all of me wants all of you

[sop]

praxis/ethos
nc-17
for the starfighterkinkmeme prompt: “Praxis x Ethos awkward first time (NSFW obviously:P)”. also for @leealoo <3

The alarm blares loudly in the quiet of their room, beep-beep-beeping incessantly until a long arm stretches outwards and slaps the damn thing quiet, clock sliding off the dresser and crash landing to the floor. It beeps one final, mournful sound before fizzling out and dying a painful, premature death. Rest in five plastic pieces, old friend. You will (not) be missed.

That same arm winds around his waist, gently trying to coax him awake. A hand slides up the back of his shirt to stroke and pet his warm skin. “It’s 05:00, Ethos. Time to wake up.”

Ethos buries his face deeper into the pillow. He’s not ready. “Five minuteeesss,” he whines, snuggling a bit closer. There’s no way it’s time. They just fell asleep!

Praxis laughs into Ethos’ unruly bedhead. “Do you want Keeler to chew you out for being late again? I thought you said he’s scary when he’s mad.”

“He is,” Ethos groans.

Keeler can go from delightfully pleasant to pants-wettingly terrifying in zero to sixty. And Ethos still remembers the last time he’d pissed their lead navigator off, showing up to the hangar thirty minutes after their scheduled maintenance, the memory still uncomfortably fresh in his mind. Ethos may or may not have whimpered, curled into a ball, and/or cried (just a little!), but Keeler had let him off the hook on one condition: that he not show up late ever again.

Ethos is definitely testing the waters of punctuality here by trying to cocoon his way back into Praxis’ solid chest, avoiding the inevitable shower that awaits him. He knows he should get up. That if he procrastinates any longer he’ll be tiptoeing into dangerous territory, but Ethos can’t manage to pull himself away. Not just yet.

And when Praxis tactfully shifts his hips, briefest hint of morning wood brushing against Ethos’ thigh, he settles in for the long haul and resigns himself to yet another verbal beat down.

Ethos pushes forward, sliding one leg between Praxis’ thighs.

“Ethos,” Praxis warns, voice thick with sleep. “We don’t have time.”

“Five minutes?” he tries again, already rubbing the y-front of his briefs into Praxis’ own. His cocks’ just as hard and it won’t take him very long.

Praxis looks like he’s about to say something responsible, something like No, we can’t, Ethos. They don’t pay us to fool around, but whatever argument he’s cooked up inside his head spontaneously combusts and he gives in, grinding against Ethos as they dry hump their way to ecstasy.

Ethos comes with Praxis’ tongue in his mouth, tasting stale morning breath and the cigarette he’d smoked last night. Praxis follows soon after, panting wetly against Ethos’ ear, whispering how much he loves waking up with him like this.

They chuck their soiled briefs into the hamper and try to cut their shower down to six minutes and forty-five seconds, all the time they’ve got left to spare.

“Lunch later?” Ethos asks while he laces up his boots.

Praxis nods and fastens the eyepatch around his head. “Yeah, sure. I might be late, though. They’re rolling out medical screenings for all the fighters in batches and I think I’m on the list to go first.”

Ethos hums noncommittally. “Okay, well if you’re not there in time I’ll just eat with Abel or Deimos or something. There’s no rush. I’ll see you later though, right?”

They're still in that honeymoon phase where everything’s all or nothing, a race to see who can miss the other first. Most days Ethos thinks he’s winning. Until Praxis surprises him with a hungry post-work kiss that buckles Ethos’ knees and jumpstarts his heart. Their relationship’s new and exciting, still sealed in plastic just waiting to be unwrapped, and Ethos wants to tear at it like a kid on Christmas morning. He can be patient, though. He is an adult capable of self control. Sometimes.

Praxis smirks and ruffles Ethos’ messy hair. No matter how many times he combs it, the strands never seem to brush straight. “Yeah,” he says, patting the fluff down. “I’ll be back before lights out. Don’t worry.”

Ethos beams and leans up for one last kiss.

Praxis chuckles in disbelief. It’s not like they spent eighty percent of their morning stealing pecks by the sink or the dresser already. But he leans down and gives Ethos one anyway. Because he’s secretly a big fan of clichéd goodbyes.

They part ways in the lift.

Praxis heads down to the fighter base level and Ethos steps off sooner, heading toward Hangar Bay C.

He speed walks past everyone strolling through the halls and just barely makes it through the doors with thirty seconds to spare.

Keeler shoots him a disapproving glare that reminds Ethos of a scorned mother, miffed that her son almost missed yet another family dinner.

He smiles apologetically before sidestepping away to the Tiberius for some routine maintenance.

Abel’s already working on the Reliant by the time he settles in, covered in grease and grime from tampering with the engine. Ethos figures he’ll look just like him give or take twenty minutes.

“That was another close one!” he says from one ship over, poking his head out from inside the cockpit. Abel climbs out and straddles the nose. “Keeler looked like he was about to mentally set you on fire.”

Ethos shrugs off his jacket and sighs, tossing it over the tool rack. “I know. But I made it. Barely.”

“You've been running late a lot these past couple of weeks. Is something wrong, Ethos?” Abel leans in and mouths Is it your fighter? around two cupped hands, so no one else can see.

Ethos nervously scratches the back of his head and laughs. “A-ah, um. Not really. Or, uh, not in the way you think. We’re actually doing pretty great. Like, really great!”

Abel quirks a brow and then slowly the gears in his head start turning, and Ethos thinks he might have given too much away.

“So you and Praxis are—”

“A-ah, s-sorry, I've gotta finish these. Repairs. And things. Y-yeah. So.” Ethos quickly grabs a couple tools and climbs up the ladder, all but throwing himself into the navigator’s chair.

Him and his big mouth.



*



When Ethos gets back to his dorm in the evening, he's covered in oil and grime and old engine grease. He opted to stay a little later than everyone else to appease Keeler, who still hadn't exactly forgiven him for barely making it on time.

He strips off his filthy clothes and steps right into the shower, hoping he can scrub away the microscopic flecks of dirt that have clogged each and every single one of his pores. Military grade soap smells awful and barely cuts through the film. By the time Ethos is clean, he’s red and raw all over, skin blotchy and sore. He grabs a towel and pats himself dry, careful not to rub too hard. Ethos ties it around his waist and pads across the cold floor toward his—or, rather—Praxis’ bed (which may as well be his, too, at this point) and flops face-down onto it.

Ethos groans and buries his nose into the pillow.

It smells like their shampoo and Praxis’ clean aftershave.

He's content enough to just lie there like a dead fish drowning in his own exhaustion until two warm hands firmly grip his shoulders.

Ethos startles, but then relaxes into the touch when he realizes who it is. He hadn't even heard the door chime open.

“Praxis,” he mumbles against the pillowcase, turning his head slightly to affirm his suspicions.

Praxis’ thumbs rub circles into the spot just below his shoulder blades, digging in deep enough to help uncoil his tight muscles. Ethos moans drowsily and melts into the mattress.

“You look tense,” Praxis comments. He swings a leg over Ethos’ hips for better leverage. If there’s one thing those big hands of his are good for, it’s massages. “Rough day?”

Ethos nods, stretching out like a lazy cat after a nap. “Yeah. Keeler looked like he wanted to kill me me for almost showing up late. And then we had to rework the whole engine from the ground up with some new parts Command issued. I think I got some oil up my nose, too. Ugh.”

“Well, at least one of those problems could have been solved if someone hadn’t stalled for more time this morning,” Praxis laughs, rubbing a bit more purposefully now, turning Ethos into pure putty in his hands.

Ethos smirks against the pillow. “Hmm. I guess so. But it was worth it.”

Praxis’ palms slide up and down his back, calloused and rough from years of training. Ethos likes how they feel against his bare skin, large and warm and impossibly gentle, like he’s carefully charting the topography of Ethos’ features. Praxis always touches with purpose. Calculated movements that leave Ethos breathless and needy, begging for more just before the end. They’ve gotten to know each other a little better over the course of a couple months. Praxis likes it when Ethos licks and sucks his nipples and Ethos is a big fan of the way Praxis’ fingers fit inside him. Going all the way though, that’s something they haven’t discussed. It’s been hinted at a few times in the middle of something else, mostly on Ethos’ part, but Praxis hasn’t initiated anything more. And Ethos might be feeling a tad frustrated at the brick wall he’s run into.

Ethos’ legs unconsciously spread wider inside his towel when Praxis slides a bit lower, working the muscles on his lower back. His cock starts to fill and he arches into Praxis’ hands, pleading for more. He really appreciates the massage, but there’s something else Praxis could be doing right now to help alleviate some stress.

“Ah, r-right there,” Ethos moans, hips stuttering backwards. His nails dig into the sheets on either side of his head, eyes fluttering closed.

Thankfully Praxis catches on because he doesn’t waste any time and skips any and all teasing, hands cupping Ethos’ ass to squeeze and grope through the towel.

“Tell me how you want it,” Praxis says, voice a husky baritone, obviously turned on. “Mouth? Hands?”

Ethos licks his lips and drags his erection against the towel. “F-fingers,” he whines. Though at the rate he’s humping the mattress he might actually come before Praxis gets them inside.

“Slow down,” Praxis chuckles, pressing down to still him. Ethos chokes back a moan because the unintentional friction feels good on his cock. “If you keep rubbing like that you’ll start to chafe. Stop. Roll over.”

Only slightly ironic considering Ethos had only recently stopped comparing Praxis to an oversized labrador.

He flips onto his back and allows Praxis to settle between his thighs, fingers fumbling with the hem of the towel because even though they’ve done this plenty of times before, Praxis still sucks in a gulp of air through his teeth whenever he sees Ethos naked and pliant beneath him.

