxhole?"

You chuckled at his eager expression. That mischievous gleam in his eyes that held such mirth gave you butterflies. Each and every time, and right this moment, combined with that dastardly grin, you'd have agreed to anything he asked for if he would continue to look at you in such a way.

"I'd be honored to have dinner with you, Babe Heffron.

"Whether we're in a foxhole or not."

you and daeron had been married for nearly two years. your union had not gotten off to the best of starts. daeron made it clear at the beginning that while he would never be cruel to you, he wasn't interested in your marriage. it was merely his duty fulfilled at his father's insistence. he'd intended to largely leave you to your own devices and didn't expect you to love him or even endure his presence except as strictly necessary.

but a lot could happen in two years.

now, your husband was naked and kneeling in front of you. one hand clutched at the silky skirt of the nightdress he'd bought for you, the other gripped his cock tight. his brilliant blue eyes were wide and silently pleading.

"do you remember what you said to me at the beginning?"

daeron's only answer was to whimper.

you ran your fingers through his hair. he panted and rubbed his face against your hand, his stubble grazing your palm.

"i won't make you a false promise of faithfulness" you repeated his words back to him.

daeron whined and shook his head, not wanting to hear. he tried to hide his face against your stomach but you pulled his hair to force him to look at you.

"i drink and i fuck and i've no intention of abandoning that path." you cooed.

his arm wrapped around and clung to you. his other hand pumped his cock. he still looked like he wanted to hide, hide from your words, hide from the memory of his foolishness. your hand left his hair and held his chin.

"but i don't love anyone. i've no intention of loving anyone. if that matters to you."

"i'm sorry!" he whimpered and pulled you impossibly closer. he pushed himself up higher on his knees, practically crawling along your body. "it's been two years."

"one year, really, since you began to behave like a real husband to me."

"i know and i—i—i—" each word was accompanied by a stroke of his cock. "i'm sorry!" daeron willingly let go of his poor aching cock so that he could wrap both arms around your waist. his chin rested on your stomach and there were tears in his eyes, of sexual frustration and regret, as he looked up at you. "i didn't know it would be like this. could be like this. i love you. i love you. i love you."

you smiled and rubbed his cheek soothingly. he tried to take your thumb in his mouth, but you needed him to focus. "i love you too, daeron," you reassured.

that made him cry harder and hide his face against your nightgown. his hips rocked against your leg seemingly of their own accord.

"you know it's just a game, right?" your voice went all soft and concerned. "daeron, you know i'm not actually angry with you?"

"i know" his voice was muffled against your dress.

"i need you to look at me when you say it."

he obediently looked up at you, gaze teary-eyed and soft and reverent.

"do you want to stop?" you asked.

"no," he breathed.

"and you know to tell me to stop if that changes?"

"yes" he looked so awestruck at how sweet you were to him. too good for him by far.

"good boy. now get on the bed."

daeron nearly tripped over himself in his eagerness. he laid out for you, oh so pliant and willing for any pleasure or torture you saw fit to subject him to.

you wrapped your hand around his length and rubbed him up and down.

"can you still not promise me faithfulness?"

"n-no! gods, no. never. only...want...you."

"does my husband still drink and fuck about?"

"only —fuck!— only you!" his voice broke when you began rubbing his tip.

daeron's cock was so red and flushed and pretty, you wanted it in your mouth, but you knew your husband simply wouldn't be able to handle it.

"my fool of a husband. just think, how i could have been fucking you this entire time," you breathed. "could have ridden you on our wedding night. but no, you had to show up to the ceremony drunk."

"in my defence that wasn't —oh gods, oh GODS— wasn't a specific choice, i was a-a-a-always drunk then!"

his voice kept breaking with moans and whines.

"what a comfort that is to know," you said dryly, then switched tactics to pout and whine. "just think, a whole year where i was left abandoned and unsatisfied. all wet and empty and without any attention or relief, while my husband directed all his attention to whores."

you played the part of aloof and commanding well, enjoying making your husband submit, but you had your own needs. and you couldn't resist the desire to impale yourself on your husband's cock any longer.

you moved to straddle him but he stopped you.

"let me make it up to you," he panted.

"dearest, you know i love your mouth. but that's not what i need right now."

he grinned up at you.

"not my mouth, my lady-wife."

daeron sat up slowly, hesitantly, waiting to see if you'd push him back down again. you didn't. he wrapped his arms around you and gently rolled you over.

daeron usually preferred you on top of him. when he did press you into the mattress, it was usually to lie flat on you and hump into you with small, quick thrusts, needy and desperate for release and begging you to let him finish. this was different. he hooked your leg around his hip, holding you open for him. he whined at the feeling of your wet and warm cunt so close to his cock, but resisted the urge to tease himself by rubbing against you.

he easily found your clit and began making tight circles against you just the way you liked. normally he did this with his tongue, but his fingers ought to do well enough. that theory was proven right when you started moaning, long and drawn out.

fuck, it felt good. you tried to buck upwards but his body weight held you in one place. he moved his hand so two fingers could push inside you while his thumb continued to rub at your clit. daeron moaned and had to concentrate, hard, to make sure he didn't cum from the feeling of your tight cunt around his fingers.

he kissed you and played with your cunt until you were gripping onto his shoulder and yanking his head back by his hair to force him to look at you.

"daeron. daeron, now." you ordered.

your husband grinned, more than happy to oblige.

the noises from both of you as he pushed his cock inside were obscene. wetness and moaning and whining.

you grabbed his ass and pushed as you wanted him to move. daeron began thrusting, deep and at just the right speed.

"you," he panted against your lips. "only you. only want you. wife."

"keep calling me that."

"wife," he groaned, mouth hanging open, blue eyes never leaving yours. "wife. wife. my wife."

one particularly good thrust and you were coming, hard.

daeron had managed to hold off an impressively long time, given how you'd edged and teased him before, but soon as he felt you clenching his body understood it's job was done. he came, still moaning and calling you his wife, and moaning again as you breathed, "husband, husband, husband."

daeron leaned heavily on you, practically crushing you, but you liked it. your hands ran soothingly up and down his back.

you'd watched, horror struck and helpless from the sides, as dunk had taken an injury in the last tourney. a bad one. his opponent's lance had splintered against him and lacerated his right side. his ribs were bruised, possibly one or two broken. nothing that would endanger his life, provided he was careful to keep the wound clean. that was what the maester had said and you'd anxiously taken it upon yourself to ensure the wound was kept free of infection and that dunk was made as comfortable as possible.

"let's go to the brook. i want to wash the wound," you said more than asked one afternoon at your campsite.

dunk nodded. he followed after you some ways away from and out of sight of camp.

***

dunk's usual approach to injury was stoic acceptance and gritted teeth, managing it on his own, but you would have none of that, insisting you change his bandages at least once a day and that you allow him to do everything for him while he rested. he knew better than to argue with you. and, truthfully, he liked having your attention, though he'd be embarrassed to admit it.

"you should take a bath," you suggested.

he shrugged as best as he could with his injured side.

"i'd like as not hurt myself. still can't lift my arm properly."

"i'll help you."

dunk felt heat bloom across his face. he fidgeted.

"i can't very well take a bath with you," he said.

"just keep your trousers on. i've seen you without a shirt often enough now." ever since you'd been tending to his injured side. "you're sweaty and dirty—"

"thanks," he tried to distract from his awkwardness with a jest, but you were having none of it.

"and i don't want any of that grime ending up in the wound. besides, the cold water should help with the pain."

he knew you were right. a bath would help. and it was sweet that you wanted to take care of him. made him long to melt and do whatever you told him, so long as you'd keep looking after him. and he couldn't explain to you why the thought of you and him and bathing made him nervous. made his mind wander. no, it was alright, it wouldn't be any different from all the times you'd already helped him with dressing and undressing the wound (which, admittedly, he already found distracting). he nodded his agreement.

then you started taking your clothes off.

"w-what are you doing?" his voice hitched and he wondered if he was dreaming of you, again.

you stopped, fingers at your loosened dress laces.