The towel parts and the first thing Ethos does is wrap his arms around Praxis’ neck, pulling him down for an open-mouthed kiss. So close and melting into each other, Ethos can smell Praxis’ natural scent tickle his nose, a deep, musky aroma that quickens his pulse and waters his mouth, an almost Pavlovian response at this point in their relationship.

Ethos grinds up into Praxis’ crotch and gasps when he feels how hard Praxis is, too.

Praxis pushes Ethos’ impatient hips down. “Keep that up and you’ll make me ruin another good pair of pants,” he jokes against Ethos’ lips, chewing on the bottom one between his teeth.

Ethos makes an annoyed little sound in the back of his throat. “Then h-hurry up and get the lube. Please. I’m close.”

They stash it in the top drawer of their dresser, between Praxis’ underwear and Ethos’ socks. It’s an Olympic feat pulling himself away from Praxis long enough to let him reach over and grab the small bottle he’d discretely smuggled from someone down below decks, but Ethos manages somehow. He hadn’t asked the how’s and why’s regarding this recent acquisition, because Ethos honestly didn’t care. And still doesn’t.

Praxis slicks up one finger and reaches down between them, circling Ethos’ entrance. “Ready?” he asks, just to make sure.

Ethos nods, his bangs bouncing wildly. “Yes. Please. I need it.”

“Okay. Let me know if it’s too much.”

The tip of Praxis’ middle finger slowly, very slowly, slides inside and Ethos whimpers. The first time they’d done this, it’d felt weird and a little bizarre. Ethos’d never fingered himself before and it took a good fifteen minutes before the whole process stopped feeling uncomfortable and borderlined pleasurable. It helped that Praxis had wiggled a bit deeper inside of him and found his prostate after three minutes of poking and prodding, stars bursting behind Ethos’ closed eyelids. They’d tried it a few more times that week and Ethos had gone from dubiously unconvinced to blissfully addicted, a time when he hadn’t wanted Praxis’ fingers inside of him a distant memory now.

The initial burn wears away and Ethos hitches his legs behind Praxis’ back for leverage, ankles crossing as he lets himself be stretched open. A second finger slides in with the first and that’s when Ethos loses all composure and shamelessly moans, a loud, full-bodied sound that echoes off the walls.

Praxis crooks upwards and brushes against Ethos’ prostate. Ethos shudders deliriously and digs his nails into Praxis’ back.

“Feel good?” Praxis says through a smirk, massaging that small bundle of nerves relentlessly.

Ethos’ head rolls to the side, mouth panting wetly against the pillow. “Y-yes,” he exhales, too far gone for coherent thought. “S-so good. Ah!! Praxis!”

He’s not so out of it that Ethos forgets to reach down between them to try and undo Praxis’ fly. But Praxis’ free hand stops him and drags Ethos’ away, pinning it flat to the mattress. He interlaces their fingers—something he always does just before one of them comes—and plants a soft kiss to Ethos’ lips.

“But you’re—”

“It’s fine,” Praxis whispers, rubbing a bit faster. Ethos hiccups with pleasure. “I’ll finish later. Don’t worry about it. Just let go, Ethos. Come.”

And Ethos does, with a high-pitched whine, cum splashing between their bodies, dirtying Praxis’ clothes. His cock softens against his stomach, but Praxis’ is still hard.

Praxis withdraws his fingers and wipes them on his stained shirt. “Relaxed?” he asks while Ethos floats down from cloud nine.

Ethos sighs contentedly and grins, but there’s something nagging the back of his mind, a persistent little thought that just won’t go away.

“I guess all of my clothes are destined for the hamper,” Praxis laughs as he strips off his shirt and pants, chucking them near the large bin in the corner.

And that’s when Ethos realizes that it’s not a thought, but an observation as he notices the large tent in Praxis’ briefs.

It’s been two and a half months.

And Ethos still hasn’t seen Praxis’ cock.



*



Maybe it’s deformed.

Ethos recoils in horror and nearly spits out his oatmeal.

“Why would you think that?!” he hisses across the table, trying to keep his voice down so no one else can overhear their absurd conversation. Not that anyone will. Deimos doesn’t talk. And Ethos is one of the few people on this ship who actually understands what he’s “saying”.

Deimos shrugs and sips his coffee, not in the mood for instant raisins and cinnamon. He usually skips out on breakfast even though it’s the most important meal of the day and Ethos has told him this every single morning in the hopes that he’ll stop being so damn stubborn and eat something, gosh darn it!

Ethos polishes off his replicated orange juice and frowns. “I don’t think it’s deformed,” he mumbles around the rim. “But that’s strange, right? That he hasn’t let me...you know…”

Deimos smirks suggestively and lewdly presses his tongue against his cheek, fist joining the display, pantomiming that.

Ethos’ cheeks burn hotter than Deimos’ mug. He frantically scans the room to see if anyone else saw.

They didn’t.

Good.

He breathes a sigh of relief and shovels down more oatmeal. “Th-that and…” his voice lowers “the other thing. We haven’t—he doesn’t let me. I try to! But then he always comes up with an excuse why I can’t. Or shouldn’t. It’s weird. Maybe he doesn’t want an inexperienced virgin touching him—you know—there.”

Deimos pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs exasperatedly. Between Praxis and Ethos’ sexual miscommunication and Cain and Abel’s perpetual whirlwind of drama, it’s a wonder Deimos has kept himself sane for so long.

He shoots Ethos a very deadpanned expression and shakes his head no, that’s not it.

Ethos frowns and cocks his head. “Then what’s the problem?”

He immediately regrets asking because two seconds later Deimos is lifting two fingers roughly eight and a half inches in length apart.

It’s only seven in the morning so Ethos can’t be sure if this is another weird dream or reality, or—

“Wait—you don’t mean—”

“This is your problem,” Deimos whispers, emphasizing his hands.

Ethos pales and sputters around his spoon. “So h-he’s—”

“Yes.”

“And that’s why—”

“Yes.”

The oatmeal turns to ash in his mouth. “How do you know that?!” Ethos croaks.

Deimos smirks and quirks a brow suggestively. “I know a lot of things.”

Ethos gapes unapologetically, too stunned to finish his breakfast or juice.

“Hey! Myshonok! The fuck’re you sittin’ with the fruity naviga—what in the hell are you two talkin’ ‘bout?!”

It’s at that exact moment does Cain make his presence known, storming over to the navigator’s table in the mess hall the minute he spots Deimos sitting somewhere he shouldn’t. He looks at Deimos’ hands, then at Ethos, then back at Deimos’ hands and says: “who the fuck is that?”

Deimos looks at him and whispers “Praxis”, barely containing the smug satisfaction in his voice.

Cain’s nostrils flare, scowl intensifying, and he looks about three seconds away from pelting his tray at whoever decides to walk in front of him next.

He clicks his tongue and heads back to where he came from, quietly mumbling “size isn’t everything” as he scours for a spot to eat.

A few people stare in confusion after Cain storms away and Ethos wishes he could climb under the table and hide there forever.

Deimos snickers and goes back to sipping his coffee

And that's how Ethos discovered that perhaps his problem might be slightly bigger than he’d initially thought.



*



Three days later, Ethos is sitting on their bed, legs crisscrossed as he lets Praxis blow dry his damp hair. They’ve just finished taking a shower and Ethos had spent ninety-nine percent of it trying to sneak a peek at Praxis’ crotch. Which proved impossible considering Praxis wouldn’t let Ethos turn all the way around and—somehow—managed to stay behind him the entire time, coming up with excuses like “let me wash your back” and “hold still, there’s shampoo in your hair”. Things he typically says every morning that Ethos normally doesn’t bat an eyelash at, but now Ethos is aware why Praxis says them and he’s dying to find out if what Deimos told him is true.

Ethos isn’t a complete idiot. He’s obviously felt it against his thigh and his back whenever they’re intimate or just fooling around, but he’s never actually seen it up close or touched it before.

It’s incredible, really, how Praxis managed to keep this up for so long. They don’t have a whole lot of free time on the Sleipnir, so when they do spend it together, Ethos appreciates whatever they can get. He never once stopped and questioned any of Praxis’ odd little quirks because every second spent thinking is a second wasted.

The idea that Praxis had been hiding something from him had never once crossed his mind.

He doesn’t know how to tactfully broach the subject without sounding like a complete moron, either.

“Hey, can you pull your briefs down and show me your cock?” might not be the best conversation starter.

The two others he’s got mulling around in his head aren’t all that better, either, and Ethos fidgets nervously against the mattress while Praxis continues to comb fingers through his hair, drying the underside now and tickling his ears.

Ethos swallows down his apprehension and uses the best one he’s got.

“How come you never let me see your, you know…” he says, barely audible over the sound of the dryer.

Praxis shifts behind him and leans in a bit closer, not picking up Ethos’ shy mumbling. “What did you say?”

The back of Ethos’ neck burns, and not because of the heat. “I said, how come you never let me see your...cock.”

Because the universe is conspiring against him, Praxis still doesn’t hear. “What?”

“I SAID, HOW COME YOU’VE NEVER LET ME SEE YOUR—” the hair dryer suddenly turns off and Ethos swallows the tail end of his sentence before he screams it loud enough for the whole ship to hear “...cock.”

Praxis’ jaw dislocates from the rest of his body. “I...what?”

If the Colterons attacked and obliterated them all right now, Ethos would probably be okay with it. In fact, he’d openly welcome it. “Every time we, you know, do stuff, you never let me touch it.” He rubs the back of his neck nervously, staring down at his lap, but forces himself to continue. “I’m starting to wonder if…” a deep breath “....if you want me to at all. I mean, if you don’t, that’s fine. I can live with that. I guess. But—but it’s not fair how you’re always the one getting me off and I can’t, um, do the same.”