"i'm just taking off my overdress. it'll take ages to dry if i get it wet."

his mouth opened and closed stupidly as he tried to find the words to make you understand.

"i can't see you in just your smallclothes!"

"close your eyes, then," you said simply.

right, dunk thought. course. you had a solution to everything. you could help him and keep your honour intact. he couldn't tell you the truth that just the sight of you starting to undress and the thought of you in just your shift, pressed close against him, your hands on him, worrying about him, had his heart beating fast.

"go on then," he squeezed his eyes shut. "d'ya want me to cover my eyes with my hand too?"

"no. i trust you."

that made it worse for dunk. knowing you trusted him. trusted him to protect you on the road. to respect you. you'd once told him you didn't feel afraid around him like you did with other men. hearing that had made his heart swell. he'd do anything to make sure you always felt safe with him.

he tried to focus on his breathing as he could hear the rustle of your clothes being removed.

***

dunk nearly jumped out his skin when you touched his arm.

"sorry! didn't mean to startle you," you apologized. "i'm going to take your shirt off."

dunk was much taller than you, so he had to bend over for you to pull the material up and over his head. you went slow and careful so as not to catch on his bandages. once it was off, he stood upright again.

it wasn't the first time you'd seen him shirtless, but it was the first time you'd had the opportunity to really look at him. usually you had been preoccupied with tending to him or had felt too shy to look. but now...well, dunk wouldn't know that you were looking at him. maybe it was taking advantage, but you couldn't resist the chance to stare at him. so big and muscular and strong.

"somethin' the matter?" dunk asked and shifted uncomfortably, his face flushed.

"just folding your shirt!" you lied and hastily half folded, half bunched up the garment and threw it to the side.

you took his hand and led him into the stream. you stopped as the cold water reached your knees and guided dunk to sit. you sat beside him. dunk fidgeted and moved to start splashing water on himself. you stopped him.

"let me," you cooed. "i'll start at the top and work down."

dunk didn't speak, just nodded.

you had brought a rag with you. you soaked it in the water and used it to wet his hair. you ran your fingers through the sandy strands and shivered as you realized there was still specks of blood in it. your fingers took his chin and gently turned his head towards you so you could wipe his face. his eyes were squeezed so tight it almost looked painful. you almost laughed, but you could feel how hot his face was, and knew he was already flustered. sweet man.

"how do you feel?" you asked. "does anything hurt?"

dunk shook his head.

"you'll tell me if i hurt you?"

dunk nodded.

your hands moved around to the back of his neck. the muscles there felt hard and tight. you squeezed out the rag, sending water running down his skin and clearing away the sweat and grime. you then set the rag across your shoulder and pressed both hands to his shoulder blades. you increased the pressure and began to rub the stiff muscles.

dunk whimpered.

"is this alright?" you asked, worried you were hurting him.

dunk only nodded.

you moved so you could better reach his shoulders and back and began massaging downwards, rubbing soothing circles into the taut skin. and yes, you allowed yourself to admire. his shoulders were so broad and firm. his back so strong. your main concern was helping dunk relax, helping distract from the pain, but you'd be lying if you said you weren't enjoying rubbing him down.

you shifted over again so you could reach his front and began washing his chest. dunk groaned.

"did i hurt you?" you asked, worried.

dunk shook his head.

"dunk, why aren't you talking?"

***

dunk was in one of the seven hells. he could feel you beside him, all soft and wet, but couldn't see you. feel your warmth all the more starkly against the cold of the water. could feel your thighs nudge against his legs as you knelt beside him, feel flesh of your legs where the current had lifted up and pulled on your shift. he'd had to bite his lip, hard, at the thought the water might have turned the white fabric of your shift translucent.

and you were so gentle and so good to him. so careful and sweet in the way you washed him. so worried you would hurt him, as if you could hurt him. dunk wasn't much accustomed to softness towards him. ser arlan was his only family, only friend, and ser arlan had been good to him, but he wasn't tender in the way you were.