It’s a very good thing Ethos is facing the wall because if Praxis looked at his face right now, he’d probably wonder how in the hell it got sunburned.

Their slightly broken clock ticks loudly on the dresser, twenty whole clicks before Praxis can even respond.

“Ethos,” he starts, voice cautious as he tries to come up with something other than uhh. “I’m not—that’s not—shit.” Praxis grips Ethos’ shoulder and forces him to turn so that he can’t bury himself beneath their blanket. Ethos looks up and is only slightly relieved to see that Praxis is just as nervous and embarrassed about this as he is. “I do want you. Badly. I think about it every damn day. God, I want you so much.”

Ethos toys with the hem of his boxers. “So why don’t you—”

“Because I’m—” Praxis’ forehead wrinkles. The words keep getting stuck in the back of his throat, like a thick glob of peanut butter he can’t quite swallow.

“You’re—?”

Praxis finds his resolve and meets Ethos’ gaze. “I’m big,” he answers without a hint of arrogance. He’s not saying it to brag. Actually, he sounds apologetic, like he’s so incredibly sorry for being larger than the average.

Ethos remembers that he should probably breathe. “You’re...big?”

“Yeah. It’s...I didn’t want to scare you because I’m so...large.”

“How large?” They’ve gotten this far already, so why not go for glory? Ethos licks his dry lips and whispers, “Can I see?”, big eyes staring up at Praxis with an almost innocent curiosity Praxis can never refuse. “I promise I won’t run away.”

Praxis chews on his bottom lip for a bit, in thought, before putting the hair dryer down and moving to pull off his briefs. “Okay,” he breathes. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

The standard Alliance grey underwear slowly slides off Praxis’ hips and Ethos’ mouth unintentionally waters when it finally hits the floor. Praxis steps out of them and rests his hands on the bed above, displacing his weight from foot to foot, waiting impatiently for Ethos to just say something.

“Oh,” is what Ethos settles on because his brain can’t muster up anything more eloquent.

Six inches soft and thicker than three of his own fingers, Ethos isn’t sure just how in the hell Praxis hid this. He’s uncut, too, foreskin concealing the very tip of his cock, and Ethos wants to touch it. He wants to run his fingers up and down the soft skin and watch it get hard, blood filling Praxis’ dick until he’s completely erect. The dark patch of hair seems well groomed, recently trimmed, and Ethos stops himself from nuzzling it like a small animal in heat. His own cock twitches to life inside his boxers.

“So, um. This is. This is it. My, uh. Cock.” Praxis looks away and stares at the door, blushing harder than Ethos did the first time Praxis had fingered his ass. If anyone’s in danger of fleeing it’s Praxis. He looks uncharacteristically skittish and flighty, like he might actually run to the bathroom and lock himself in there.

Ethos swallows the heavy lump in his throat. “It’s big,” he mumbles, still a little dazed.

Praxis clears his own. “Yeah. It’s, um. It’s even bigger. When I’m hard.”

Hearing Praxis say that, Ethos unintentionally moans, saliva pooling in his mouth. He scoots a bit closer and props himself up on his knees. Praxis’ cock responds and starts to swell slightly under his gaze. “Can I touch it?” Ethos asks, but it sounds more like a plea. He’s been waiting for this moment too damned long. Ethos needs this. He needs to feel Praxis hard and heavy in his palm.

Praxis audibly groans and grips the bed frame a bit tighter, arms trembling. “Yeah,” he whispers and his voice tapers off near the end. “You can. Go ahead.”

Ethos reaches out and awkwardly puts his hand on Praxis’ cock, familiarizing himself with it for now. It’s just as soft as he thought it would be and feels warm against his skin. He drags his fingertips all the way down to the foreskin and rubs the tip experimentally, noting how spongy and different it feels compared to his own. Ethos is circumcised, so seeing someone who’s not is both foreign and new, and he thinks he likes how they’re complete opposites when it comes to this as well. His palm glides back up and this time Ethos just holds Praxis, getting used to the weight of him in his palm. During this whole process, Praxis has gotten hard, six inches swelling until he’s pushing seven and a half to eight. His foreskin rolls back, cockhead poking through, and Ethos quietly gasps because Praxis keeps hardening even though it doesn’t seem possible for him to get any bigger.

When he’s finally done, Ethos sits back on his haunches and kind of just stares at it, distantly aware that Praxis is asking him if he’s all right. All Ethos can do though is try not to drool. “You’re so big,” he says again, shocked by how much so. And it’s because he’s so stunned Ethos lets slip something he’d only subconsciously been thinking. “How’s it going to fit inside me?”

Praxis’ grip on the bed tightens so hard the whole frame starts to shake. “Fuck, Ethos,” he hisses. A fat bead of precome leaks from the tip. Ethos wants to stick his tongue out and lick it. “You have no idea how many times I’ve thought about fucking you.” His voice takes on a heavier quality, like he’s sharing all of his deepest, darkest secrets. “About being inside you.”

Ethos’ palm starts to move, back and forth, slowly jerking Praxis off. “Me, too. I, u-um. I want that. I want to feel you like that. Inside me. You’re the only one I’ve thought about doing it with.” He moans at his own words and when Praxis lightly thrusts forward into his grip.

“You’ve never, hah. Been with anyone else? Before?” One of Praxis’ hands covers Ethos’ own, guiding him faster up and down his cock.

“No,” Ethos confesses, shaking his head. “You’re the first person I’ve been with. Like this. The only one.”

His virginal confession must hit Praxis pretty hard because he growls lowly in response and starts fucking Ethos’ hand faster. “Ethos,” he moans, possessive.

More precome leaks out, his hand sopping wet. “C-can I taste you?” Ethos whimpers.

“You don’t have to,” Praxis cautions, like Ethos doesn’t already know that.

“I know. But I want to. I want to see how much, um. H-how much I can fit. Inside my mouth.” He presses a chaste kiss to the tip of Praxis’ cock.

“Jesus fuck.”

Ethos takes that as a yes and parts his lips eagerly, suckling the head. He’s never blown a guy before and it’s almost hilarious that someone as big as Praxis would actually end up being his first. Ethos’d roll around on the mattress laughing at the fact if he weren’t so turned on by the taste of Praxis’ precome on his tongue.

Praxis holds his cock steady with one hand and Ethos’ head with the other, not forcing him to go faster or take him any deeper, just resting it there, anchoring himself so that he doesn’t sink right through the floor. His fingers curl loosely into Ethos’ hair and he pets it, gently, as if trying to convey just how thankful he is that Ethos isn’t horrified and actually wants to suck his dick.

When Ethos finally slides his mouth further down he has to slacken his jaw to help accommodate for Praxis’ width, breathing heavily through his nostrils as he swallows him inch by torturous inch. It aches, but in a good way, and he works a hand inside his boxers so that he can pump his own needy cock.

Ethos doesn’t think he’s doing a particularly good job, this being his first time and all. In fact he knows he isn’t, but Praxis seems to be getting off on it all the same, stroking Ethos’ cheek and whispering soft words of encouragement, mumbling the occasional fuck and yes and hissing through his teeth when Ethos tries mimicking the same things Praxis does to him all the time.

He pulls off with a wet pop and licks down to the base before coming back up again, wrapping his lips around the head, flicking his pink tongue against the slit with teasing little swipes that makes Praxis twitch inside his mouth. Ethos manages about halfway before the pressure becomes too much and he has to stop or he’ll end up gagging. What doesn’t fit he jerks off with the hand not currently on his own cock. His technique is sloppy, uncoordinated, and terribly inexperienced, but Ethos wants to make this good so he keeps going and doesn’t stop even when Praxis tells him to.

“Ethos, sh-shit. I’m gonna come.” Praxis tugs on Ethos’ hair to pull him away.

Ethos sucks harder, refusing to budge, trying that humming thing Praxis does sometimes.

Praxis comes three seconds later, whole body tensing as hot cum floods Ethos’ mouth. There’s too much to swallow so Ethos pulls off and coughs because some of it accidentally goes down the wrong pipe. Praxis finishes unloading the rest on Ethos’ face, semen splashing against his lips, cheeks, and chin. It slides down in fat globs, dripping onto the sheets.

“Fuck, I’m so—”

Ethos collects some on his fingers and pops three in his mouth, swirling his tongue around curiously. It’s salty and thick and slightly bitter, but Ethos decides he doesn’t hate the taste.

“Fucking hell, Ethos. I already came once,” Praxis groans. “Let me help you—oh.”

They look down and notice the damp stain in Ethos’ boxers and all over his hand.

“I, uh, I think I did. Already.” He giggles nervously and wipes his dirty palm on the sheets.

The kiss comes as a surprise and Ethos wants to push Praxis off, tell him that he’s a gross, filthy mess, but that’s probably part of the appeal so he allows it, and melts against Praxis’ mouth. When he pulls away, they’re both panting and slightly out of it.

“Towel,” Praxis says, struggling to vocalize human speech. “I should get a towel.”

“And a washcloth,” Ethos adds. The cum’s cooling against his skin.

“And a washcloth,” Praxis echoes before stumbling into the bathroom.

Praxis comes back with fresh underwear, a towel, and a slightly damp cloth. He wipes Ethos clean and then strips off the bedsheets, throwing a new set on top while Ethos slips on some boxers. Praxis spoons Ethos when they lie down, fingers lacing together over the comforter.

“I’m sorry,” Praxis says as Ethos scoots back into his chest, worming closer the way he usually does after they fuck. He runs his fingers through Ethos’ hair. “I didn’t realize it was bothering you so much.”

Ethos sighs and rolls over, nose bumping Praxis’ chin. He’s getting stubbly again. “Ah, it wasn’t bothering me, exactly. I just, um…” His hand curls loosely into Praxis’ sleep shirt. “It’s not fair when it’s just you doing everything all the time. I want to be close to you like that, too. And, u-uh, you’re not the only one. Who thinks about. Um. You know.” Ethos’ cheeks burn a bright red. “About you…fucking me.”