dunk was torn between wanting to relax entirely and let you tend to him however you wanted and the desire to lay you down on the riverbank and make you squirm and cling to him from pleasure. give his all to making you feel good. thank you properly for...well, everything. dunk had certainly imagined it often enough, late at night, when he just couldn't help himself. imagined laying you down on his cloak and taking you by the fireside under the stars. imagined laying with you in a real bed, all soft and comfortable, and grinding his hips into you until you were moaning his name.

and all that was before you'd begun to rub his shoulders. you kept asking him things and it was all he could do to nod or shake his head in reply. he was hardly breathing.

you were just being nice, he told himself. you were being kind. he ought not to think of you that way, not when you were always so sweet to him. cooking his meals. looking after egg. and you'd been so worried when you'd first seen the wound. told him you had been so scared he would die. it made him feel good. not that you were worried, but that you were worried over him. he liked having you fuss over him. it made him feel good.

like he had a wife.

only if you were his wife, and you were willing, he could pull you into his lap right now and put his hands on your hips and—

you started rubbing his chest and he couldn't help but groan.

fuck, he was so hard.

"j-just didn' want t' bother you," dunk offered in weak explanation for his silence, knowing it didn't make any sense at all.

he felt you move closer to him again, doubtless so you could better reach his chest. you must have been having trouble as you steadied yourself with one hand on his shoulder and, worse, your leg moved on top of his. you were so close to his hardness that he didn't dare move.

the way you rubbed his chest would have been nice, if dunk hadn't felt like he was going to pass out any moment.

you shivered hard. must have been the cold water. it was chilly enough for him, but you were smaller and it must have been much worse for you. dunk didn't think. his protective instinct made him put an arm to your lower back and push you closer to him, trying to warm you. only, now you were pressed flush against his uninjured side. he could feel your stiffened nipples poking through the thin fabric of your shift. dunk broke.

"i can't," he groaned, desperate and miserable. "can't do this."

"dunk?" you asked, voice all gentle and concerned, which only made him feel worse.

he rubbed his face. he kept his eyes firmly shut and even turned his head away from you.

"'m sorry. know you're being sweet and...and good to me and...it's wrong, 'm wrong, but i can't handle you being almost naked and pressed up t'me and touchin' me like that. i can't. i didn' mean to disrespect you, but i can't help where my mind goes. 'm sorry."

he hid his face in his hands. he felt horrible. wanted to curl up into himself. could you forgive him? would you leave him? how would he explain it to egg if you left?

"dunk," you spoke, soft and low. dunk didn't react, bracing himself for a thrashing he deserved. "dunk, look at me."

dunk turned his head back to you. he took a steadying breath and opened his eyes. a more primal part of him longed to turn his gaze on your body, but he needed to focus on your face, to see if you were enraged or hurt or, gods, scared of him. his eyes hardly even met yours before you leaned in and kissed him.

***

ser duncan the tall was the sweetest man alive.

the poor soul had looked so completely miserable and so terrified that he had upset you. as if the admission that he desired you didn't take your breath away and make your heart race.

your first kiss was gentle as you somehow found the strength to hold back. but when he kissed you in return, you couldn't restrain yourself any longer. your hand went to the back of his head as you kissed and you swung your leg so you could take a seat in his lap. you gasped in surprise when you felt his hard cock straining against his trousers.

oh, fuck, he was huge.

dunk moaned into your mouth. he pulled back, eyes wide and alarmed.

"'m...'m sorry..."

"dunk," you interrupted. "dunk, i want you."

that evidently gave dunk whatever assurance or permission he needed. he groaned and kissed you, hard. his hands went to your waist and yours' went to his shoulders. you positioned your core directly on his covered cock and you both moaned loudly. you started to roll your hips, but then dunk let out a little cry, this time not one of pleasure.

"ah, fuck" he groaned, voice low and deep in a way that would have driven you insane if it didn't worry you. "it's my ribs."

"let's get out of the water."

you both climbed out and sat on the bank. your hands went to his side, gently prodding, gaze intent on finding if anything was wrong.

"it's fine. just need t'be careful," dunk assured.

you straddled his opposite thigh away from the wound. you inched your way forward so that the meat of your thigh pressed against his cock. you rolled yours hips slowly, angling your body so your clit would rub against his leg and his cock would push against your thigh. it felt heavenly. it felt like finally getting relief. you grinded back and forth, agonizingly slow but so good.

dunk's hand instinctively moved to grip your hip and he gasped and jerked again in pain.

you halted immediately and dunk whined in frustration.

"i can't believe—" he panted, blue eyes looking at you with such longing. "i can't believe i get you sayin' you want me and climbin' in my lap all soft and pretty, an' i can't do a damn thing about it without hurtin' myself. the gods are havin' a laugh at me."

you giggled at that, equally miserable.

"we can stop. we can wait—"

"the problem is i don't want to," he breathed. "unless you want to."

"i don't want to."

you just needed to figure this out.

"you won't be able to lay on top of me. you can't sit up and let me grind against you without moving and hurting yourself."

"don't mean to grab," he offered apologetically. "you just feel too good."

"i like it," you smile. "or i would if i wasn't afraid of you snapping another rib."

he laughed and winced.

"no laughing either."

"yes, m'lady."

you continued thinking aloud.

"you could lay down and i could stay upright but—" you broke off. you felt your face turn hot and your thighs clench around his leg.

"what?"

"you feel really big and i don't think i could take you like that without help getting ready for you," you admitted, voice hitched, flushed and panting and squirming despite every effort to stay still.

dunk's eyes closed and he let out the most pitiable groan that nearly made you reconsider, even though you knew even just by feeling it through his trousers that his cock would truly split you apart.

the gods truly were laughing at you both.

"look, why don't you just lay back and i'll stay upright, and we...we just touch ourselves..." you whimpered.

dunk didn't look happy at the idea of not being able to touch you, but it must have been better than nothing. he nodded.

you climbed off his leg and helped him lie back. once you were certain he was laid down comfortably, you leaned in to give him another kiss before straightening.

you situated yourself back on his thighs towards his knees. your hands bunched up your skirts and pulled your dress up and over your head. you shivered at the exposure. dunk stared at your naked body.

"fuck, you're beautiful" he murmured. "wish i could kiss you all over."

you whined and angled your hips so you could grind your clit against his muscular thigh.

"wish i could make you feel good," he panted.

"you are making me feel good."

"properly. wish i could properly make you feel good." his hand slid down to palm over his covered cock as his eyes fixed on where your cunt slid against his leg. "w-want to give you everything."

"want that too, dunk."

he whined and fumbled at his trousers until he managed to push them down and free his cock.

the tips of his ears burned red as he blushed at being exposed under your gaze. you hardly noticed.

"fuck, dunk. knew you'd be huge."

he was massive. would he even fit inside you? seven hells, you could hardly wait to find out, once he was healed.

dunk squirmed in pleasure at your praise. you grinned.

"so big and pretty. know you'd feel so good inside me."

he gripped his cock so hard you wondered how it didn't hurt him. your own hand dropped down and began rubbing your clit.

"s-so good and full," you whimpered.

"i dream about you," he confessed, voice low and reverent. his breath hitched as his hand sped up. "all the time."

"i dream about you too" you admitted.

the finger against your clit moved faster as you grinded your cunt down on to him. it all felt too good and dunk was too beautiful and you'd been pent up wanting him for far too long. you came, hard, crying out his name as your thighs went tight around his leg. you calling for him sent dunk over the edge of his own white hot release.

your body went weak. you climbed off his lap and collapsed onto the grass beside him. dunk's arm was immediately on you and pulling you closer into his uninjured side. your hand rested on his chest and you could feel his heart racing beneath your fingertips. you both were struggling to catch your breath.

"did it hurt?" you asked, worried for his injury.

"if it did, i didn' feel it."

Dustin scoffed, completely incredulous. Right after, he reminded Mike of that time their older friend had shown up with a fever high enough to cook his brain, just because he wanted to keep the campaign going, not even caring that it could trigger a seizure. And the worst part was that Eddie hadn’t canceled one, but two, game sessions.