Praxis inhales sharply. “I’d have to work you up to it first,” he breathes. “Get you used to my fingers before we tried that. Probably four, to be safe.”

Talking about Praxis preparing him makes Ethos’ whole body tingle with anxious anticipation. “Four?” he repeats, slightly turned on. He shifts a bit so as to not bring attention to the semi in his boxers. “That many?” It’s a little daunting, to say the least. The most Praxis usually uses it two. One time he’d attempted three, but stopped when Ethos had said it’d felt too uncomfortable. They haven’t tried that many again since.

“We don’t have to do this,” Praxis reminds, but the longing in his voice says otherwise. The way he strokes Ethos’ back does, too. It wouldn't surprise Ethos in the slightest if Praxis has secretly been thinking about this for longer than he has. “I’m perfectly fine with how we have sex now.” That part, however, is completely true. Praxis doesn't push. In fact, he's completely passive in regards to their sexual progression.

Ethos clears his throat. “I’m okay with it, too! I mean, what we did thirty minutes ago. I liked that.” The air between them has become unbearably hot. He’s never felt so flustered in his entire life. “I liked making you come. Being the one to do it for once. I felt closer to you. Or something like that.”

Praxis doesn’t even try to hide the fact that he’s rock hard again and shallowly rolls his hips against Ethos’. Ethos reciprocates, biting back a moan.

“Closer than when my fingers are inside you?” Praxis laughs, a thin, breathy sound, and then gasps when their cockheads brush. He positions his mouth near Ethos’ ear and smiles against it, whispering, “Or my tongue?”

That’s when Ethos loses all semblance of control, crossing the line between mildly aroused to full on sex-crazed, humping Praxis’ leg in reckless abandon, letting his raging hormones think for him.

“Oh, God.” His grip on Praxis’ shirt tightens. If Ethos doesn’t let go he might actually shred it. “Y-yeah. Watching you come because of me made me—oh—m-made me fuh-feel like you were sharing something r-really important. Like you w-wanted me, ah. All of me.”

His head hits the pillow as Praxis rolls them over, pinning Ethos down while hitching his legs up, forcing them to wrap around his hips. He rolls—harder—and Ethos claws helplessly at his back.

“Jesus Christ, Ethos,” he hisses through another downstroke, face burying into the crook of Ethos’ neck. His wet mouth pants hotly against Ethos’ ear. “I always want you. Every part. Fuck, especially this.” He slides a hand under Ethos’ ass and cups it firmly, fingers lightly stroking between his cheeks to emphasize just how much. “If that’s what you want.”

That familiar heat coiling in his belly starts spreading like wildfire through his veins and it’s a miracle Ethos hasn’t combust yet. “M-me, too. I want that. So bad. I want you inside of me. I want to feel you like that, so close I can’t breathe.”

Praxis growls and starts moving faster, emulating just what it’d feel like if he really was. “I’m gon—gonna come.”

They have enough sense left in them to shuck their underwear down to mid-thigh, frantically racing for bare skin on skin contact, rubbing their wet cocks together while Praxis lewdly describes every filthy scenario he's ever pictured himself taking Ethos’ virginity. Up against the bathroom wall, legs and cheeks spread so Praxis can fuck up into him while Ethos’ hands tremble against the white tiles seems to be a favorite.

Ethos comes with Praxis’ name on his tongue, calling for him through a broken moan. Praxis laces their fingers together before he follows suit, swallowing the sound right out of Ethos’ mouth. They’re both exhausted afterwards and cling lazily to each other, putting off the inevitable need to clean up. Again.

When they settle back into bed for the second time that night, neither of them can move, too boneless for anything more than some standard non-sexual cuddling. Ethos’ cheeks are sticky with heat, the way they usually are after a good orgasm. Praxis looks just as wrecked, too, hair out of place and chest heaving, the steady rise and fall of it forcing Ethos to move with him.

“I was serious,” Ethos says through a sigh. “About, um. You. Being inside me.” He’s no pro at dirty talk, but Ethos wants to clarify that what he’d inadvertently admitted wasn’t to be construed as such. Praxis seemed to be really into it, though.

“I know,” Praxis chuckles, spooning Ethos a bit tighter. “I knew you were. Are. And I was, too. We’re not going to try...that until I know you can handle it. Might take a bit, though. Before you’re used to, um, my size.”

Ethos closes his eyes when Praxis pets his hair, halfway asleep already. “So maybe we should start practicing?” It’s the two orgasms that make him bold. The grin widening across the back of his neck tells Ethos exactly how Praxis feels about his little suggestion.

“Right now?” teases Praxis. He worms a hand inside Ethos’ underwear to squeeze his ass.

Ethos squirms. “Ah, m-maybe not. I’m about to pass out.” His well-timed yawn punctuates that fact.

Praxis withdraws his hand and places it flat against Ethos’ stomach. “Whenever you’re ready,” he adds a bit more seriously. “There's no rush.”

There isn't, but Ethos wants to hurry up and get to that part faster, the part where Praxis is inside him, with nothing in between.



*


Patient doesn't even begin to describe Praxis’ resolve.

The next couple of weeks are dedicated to nothing but Ethos working his way up from two fingers to three, getting used to the stretch of Praxis’ thicker ones before moving on to four. They make it a point to finish work as soon as possible so that they can head straight to the dorms right after their scheduled dinners, Ethos already naked and waiting by the time Praxis walks in and Praxis can't get his hands on Ethos fast enough, struggling to unbuckle his own pants somewhere between the door and the bed.

It's an incredibly tedious process, slowly being opened, and it always leaves Ethos shaking and trembling by the time Praxis is done, legs dissolving into jelly as he keeps himself propped up on all fours, knees spread wide on the bed sheets while Praxis fingers him from behind. It had felt uncomfortable at first, like his whole body might implode from the pressure alone, but Ethos had threatened Praxis with minor head trauma if he didn't keep going, determined to squeeze in just one more. So Praxis did, and when he'd slid his pinky in to join the three other fingers curled deep inside him, Ethos had popped, bursting at the seams like a broken water balloon.

He can take them easily now, sometimes all at once if they’ve been fooling around a few hours beforehand, his muscles still stretched and loose, and it drives Ethos up the wall when Praxis drags things out, forces him to beg for something he knows Ethos can’t live without.

They've managed to go through an entire bottle of lube and fifteen towels since then, but Ethos can't shoulder all the blame. Praxis gets off on watching him fall apart and usually ends up making just as big a mess, often times untouched. It probably has something to do with the embarrassing little noises Ethos squeaks out just before he comes.

There's no rush, though. Even if Ethos feels like he might be teetering on the edge of insanity because Praxis won’t go deeper, harder, faster. “It’s a test of endurance, not a race,” Praxis reminds one night, stroking Ethos’ back as he works those four fingers in and out at a snail’s pace. Easy for him to say. Praxis isn’t the one waiting—impatiently—for something bigger to stuff him.

Ethos tries broaching the subject again, right after they’d finished changing and brushing their teeth, ready to turn in for the night.

“I think we should have sex. Tomorrow,” he blurts out on a Tuesday while Praxis waters their plant.

Praxis almost slips on the puddle under his feet, taking Herbert with him. “Tomorrow?!” he repeats, voice cracking.

Ethos tucks a stray curl behind his ear. “Tomorrow,” he says again a bit more firmly. “I think we should try it.”

“Ethos, are you—”

“I’m sure!” he shouts, but doesn’t mean to. It’s just frustrating how Praxis can be so maddeningly oblivious at times. Ethos’ been ready for this since the moment Praxis had asked him if he was three weeks ago. Mentally, at least.

Praxis leans against the sink and lets out a choppy breath, shoulders slumping. “All right,” he agrees. “After I get back from training tomorrow. I’ll, um, get what we need. So just. Wait for me. Here. I’ll try to finish early.”

Not one to question this unexpected victory, Ethos does his part, too, and practically begs Abel on hands and knees to cover his bridge duty in return for whatever favor he might ask for in the future. Abel, either through sheer luck or immense sympathy (or because he sort of figured out the kind of relationship Ethos shares with his fighter), takes Ethos up on that offer.

So when Wednesday night rolls by, Ethos is ready.

Sort of.

He’s showered, he’s clean, there are fresh towels on the dresser. All of his assignments have been taken care of and there’s a very low probability of Keeler calling him in for some last minute repairs. Everything’s settled.

Except for his nerves.

Ethos rolls around nervously on the bed as he peruses the latest report on his datapad, head swimming with what if’s and maybe’s that keep him from focusing one hundred percent on the Alliance’s latest accomplishments. He’s never had penetrative sex before and the idea of actually having something other than fingers inside of him is starting to frazzle his brain. What if he’s no good at it? What if Praxis doesn’t want this after all? What if he can’t even roll the condom on? Ethos flops onto his stomach and huffs, words blending together, barely sinking in without being processed, and by the time he’s finished reading it, Ethos can recall nothing that was typed. So he chucks the pad to the foot of the bed and lies flat on his back, staring up at his bunk he hasn’t slept in in months.

They share a mattress now, which had been entirely Praxis’ decision. He kept pulling Ethos down with him before lights out every night, tangling him up in the sheets while they cautiously kissed until the behavior had repeated enough times to be classified as a pattern. And then that pattern had evolved into a permanent routine, ingrained so deeply in Ethos’ subconscious that snuggling into Praxis’ pillow before whispering goodnight has become as automatic as breathing.

They do a lot of things together now. Like breakfast and shaving and basket-fulls of laundry. It’s probably the only shred of normalcy Ethos can hold on to while they live on board the Sleipnir. All because Praxis wants to assimilate Ethos into every aspect of his life.