Of course, he hadn’t gone to class either, and no one from his grade knew anything about it.

At that point, Dustin feared he might have disappeared or even imagined him lying dead in his house from a heart attack or something like that.

Both of them knew the way to the trailer park because they had visited Max a few times. Even though he wanted to, Lucas couldn’t go with them because he had basketball practice.

The boys knocked a couple of times on the metal door and then Dustin peeked through the gap, in vain: there was no sign of movement inside.

“What if he went on a trip?”

“On foot?” he asked, ironic.

Eddie’s van was parked outside, and they didn’t know whether to take that as a good sign or a bad one.

Dustin knocked again, but no one answered. Mike was about to tell him they should go when the curly-haired boy scanned the entrance and, upon finding a pot full of dead plants, tossed it to the ground.

“What the hell are you doing?!” Mike whispered, looking around in every direction.

Dustin grinned proudly when, after digging through the pile of dirt, he pulled out a silver key. He wasn’t even sure it would work, but he wanted to trust the statistical odds that favored him.

A little nervous, he inserted the key into the doorknob, and after a few tries, he managed to open the door. The black-haired boy wasn’t very sure he wanted to be an accomplice to breaking and entering, but he didn’t protest and ended up following Dustin inside.

Just as they expected, the house was quiet; not even a trace of Wayne anywhere. There were empty beer bottles on the table, but other than that, the place looked fairly tidy—considering someone like Eddie lived there, of course.

They thought their friend had vanished off the face of the earth until they crossed the hallway and found his bedroom door open.

He was asleep—or at least that’s what they believed—peacefully, his hair messy and his naked body covered only by a white sheet. If they listened closely, they could hear him snoring.

The noise hadn’t woken him, but Dustin calling his name was enough to do it. He blinked a couple of times, adjusting to the light, and when he saw the boys, he frowned, as if he wasn’t convinced they were real, physical beings.

“Henderson? What are you doing here?”

“We were worried about you!” he explained, as if it weren’t obvious.

They were about to step into the room when, as they moved closer, they discovered Eddie wasn’t alone. Beside him, a girl was resting, wearing the Hellfire shirt over black panties. Her face was hidden by her hair, but even if they had wanted to look, they stepped back almost as fast as they had stepped forward.

At the same time Eddie sat up, covering himself as best he could with the sheet, they let out unintelligible stutters, pretending to apologize. But as soon as he closed the door—softly, as if not to wake her—they approached him to interrogate him.

“Who the hell is she?”

“My girlfriend.”

“Your girlfriend?!”

“Yes, Wheeler, I thought you had one too.”

“Yeah, I… I get the concept! It’s just that… you never told us about her.”

Eddie rubbed his eyes with two fingers, still half-asleep, but awake enough to be annoyed.

“Because it’s none of your business,” he muttered, adjusting the sheet with one hand and leaning on the doorframe with the other. “Besides, I don’t go around telling you every time Wheeler turns bright red whenever someone mentions Miss Hopper.”

Mike’s mouth dropped open, offended.

“That’s not—! Don’t bring that up now!”

“You really have a girlfriend?” Dustin repeated, this time with a different tone, a mix of surprise and… pride? “Eddie, that’s… wow! But that still doesn’t explain why you disappeared for two days.”

Eddie huffed, tilting his head as he brushed a strand of hair from his face.

“Because I was with her, obviously.”

Dustin narrowed his eyes, suspicious.

“Two whole days… with her?”

Mike nudged him with his elbow.

“Dustin, stop.”

“What?! I’m just doing the math!”

Eddie rolled his eyes.

“I didn’t disappear completely. Wayne knew I was here. Well… here and there.”

Then he pointed toward his room with a shrug. “She doesn’t live in Hawkins.”

Mike crossed his arms.

“So you brought her here without telling us?”

“Because I didn’t have to tell you anything!” Eddie hissed, pointing to the door, worried the boys might wake the girl. “I’m allowed to have a private life. Big surprise!”

Dustin opened his mouth to respond but froze.