So, really, Ethos is being pretty damn moronic if he thinks that Praxis doesn't want to share this with him, too.

He feels a little bit better about the whole thing than he did ten minutes ago and allows himself to daydream while he waits for Praxis to get home, thinking about nothing in particular, until his eyelids start to droop, too heavy to keep open.

Ethos falls asleep with the lights and his socks still on.

He doesn't wake up again until the slightest amount of pressure tickles his forehead. Ethos groans into consciousness and flutters his eyes open. Praxis is leaning over him wearing a goofy, amused smile.

“Sorry I took so long,” he apologizes. Praxis is still in his uniform. Tight, black suit defining his muscular physique.

Ethos swallows but all the saliva in his mouth has seemingly evaporated, meaning he probably slept with it open and Praxis probably saw him snoring. Perfect.

“I fell asleep?” Ethos croaks. He looks at the clock. It's eleven forty-nine. Shit. He did.

Praxis pushes the bangs out of Ethos’ face. “Yeah. You were passed out when I got in a few minutes ago. Must've been exhausted. Guess you're not that excited for tonight after all, huh?”

He's teasing, but Ethos takes offense anyway and tries to explain himself. “No, I am!” He really is. The spontaneous boners as he translated Colteron messages in the lab this afternoon hadn't helped with productivity all that much. “I am! I was just, um, worrying. About stupid things. And then I guess I turned my brain off to stop. Worrying. Because they're just dumb thoughts.”

“Dumb thoughts?” Praxis scoots closer and Ethos sits up, putting his legs over Praxis’.

“Ah, just. You know. The usual stupid things someone might think before, um, you know. Like, uh, what if I’m terrible at this and you don't want me anymore.” Ethos laughs, but it sounds hollow, and he wrings his hands together nervously. He’s starting to sweat. “Just, you know, stock worries that anyone might think. They're dumb. I know.”

Praxis pulls Ethos into his lap and tilts his chin up before kissing him. Their mouths open and they both quietly moan at the first instance of tongue, the kiss deepening all too quickly for Ethos to process. It’s amazing how Praxis can seemingly say everything he needs to without the use of words, how he can pour all of his thoughts and emotions into one toe-curling kiss, definable and real the moment Ethos meets his lips. When Praxis pulls away, Ethos unconsciously leans up for more and then blushes when he realizes what he's doing.

“Does that help ease your mind?” Praxis says. He grabs Ethos’ hand and drags it down, to his crotch. Ethos’ fingers twitch. Praxis is practically straining against his pants. “Or this?” He groans lowly when Ethos starts to squeeze. “I swear, it feels like I’ve been hard all day. I couldn’t get anything done because I kept thinking about tonight, about you waiting on the bed, ready for me to fuck you.”

Ethos bites his lip to keep from outright moaning. Praxis’ voice has deepened considerably, the way it usually does whenever he’s in the mood, and the gravelly sound of it goes straight to Ethos’ cock.

“M-me, too. It almost took me an hour to translate one sentence. Cook sent me at least two angry transmissions wondering where the hell his report was.”

Praxis grins and pulls Ethos closer so that he’s completely seated in his lap. Ethos steadies himself on Praxis’ shoulders, knees spreading on the mattress. “Encke yelled at me for not focusing on what i was doing. Told me to go to medical if I wasn’t feeling well.”

Ethos snorts. “I don’t think that would’ve helped.”

“Yeah, probably not,” Praxis laughs, cheeks reddening. “If you’re too tired, we don’t have to—”

This time it’s Ethos who shuts Praxis up with a kiss, throwing his whole body into it so that they’re chest to chest, hips slotted like puzzle pieces, perfectly aligned. He doesn’t know what he’s doing, only that if Praxis doesn’t give this to him, tonight, Ethos might actually die.

“I’ll take that as a no,” Praxis breathes when they separate for oxygen.

Ethos smirks. “That’s a no,” he clarifies. “Did you, um, get what we need?”

Praxis cocks his head toward the dresser. There are at least ten condoms scattered on top and one large bottle of lube smack dab in the middle, water-based by the looks of it.

Ethos gawks. “Where’d you get—”

“Deimos,” Praxis mumbles, brows knitting. “I think he knew. Sort of. I was going to ask someone else who works the cargo bay, but Deimos approached me and just, well, gave me all this stuff. He had this weird grin on his face, too. It was creepy.”

Deimos is scarily good at reading the situation. Ethos’ll have to thank him the next time they have lunch. Or tell him not to keep tabs on his personal sex life. It could go either way.

Ethos leans over and grabs one of the small, foil packets, staring at it. He’s never had sex before so naturally he’s clean. It’s more for the mess, anyway. Which is why he picked out two towels and set them near the bed.

“I’ve never put one of these on before,” Ethos confesses.

“It’s not that difficult, but if you want me to do it, I will.” Praxis moves to take the packet from Ethos’ hand, but Ethos pulls away at the last second.

“No, I want to. I just, um, might mess up. A little.”

Praxis holds Ethos’ shaky hands between his own and smiles so genuinely it flutters Ethos’ heart. “That’s fine,” he says. “Hey, listen. I’m not expecting you to be perfect. It’s been awhile since I’ve done this with someone else, so I’ll probably screw this up worse than you think you will. Just relax, okay? We’ll take it one step at a time.”

Ethos sucks in a deep breath and nods. He knows Praxis isn’t a virgin and some part of him, deep down, is slightly jealous of all the people he’s been with before, but that was then and this is now, and it’s him Praxis wants, not some meaningless one-night stand or colonial hook-up.

“Okay. Right. So, um, the first step would be to. Uh. Take these. Off.”

His shaky hands grip the hem of his boxers and Ethos slowly pushes them down, momentarily lifting his hips off Praxis’ lap as he tries not to topple over. He shouldn’t feel nervous, but he is. They’ve seen each other naked plenty of times by now and Praxis is obviously attracted to his scrawny arms, bony elbows, and stomach flab (baby fat that hasn’t exactly gone away no matter how many crunches he does; it’s not that pudgy, but Ethos is self-conscious about it anyway). Still, it feels like the first time all over again and Ethos sort of wishes the lights weren’t still on because Praxis is staring at him like a scientist observing the contents of his petri dish. Except he’s not nearly as microscopic or invisible.

The shirt goes next and now Ethos is almost naked sans his socks, chest flushed and cock halfway hard between his legs. Praxis moans appreciatively and puts his hands on Ethos’ hips, drawing him in again. The texture of Praxis’ suit feels smooth against his skin and Ethos gasps at how cold it is, contrasting with the heat radiating off his own body. He shivers and wraps his arms around Praxis’ neck, leaning in for a kiss which he knows will help distract him from the sudden wave of anxiety.

It starts off slow, chaste pecks here and there, the occasional flick of tongue, and then Praxis’ hands slide lower, moving down Ethos’ back to cup his ass. Ethos curls his fingers against the nape of Praxis’ neck, toying with the small hairs there while he opens his mouth wider, letting Praxis kiss him deeply, desperately, drawing out little sighs that punctuate every wet kiss. Ethos rolls down and grinds into Praxis’ crotch, precome smearing against his clean trousers. It’s too soon to come, though, so he tries to slow it down.

“I guess we should move on to step two,” Praxis laughs, nipping along Ethos’ shoulders and neck, sucking lightly at his skin until it’s blotchy and red.

Step two is the stage where Ethos lies down apparently, legs spread open as Praxis settles between them. He feels exposed like this, on display and even more naked than before.

“You okay?” Praxis asks, running his hands up the insides of Ethos’ thighs. “You look like you’re about to be sick.”

Ethos’ eyes widen. “N-no! I mean, I’m not. Sick. I’m not going to be sick! That’s not—I’m fine.”

“So then why are you so tense? You’re practically shaking.” Praxis kisses one cheek and then the other, trying to do so in a way that helps Ethos calm down. It doesn’t, but Ethos appreciates the gesture regardless. It’s sweet and romantic, very much like Praxis.

“I’m just nervous, I guess.”

Nervous and excited because he’s been waiting for this for what feels like centuries, an indescribable amount of time that operates outside of the universe’s preconceived rules. Ethos arches when Praxis flicks a gloved thumb against his left nipple, rolling it between his fingers until it’s as stiff and hard as his cock.

“O-oh,” he gasps, head going fuzzy. It feels good and he writhes for more.

“Do you want to stop?” Praxis asks, hand stilling.

Ethos almost cries when it does. “No!” he shouts, afraid that Praxis might. “No, please don’t.” He locks his ankles behind Praxis’ lower back and pulls him in closer, refusing to budge. “I want to keep going. Please? I want—um, I want you. Inside me. Please?” He feels a little silly for asking, voice cracking near the tail end of his sentence, but Ethos means it. He really does need Praxis inside of him because he can’t wait any longer.

Praxis shushes him with another kiss. “Yeah. Okay,” he whispers, smoothing back Ethos’ hair. “I’m gonna make you come first. It’ll help you relax, all right? And then we’ll go from there.”

Ethos chews on his bottom lip and nods. “Okay. Just don’t stop, please?”

“I won’t. Here. Spread your legs a bit wider.”

Ethos plants his feet back down onto the mattress and widens his legs as far as they’ll go, watching as Praxis settles between them again. He starts moving down, kissing along Ethos’ sternum and stomach, teeth scraping his skin until he reaches his destination. Ethos sucks in air through his teeth and grips the bed sheets when Praxis exhales against his cock, warm breath ghosting across the tip and Ethos moans softly, ready for what’s next. Praxis goes down on him often, usually when they’re showering. It’s his second favorite activity, right after eating Ethos out.

Praxis laps at the head, flicking his tongue against the slit and Ethos’ hips buck up for more, begging Praxis to just hurry up and swallow him down. Maybe later they can tease each other to the point of frustration, work each other up under the sheets and see who gives in first, but right now what Ethos needs is release. The pressure building in his balls borderlines unbearable and he wants to come so badly, needs to come or else he might actually lose his mind.

He fists his hand into Praxis’ hair and pushes his head back down.

Praxis, thankfully, understands. He opens his mouth and slides all the way to the base, swallowing Ethos’ cock with practiced ease. Ethos isn’t big per say, but he’s not small either. Somewhere closer to average. The right size for blowjobs and maybe a gentle fuck.

It feels incredible, having his cock enveloped by wet heat, and Ethos knows he's making the most embarrassing noises right now, but he can't seem to stop himself from vocalizing just how good this is, gasping and sobbing and outright whining as Praxis blows him.

Praxis works his tongue up and down the shaft before hollowing his cheeks, sucking so hard Ethos has to bite his fingers to keep from screaming. Praxis bobs his head faster, making sure to mouth along the sensitive spot beneath the head.

“I’m—I’m c-close,” Ethos stutters, fingers tightening in Praxis’ hair, probably pulling so hard it hurts, but he can’t seem to make that connection at the moment. His eyes glaze over, vision going hazy, and Ethos tries his hardest not to mindlessly fuck Praxis’ mouth. He makes the terrible decision to look down and watch, and the moment Ethos’ eyes meet Praxis’ singular pupil blown dark and fat, is when he goes off. Ethos slams his eyes closed, stars exploding behind his lids. His thighs tremble and he clamps them on either side of Praxis’ head, whining pathetically through his sudden orgasm.

Praxis pins Ethos’ hips down and swallows all of his cum, licking his lips clean when he pulls off.

Ethos goes limp as he comes back down, body still spasming. His cock starts to soften against his stomach and a thin layer of sweat cools against his chest, making him shiver. “Oh my God,” he whispers in the quiet of their room, babbling incoherently for the better part of thirty seconds. “P-praxis, that—”

Praxis climbs back up to kiss him, the taste of Ethos’ cum still lingering on his tongue. It’s tangy and bitter and makes his face scrunch up, but Ethos laps into Praxis’ mouth anyway, clinging so tightly with both arms and legs, afraid he might float away because he’s become lighter than air.

“You relaxed yet?” Praxis murmurs, stroking Ethos’ sides, urging him to ease down.

Ethos untangles himself and nods. “Yeah,” he replies. And it’s true. He’s not as nervous as before, sort of dazed now with post-orgasmic bliss, ready for Praxis to fuck him with his cock. “We should move on to step three.”

His fingers tug on Praxis’ pants, trying to push them down past his ass.

Praxis laughs, amused, and rolls onto his side to make things easier. “You sure you don’t want me to keep these on? I thought you liked how I looked in my flight suit.”

Ethos blushes and stares down at the mattress. He may have drunkenly admitted that little fantasy one night over a bottle of red wine and some real Earth cheese, both highly contraband, courtesy of Deimos. Yet again.

“M-maybe next time. Just, take your pants off and kiss me.”

For a second there, Praxis almost looks disappointed. “Next time,” he echoes, smirking. “I’ll hold you to that.”

There might not be a next time if Praxis doesn’t hurry up and kiss him again.

Finally naked, Praxis climbs back on top of Ethos, stretching his right arm toward the dresser to grab the lube. He places it on the pillow near Ethos’ head and presses his mouth to Ethos’ again, licking his way inside, slowly, prying Ethos’ lips apart with teeth and tongue.

They’re content enough to just make out for a bit, breathing heavily through their noses and rocking into each other. Praxis’ cock is full and leaking against Ethos’ stomach now, rubbing against it in shallow thrusts while they kiss, and Ethos thinks he’s ready to have it inside him.

As if sensing this, Praxis grabs the bottle and pops open the cap, pulling himself away to drizzle a generous amount on his fingers.

“Turn over,” he says, rubbing the lube between them to warm it. “It’ll be easier that way.”

This is fine. They’ve done this plenty of times already. Ethos can handle this.

He flips over and positions himself on his elbows and knees, head resting against the pillow, ass up in the air. Praxis grabs the towel on the floor and spreads it out underneath Ethos’ hips using his left hand.

“Tell me if you need me to stop,” he says, sitting back on his haunches.

“I will. Just, please. Fingers,” Ethos begs. He’s growing impatient.

Praxis grunts out a quiet “okay” and parts Ethos’ cheeks.

The first finger isn’t hard to take with all the preparing they did over the past three weeks. Praxis slides it in easily, stopping when he gets down to the knuckle. It feels good, having something inside of him, but it’s not enough, and Ethos rocks back, ready for a second. Praxis pulls out and squirts more lube onto his fingers, concentrating on making them as wet as possible. And this time when he slips his middle finger inside, his index joins it, stretching Ethos’ ass wider than before. He moves in and out in shallow, slow thrusts, getting Ethos used to the feeling before he starts scissoring, loosening the muscles in preparation for a third.

“You okay?” Praxis grunts. He sounds way more tense than Ethos was twenty minutes ago.

Ethos nods, but then remembers that Praxis can’t exactly see his face at this angle and he should probably try using his words, unintelligible as they may be. “Y-yes. Deeper, please?” His fingers curl into the sheets, gripping them tightly to keep himself from humping the air in frustration like an animal during heat.

“Like this?”

Praxis pushes in that much further, touching places Ethos could never reach by himself.

Ethos sighs and accidentally drools against the pillow. “Just like that. K-keep going. Please?”

By the time Praxis has four fingers stretching him open, Ethos is an incoherent mess, silently begging for more with each loud moan he makes. He’s in a state of pure submission, someplace only Praxis can bring him, and it feels so, so good being filled like this, almost full but not quite. Praxis pushes in a bit deeper, barely brushing Ethos’ prostate, and Ethos jumps so hard it creaks the whole bed.

“Oh, th-there!” he whines, spreading his legs further apart, as if that’ll help Praxis find that spot again. “Please! Again. Right there, Praxis!”

“Shh. I’ve got you,” Praxis says, petting Ethos’ spine.

Three more strokes and Ethos is hard again, dripping onto the towel, completely erect. He could probably come like this, on Praxis’ fingers alone, but that’s not what he wants and if Praxis doesn’t stop soon he might actually do it.

“You have to—ah!—now! Please!”

Praxis stops moving and drapes himself across Ethos’ back, larger body bracketing him completely. “Have to what?” he exhales, biting the shell of Ethos’ ear.

Ethos ruts backwards in frustration, trying to fuck himself on Praxis’ hand. It’s pointless, though. Praxis is doing a pretty good job of keeping him pinned down. “H-have to, oh. Have to fuh-fuck me. Praxis, please! I need it. I need you.”

The low growl that rumbles out of Praxis’ chest ripples through him like a wave, crashing against their dorm’s thick metal walls, and into Ethos’ own body, flooding his ears with the promise of soon. Praxis isn’t big on words, but the animalistic grunt that follows as he fumbles for a condom lets Ethos know just how far gone he really is.

Praxis tires to open the foil packet and in his haste rips a bit too hard, breaking the condom itself, latex tearing from the force of it. Praxis curses and frantically dives for another one.

This time he manages to get the damn thing out.

Only to end up dropping it on the floor.

“Jesus fucking Christ.”

He scrambles for the stupid thing, but stops when Ethos grabs his wrist.

“You don’t—we—I’m clean!” he stammers out, licking his dry lips. There are too many thoughts bouncing around inside his skull at the moment, but Ethos somehow latches on to that one, of all things, as he glances over his shoulder and pleads with Praxis to just forget about the stupid condom and fuck him. Now. “I-I mean, if you are, too. Then we can not use it. If, um, you’re okay with that.”

It’s not unheard of for people to experience aneurysms during sex, which might actually be the case here because Praxis looks as though his brain might have ruptured. He hasn’t blinked or moved or even breathed for the past thirty seconds, jaw slack and eye bulging while he processes Ethos’ impulsive request.

“Okay?” Praxis repeats, word exhaled more than said. “Yeah, I’m—fuck. Ethos, I swear I’m—they tested us. They did blood work during our medical screenings. It came back clean. I’m—we can. Yeah. I haven’t been with anyone else since I came on board this ship. No one else, but you.”

Hearing that shouldn’t make him want to cry, but it does, and Ethos has blink back a few tears to keep his composure. The last thing he wants is for Praxis to ask him if he’s all right again. He is. Just a little overwhelmed.

“So, um. We can skip the condom. If you want to.”

Praxis leans over him again and strokes his hand down Ethos’ back, calming his jittery nerves. He’s trembling again. “You don’t mind the mess?” he asks.

Ethos moans softly when Praxis kisses his temple. It’s almost too sweet for the atmosphere they’ve created. “No,” he answers, because he doesn’t. “I kind of want you to—” and now his whole face is on fire, a scandalous shade of red “—to, um. Put it in me. Your cum.” His voice quiets near the end, so low he doubts Praxis heard him at all.

Except he does judging by the sound of Praxis’ primal groan. “Shit. Ethos, are you sure? You don’t have to. I don’t mind wearing one. But, Jesus Christ, I want that, too. I-if you’re absolutely sure.”

Praxis’ cockhead bumps against Ethos’ slick entrance and Ethos’ arms very nearly give out. He’s this close to just pushing backwards onto it so that he can impale himself on Praxis’ dick. “Yes,” Ethos gasps, already starting to desperately rock his hips. “Please. I need it. I need you inside of me. I—hah—n-need your cock. And your c-cum. In me. Please?”