Remembering the image, he thought of the Hellfire shirt, huge on her body, and the black boots he had glimpsed by the bed—boots that definitely belonged to her. And above all that, Eddie’s leather jacket.

“Wait…” Dustin said slowly. “Does she know how to play? You know… like in Hellfire?”

Eddie sighed, resigned.

“No. She just likes my shirt. And the jacket.” Then he added, lower, “And I like it when she wears them. Okay?”

Mike pressed his lips together, processing.

“But… two days without saying anything? Skipping class? Canceling on us?”

“Great, you make it sound like a list of crimes.”

“Eddie, we thought you were dead!” Dustin finally burst, unable to hold it back. “Seriously. I imagined you lying here alone, the radio playing in the background and… I don’t know! Something horrible!”

Eddie’s face softened immediately, surprising him.

For a second, the defensive attitude disappeared.

“Dustin… I wasn’t going to die.” Still half-covered by the sheet, he leaned down to pat his shoulder. “But thanks for worrying.”

The younger boy pouted.

“You could’ve left a note. A message. Something.”

“Yeah, I know. Next time I will.”

Mike raised a brow.

“Next time?”

Eddie rolled his eyes and gave a tired but genuine smirk.

“Yes, Wheeler. Next time my girlfriend comes to visit and we decide to become ghosts for a couple of days, I’ll let you know.”

Dustin swallowed hard, still nervous.

“So… you’re okay?”

Eddie nodded.

“I’m okay. I don’t have a fever, I’m not dying, I didn’t get sucked into a hole in the ground or anything like that.”

Before Dustin could say anything else, a soft creak came from inside the room. All three of them turned their heads at the same time.

The door opened a bit wider and the girl walked out, sleepy, rubbing her eyes with her fist. She was wearing the Hellfire shirt, barely covering her, and her hair fell loosely over her shoulders. She walked a couple of steps toward them—unbothered, with the dignity of someone who doesn’t realize two teenagers are about to implode—until she noticed the figures in the hallway.

She blinked, confused, then her eyes went wide.

“Oh… I thought you were you, Ed.”

Her gaze moved from Dustin to Mike, clearly surprised to find a pair of underage intruders in the middle of the morning.

Dustin froze completely. Though he tried to stay composed, his brain could only think Steve would die for a girl like this. She was exactly his type: pretty, a little messy, charming even half-asleep, and with the attitude of someone who could laugh at anything he said.

Mike, meanwhile, felt an uncomfortable knot in his throat. It wasn’t that he wanted a girlfriend like her—but that Eddie, Eddie, had a girl so preppy, so on the opposite end of the social spectrum… that gave him a weird sting of envy.

The girl stepped a bit closer, guided purely by politeness.

“Hi,” she said with a smile that disarmed them both. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were here.”

Her name came out with a warm tone as she adjusted the shirt as best she could. Both boys introduced themselves, nervously.

“Do you want to stay? We can make something to eat or… I don’t know, coffee?”

Dustin swallowed hard. Mike let out an “uh… I…” with no idea how to finish the sentence.

Behind them, Eddie cleared his throat. Loudly. Deliberately loudly.

When both boys looked at him, he had narrowed eyes, one raised brow, and the classic expression that said If you stay, I will bury you alive in the woods.

The girl turned to look at him and smiled, amused. “You don’t want them to stay?”

“No,” Eddie said, very serious, nodding toward the door. “They’re leaving.”

Dustin and Mike caught the hint at lightning speed.

“Yes! Yes, we were just leaving,” Dustin said, almost bumping into a table in his rush.

“Sorry for… disturbing your morning,” Mike added, red as a tomato.

The girl waved at them kindly.

“It was nice meeting you… even if it was accidental.”

“Same,” Dustin said, walking out as fast as if the floor were on fire.

Mike nodded awkwardly and followed him out.

As soon as they were outside, Eddie closed the door with an impatient exhale. The boys, now on the porch, exchanged looks somewhere between traumatized and fascinated.

“Oh my god,” Dustin murmured.