The world suddenly spins, vision carouseling until Ethos is completely disoriented, flat on his back again with Praxis looming above him, jaw tense and muscles tight. He’s straining to keep himself under control, and maybe one day when they’re not so nervous and high-strung Ethos will beg Praxis to just let go and fuck him the way Praxis looks like he wants to right now.

It’d probably be easier to do this on all fours, but the mood has shifted and Ethos thinks he’d prefer it this way after all, face-to-face, so that he can kiss Praxis deeply when he starts to push inside.

Praxis grabs Ethos’ legs and hitches them behind his back, wordlessly commanding him to hold on.

“I’m gonna fuck you now,” Praxis whispers hotly into his ear, fingers toying with Ethos’ nipples again, pinching and flicking and twisting teasingly. Ethos arches and practically sobs for more. He can’t lift off the bed that high, though. Praxis is covering him almost entirely. “I’m gonna fuck you and fill you up. Is that what you want? You want my cock that bad?”

Ethos nods, biting his lip to keep from screaming his reply. “Yes!” he begs, arms already winding around Praxis’ neck. “Oh, please! Please! I need it.”

Praxis shifts so that they’re staring into each other’s eyes, expression serious. “If it hurts or it’s too much, tell me and I’ll stop. Understand?”

“Yeah. Just, please.”

“Shh. I know.”

“Kiss me?”

Praxis smirks. “You don’t have to ask.”

The wet slide of Praxis’ tongue against his helps distract Ethos from the anxiety welling up in his gut again. He unhooks one hand and tenderly cups Praxis’ cheek, thumb rubbing small circles against the bone underneath before sliding upwards, snagging the thin strap of his eyepatch and peeling it off. Ethos tosses it somewhere far away from the bed and smiles at his handiwork. Seeing Praxis this way seems more intimate than anything they’ve done tonight. And Ethos can’t explain it, but he knows that it’s special and that no one else will get to see Praxis, the real Praxis, like this. Ever. He kisses the scar on Praxis’ left eye and settles comfortably against the pillow, as if saying go ahead, I’m ready.

When Praxis pushes the fat tip of his cock against Ethos’ entrance, Ethos forces himself to relax. It’s so big and so much wider than his own fingers put together, and he unintentionally digs his nails into Praxis’ shoulders because the pressure is almost too much, stretching and spreading him open in a way that makes Ethos feel vulnerable. He clings that much harder when Praxis works through the first inch and even tighter for the second.

“You okay?” Praxis pants. He’s shaking uncontrollably as he keeps himself in check, hips only twitching faintly and not slamming forward like he probably wants them to. A bead of sweat rolls down his temple. Ethos wipes it away.

“Yeah,” Ethos squeaks. He squeezes his legs around Praxis’ hips to prove it and they both groan when Praxis accidentally slides in a bit deeper. “I’m fine. K-keep going.”

It’s torturously slow and Ethos is amazed that he can still breathe through all of this, lungs suffocatingly tight and robbed of breath as Praxis continues to push his cock inside, pausing every now and then to let Ethos adjust. He stops for a second after nine whole minutes go by.

“Is...are you in? All the way?” Ethos asks, delirious. He can barely speak or think or even remember his name.

Praxis grunts and buries his face into the crook of Ethos’ neck. “Halfway,” he answers, nipping along Ethos’ throat to distract him.

Ethos laughs in disbelief and the vibrations go straight to Praxis’ cock.

“Do you want me to stop?” Praxis says, bringing Ethos out of his manic episode.

“No!” Ethos gasps. “No. Just. Don’t stop! I can take it.”

Praxis moans softly and nods his head, hips surging forward again.

When Praxis is completely seated, the base of his cock brushing against Ethos’ ass, Ethos lets out the breath he never knew he’d been holding, lungs burning as he wheezes choppily. He can’t even begin to describe what it feels like to have Praxis inside of him like this because Ethos has nothing to compare it to, so impossibly full and stuffed that it leaves Ethos lightheaded and dizzy, barely cognizant of his own surroundings. He could be on the moon right now for all he knows, any one of them.

Praxis swells even more inside of him, somehow fitting his huge cock all the way in, and Ethos is pretty sure Praxis might be so impossibly deep that he’s touching parts of him Ethos never knew existed.

Ethos blinks out of time and only just registers that Praxis is speaking to him.

“Ethos, are you all right?” Praxis sounds as wrecked as Ethos feels, voice thin and measured as he forces himself to speak. “Ethos?”

He should probably reply, if he can remember how to. “Fine,” Ethos whispers. His throat can barely make sounds. “I’m fine. Just give me a minute.”

Praxis does a good job of keeping Ethos’ mind occupied as he gets used to the stretch, licking into Ethos’ mouth and sucking on his tongue while they kiss, jerking his cock, bringing it back to full hardness because he’d gone soft after the first four inches, precome now steadily leaking from the tip and onto Ethos’ stomach.

Ethos squeezes his legs around Praxis’ back. “You can go now,” he breathes out. It’s still tight and a little overwhelming, but Ethos can’t wait any longer. He needs to feel Praxis moving inside of him.

“You sure?” Praxis can barely hold himself up.

“Y-yeah. Oh.” Praxis’ hips shift the slightest bit and Ethos loses it, forcing his own to meet each accidental twitch. “Please, f-fuck me. Praxis, please.”

Praxis grips Ethos to keep him still. He slowly thrusts in and out, keeping his strokes shallow, letting Ethos adjust to this, too. “Jesus Christ, you’re so tight. So fucking tight, Ethos. Shit. Gonna come soon.”

“Do it i-inside,” Ethos moans because he needs it, needs to feel Praxis’ cum leaking out of him and onto the towel below.

Their slow pace escalates into something more frantic and Ethos can barely hold on. Praxis snaps his hips faster, deeper, dragging his cock back and forth against Ethos’ walls, trying to bury himself completely with each thrust.

Self-control gone, he fucks Ethos hard, their wet skin slapping together as the bunkbed smacks rhythmically against the wall, Ethos hiccuping with pleasure in between. People might be able to hear what’s going on if they really stop and listen, but Ethos is too far gone to care, head foggy and mind far, far away, only capable of focusing on how Praxis makes him feel as though he was always missing this, how Ethos was always empty before Praxis made him so full.

Praxis angles his hips upwards and rubs his cockhead against Ethos’ prostate, partly because he’d been trying to find it, partly because he’s so big he didn’t really need to. Ethos whines and begs for more, again, and Praxis complies, slowing down so that he can reach that spot with accuracy.

The kissing all but stops as they pant into each other’s open mouths, hot breath fanning against their cheeks, staring into each other’s drowsy eyes. Ethos’ chest tightens and his heart beats wildly inside of it, the heavy thump pounding out of his ribcage and into Praxis’, swelling in volume until it’s the only sound Ethos can hear, buzzing his ears and numbing his brain. He can’t look away, Praxis’ gaze so compulsive and magnetic it freezes him in place, forcing Ethos to watch himself fall apart in Praxis’ dark, dilated pupil.

When Praxis calls his name, Ethos clings that much tighter, refusing to let their bodies separate because the second he does he knows it’ll be over and Ethos wishes he could somehow bottle this moment and contain it forever, keep it pocketed and safe, another secret out of a million he and Praxis share. And Praxis must understand that, too, because he looks just as desperate as Ethos is, so close to confessing something they’ve both known for months.

Praxis blindly searches for Ethos’ hand and Ethos implicitly understands what he’s asking, so used to his request it’s like second nature by now. He allows Praxis to pin both of his hands above his head, their fingers interlacing as Praxis loses all sense of rhythm, hips stuttering with each thrust, ready to come. And when he does it’s with Ethos’ name on his tongue and a violent shudder trembling throughout his whole body, the force of it strong enough to make Ethos shudder, too. He stills entirely and buries himself as deep as he can, unloading inside of Ethos’ well-fucked hole.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry,” Praxis apologizes through a deep, labored pant because he didn’t last as long as he’d wanted to and because he came first, not Ethos.

Ethos would say it’s all right if he could, but the sudden feeling of Praxis’ cum, hot and sticky, filling his insides catches him off guard, and Ethos almost comes from that alone, from being so full he can barely breathe.

Praxis reaches down between their bodies to fist Ethos’ cock. Five good pumps and Ethos is coming too, white phosphenes bursting behind his pinched shut eyelids, voice cracking on the very last syllable of a long, drawn out moan.

“Oh my God, oh fuh-fuck, Praxis.” He's stuttering and shaking so hard Praxis actually looks concerned.

“Are you all right?” Praxis asks, stroking Ethos’ sides, comforting and grounding him while he comes back down. “Ethos? Come on, say something.”

That might be a tad difficult considering his brain has imploded and melted right out of his ears. “I'm,” Ethos wheezes, one huff at a time. “Fine. Felt s-so good. Oh God, I'm—oh. Jesus. I can't. Fuck.” He has become as coherent as his first Colteron to English translation.

Praxis laughs, air bursting out of his lungs. He must've been holding his breath, too. “Sorry I, uh, came first. I was trying to hold off. But you felt so good and the way you were squeezing my cock, I couldn't help it. I needed to have my cum inside you. Which, um, is that—are you—”

They shift and a bit leaks out, sliding down Ethos’ ass and onto the towel. Ethos groans because it's wet and still kind of warm, squelching every time one of them moves. It'll start to cool in a few minutes, but Ethos can't seem to care right now. He just wants to keep Praxis in him for a little bit longer.

“It feels good,” he says, and it kind of does in a weird way. It's like having a different part of Praxis deep inside him, a piece no one else gets to have. Or maybe Ethos just likes the idea of Praxis’ cum claiming ownership of him, as if saying that his virginal ass is off the table. Formerly virginal. It was never up for grabs, anyway. “And you were perfect, so don't apologize. Okay?” For some reason, Ethos always thought he'd be the one needing a pep talk after their first time, but Praxis looks even more jittery than Ethos does.

Praxis settles his weight against Ethos, comfortably resting on top of him without crushing his chest. He's smiling, probably a little proud he hasn't fucked everything up. “It doesn't hurt does it? Your ass?”

“No,” Ethos says. “A little sore. But, um, no, it doesn't hurt. You didn't hurt me. See? There was nothing to worry about.” He grins. “You fit.”

“Barely. Christ, I thought I broke something when I got the rest of me in you. Your face went pale and you stopped breathing for a minute.” Praxis pets Ethos’ cheek lovingly for emphasis, glad to see that it's a healthy red and not ghostly white like before.

Ethos laughs and then moans because Praxis may be softening inside him, but he's still huge and rubbing against his overstimulated walls. “I just, um. It felt really good and like, uh, like I was full. Like you were supposed to be there. Inside me.”

Praxis kisses him then, more romantically this time, conveying just how much Ethos’ words mean to him because he must feel that way, too. Like every time before Ethos had been meaningless and disappointing, a mistake Praxis can't erase.

“Fuck, if I could I'd be inside you all the time.” He pecks Ethos' nose. “The way you took my cock—Jesus, I almost went off when you looked at me like that.”

“Like what?”

Praxis rolls them onto their sides, careful not to jostle Ethos around too much. “Like you never wanted me to let go.”

Ethos blushes and tries to bury his face into Praxis’ equally red chest (it always flushes after he oragasms), but Praxis doesn't let him, tilting Ethos chin up for another soft kiss, and there it is again, that confession they’re both dying to tell each other but can’t because their relationship is still too new. It’ll probably happen within a month, though, and Ethos isn’t quite sure which one of them will say it first.

Ten minutes go by, time an abstract concept in this small universe of theirs, built out of pillows and blankets and unspoken I love you’s.

“I should pull out,” Praxis comments, already trying to dislodge himself.

Ethos clamps his legs tighter. “Not yet!” he begs, eyes shiny and wet. “Can we stay like this? For a little bit longer? Please?” He’s afraid that if they separate right now, the moment will fade, dissolving faster than the three spoonfuls of sugar Ethos usually dumps in his coffee. Which is a ridiculous thought. Praxis has no intention of leaving. Ever.

“A few more minutes,” Praxis placates, smirking. “But I’m not going to let you fall asleep like this. You’ll regret it in a few hours.”

Ethos yawns and tangles his limbs into an intricate mess, their bodies pressed so closely Ethos can’t tell where Praxis ends and he begins. “Then I guess you’ll have to think of something to help keep me awake,” he teases.

The undignified squeal Ethos makes is entirely Praxis’ fault. He should know better than to pinch his sides at a time like this. “I might have a few ideas.”

“Is this step four?” Ethos laughs, aware that Praxis’ cock is starting to harden inside him again.

Praxis pulls Ethos on top, hands cupping his ass. The both moan when Ethos rocks back into him. “Hmm. Maybe. Or we could go all the way to six.”

“Or seven,” Ethos says, already inching his way back to Praxis’ mouth.

“At step eight, we’ll finally take off your socks,” Praxis laughs.

Ethos covers his face in embarrassment, but Praxis forces them back around his neck.

And when Praxis starts to move, Ethos decides that he’s going to have to call in sick tomorrow.

There’s no way he’ll be able to work after this.



*



Sitting down was a horrible, awful, terrible decision. Ethos regrets it immensely, but the Sleipnir doesn’t do delivery so he has to leave his dorm eventually to scrounge for food, even if it tastes like cardboard and disappointment. His ass throbs and moving has become an almost impossible feat, but it’s not like he can just lay in bed all day and forget about his basic necessities. So here he is, eating lunch, hoping no one can tell that he’s no longer an awkward virgin. Well, maybe just a virgin.

Ethos pokes at his meatloaf and tries not to compare it to his mother’s.

Abel is sitting with him, looking as concerned as ever. That savior complex of his never quite turns off. “How are you feeling?”

Ethos pales and nearly stabs himself in the mouth. Some mashed potatoes slide off his fork and back onto his plate. “Wh-what?” he babbles. Abel can’t possibly know about—

“Your cold. You called in sick today,” Abel clarifies. He sips his tea gingerly. “How are you feeling?”

Oh, yes. Ethos is sick. He coughs and dramatically clears his throat. “Okay,” he lies. There aren’t that many people in the mess hall, but Ethos thinks they can all see right through him, anyway. “It’s just a bad cough.” He hacks for emphasis. “And a runny nose.” And then sniffles.

Abel frowns in worry. “Make sure to rest up, then. Keeler said we’ll be heading further into Colteron space soon and the last thing you want is an upset stomach during red alert.”

Ethos smiles, pretending to take the advice to heart. “Y-yeah! I will. Thanks, Abel.”

“Have you seen the MO yet? I’m sure he could give you something for it.”

“I—um. Yeah. I did! Thanks, though! Really, Abel, I’m fine! You don’t have to worry about it!” He’ll have to stop by medical at some point to help corroborate his story. Which is ridiculous, but Ethos doesn’t want anyone (especially Abel) finding out the truth.

When they’re about halfway done through their respective meals, Ethos looks up and spots Deimos and Cain loitering around the food dispensers. He meets Deimos’ eyes first and it’s right then that Ethos knows he’s in some seriously deep trouble if they decide to walk over. Ethos cocks his head left, trying to subtly convince Deimos that they should consider eating with the fighters today and not him and Abel. Deimos, through sheer ignorance (intentional or not), only smirks and disregards Ethos’ obvious warnings.

“Who are you staring at?” Abel turns around and spots the two fighters over his shoulder. “Oh. Hey!” He waves them both over and Ethos wishes he could put his head through the meat grinder so that he, too, can turn into the same lifeless paste that he’s eating for lunch.

Deimos and Cain plop down onto the bench, Cain elbowing some navigators out of the way so that he can sit right next to Abel, his unofficial spot. “Hey, princess,” he says, winking at Abel. “Mind if we join your little lunch date with...uh...um...what was your name again?”

Ethos blushes and stares straight down into his plate. “E-Ethos,” he stutters.

“Yeah, Ethos! That’s it!” Cain snaps his fingers and then dives straight into his food, what the Federated Alliances claims to be pierogies. “You look like you’re about to keel over. The fuck’s wrong with you?”

“He’s sick,” Abel clarifies.

Oh, how right that statement will be in a matter of minutes.

Cain stabs one of the potatoes on Abel’s plate and shovels it inside his mouth. “You gonna barf or somethin’?” he mumbles around a spud.

Probably. “No. I’m just a little, um, achey. A-and sore. My throat is! I mean my throat! That’s all!”

Cain looks unconvinced though, but ignores Ethos’ obvious lie. He leans a bit forward on his elbows and scowls, head resting in one of his hands. “So how’d you catch it? Huh? Someone sneeze on you? Forget to wash your hands?” Ethos shrivels up like a grape in the sun. Cain’s too perceptive for his own good. “Or maybe you—”

That’s when Deimos chooses to make his presence known, lifting his hands so that they’re roughly eight and a half inches in width apart.

And this time Ethos really does choke on his food.

Abel frowns. “Deimos, what are you—”

“You’ve gotta be shittin’ me!” A piece of pierogi flies out of Cain’s mouth.

“Would anyone mind if I joined your table?”

Their heads collectively turn to stare at Praxis, who has chosen now of all times to come and eat lunch. And then Ethos remembers that he’d asked him to a few hours ago and he has no one to blame but himself for this mess. And Deimos. Who only lives to compound his misery (or smuggle him good wine).

It takes Abel the longest to make the connection, but when he does, he immediately sputters on his tea and turns an unsightly shade of red.

“Yeah, lemme make some room though,” Cain sneers, scooting over nine inches. “That enough space for ya, Big Foot? Or should I say Big Co—”

Abel slaps a hand over Cain’s mouth. “Yeah, sure!” he laughs. “Go right ahead!”

Praxis quirks a brow, but doesn’t question their awkward behavior, writing it off as yet another bizarre thing Abel and Cain do. He sits down next to Ethos and offers him a warm smile. “How are you feeling?” he says, voice obviously concerned.

Ethos tries not to stare at any of them while he answers. “Fine. Really.”

Praxis seems disbelieving. “Are you sure? Do you need me to run down to medical to get...uh...something? For your cold?” Smooth.

Cain can’t take the doublespeak anymore and snarls in annoyance. “Oh, for fuck’s sake! Can you two not talk about your vanilla sex life while I’m tryin’ to eat here! It’s seriously makin’ me wanna hurl.”

Ethos covers his face while Praxis goes pale. “Our—what?!” Praxis sputters.

Abel is just as horrified as Ethos is.

“We get it,” Cain continues, chewing with his mouth wide open. “You two did it. Whoop-dee-fuckin’-doo.”

Praxis’ frown deepens. “Did what?” he says, still playing dumb.

Ethos is going to end his own life.

Cain smirks, makes a circle with his thumb and index finger on his left hand, and slides his right index finger in and out of said circle, wolf whistling throughout this crude display.

In the span of ten seconds, Praxis lunges across the table to grab Cain by the front of his shirt, Abel watches in horror before trying to calm them both down, and Ethos faceplants onto his tray, so embarrassed because everyone within a fifteen foot radius knows and everyone else (AKA the whole cafeteria) might as well now, too.

Deimos simply sips his coffee and smiles amusedly, enjoying the little show.

Ethos exhales a long-suffering sigh. “Thanks a lot, Deimos,” he mumbles into his own two hands.

Deimos beams and takes another swig just as Praxis puts Cain in a chokehold and some officers show up.

And now, Ethos thinks, he has a much, much bigger problem on his hands than he ever did before.