Mike could only answer:

“Yeah… now I get why he didn’t want to tell us.”

They walked a few steps away from the door, still in shock, until they reached the edge of the porch. Dustin was the first to break the silence, letting out a long sigh.

“Well…” he said, adjusting his cap with trembling hands. “At least now we know he’s okay.”

Mike nodded, still trying to process everything.

“Alive, healthy… and apparently with a very good reason to disappear.”

Dustin let out a nervous laugh.

“Did you notice I could barely talk to her? It felt like… like we were seeing something forbidden.”

“It was something forbidden.” Mike ran a hand through his hair. “And she… did you see how she smiled at us? I would’ve died on the spot.”

“Dude, Steve would die if he met her. I’m pretty sure he’d strangle Munson just to get close,” Dustin said, completely serious.

Mike glanced at him, thoughtful.

“Eddie… with a girl like that. Wow.”

Dustin puffed his cheeks, releasing the air all at once.

“Though… well, they look good together. I didn’t think I’d ever say this, but… Eddie’s making it. Like… in real life.”

“Yeah.” Mike shoved his hands into his pockets. “And even if it hurts to admit it, I’m happy for him.”

Dustin nodded, much softer this time.

“Me too.”

They stayed silent for a few seconds, staring at the van parked in front of the trailer, as if the whole place had changed meaning in just a few minutes.

“Do we tell the others?” Mike finally asked.

Dustin looked horrified.

“Do you want to die today? Because if we tell anyone about this, Eddie will rip our heads off.”

Mike smiled for the first time since they walked in.

“Okay. Then… nothing happened.”

“Exactly. We were never here.”

“Perfect.”

Inside the house, Eddie rested his forehead against the now-closed door, letting out a long sigh.

Soft footsteps sounded behind him, and then warm hands wrapped around his waist over the sheet he was still dragging around like an improvised cape.

“You’re rude, you know that?” she said, her voice raspy and amused.

Eddie turned his head a little.

“Rude? Me? They broke into my house. Without warning. Like it’s a public park.”

She raised a brow, smiling slightly.

“You didn’t even ask them to leave: you kicked them out. Poor guys, they looked like scared deer.”

“They were scared deer,” he muttered, turning fully to face her, his hands naturally finding her hips. “Besides, I didn’t want them seeing you like that.”

She looked down at the shirt that barely covered the essentials.

“Like what?”

Eddie swallowed a little.

“Like so… mine.”

She smiled, stepping closer, pushing him gently toward the wall.

“Sounds more like you were jealous.”

“Jealous? Please!” Eddie lifted his hand in an exaggerated gesture. “Why would I be jealous of those two scrawny kids? I was just… taking care of them.”

She placed her hands on his bare chest, tracing her fingers along the chain he always wore.

“Right. All for their well-being.”

Then she leaned in a little, her lips brushing along his jaw. “How noble of you, Eddie.”

He let out a strangled laugh, grabbing her by the waist to pull her closer.

“Don’t start… I literally just woke up.”

“You should wake up like this more often,” she whispered, and before he could respond, she kissed him.

Eddie smiled against her mouth, one of those slow kisses at first, like he wanted to make sure she was still there, that she still chose him. She slid a hand to the back of his neck, tangling her fingers in his messy hair; he pressed his fingers to the curve of her back, deepening the kiss as they’d just remembered they had been interrupted.

“You know…” she murmured when they broke apart by barely a centimeter, breathing against his lips, “I like your friends.”

“They’re not that bad,” Eddie conceded, stroking her waist with his thumb. “Sometimes they drive me crazy, but… they’re my people, you know?”

“Then you should be a little nicer.”

Eddie snorted, pretending to be annoyed, but his eyes glowed.

“I’ll think about it. For you.”

She kissed him again, this time shorter, softer.

“That’s better.”

Eddie leaned in to kiss her again, letting out a laugh under his breath.

“Damn it… How am I supposed to go back to sleep now?”

“Then don’t,” she said, tugging gently on his chain to pull him back toward the bedroom.

And he, without losing the smile, followed her without a shred of resistance.