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daydreamgoddess14 · 20 days ago

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By Another Hand - Chris Beck 🔥

Here it is, my utterly self-indulgent space boyfriend fic!

If, after 10 years, there are any Chris Beck lovers still out there, this is for you 😘

Chris Beck x F!Reader

Summary: Stress in space affects everyone differently. You're encountering a problem you don't reeeeally want to have to discuss with the ship's medic, but it's getting unbearable.

My (first 🤭) contribution to @ramp-it-up's #PraiseMe5k celebrations with the prompt "I've got you. Always."

Ratings/Warnings: Mature. Space smut - oral (f receiving), fingering, praise, I know nothing about space.

Word count: 7k - I got completely carried away. Not sorry.

Of all the weird space things your brain had considered in the last few years, your current circumstances were not it. Stress, fatigue, loneliness... sure, par for the course.

You'd had less time to prepare. When Beth Johansson had visited family one last time ahead of the mission and came into contact with measles, you'd sent flowers and a box of sweet treats as an apology. You'd met during simulations and training in your part on the B Team, but you weren't close. You were dropped into the crew, a stranger.

The rest of them had history - inside jokes and habits built over two years of training. You had manuals and protocols. You had a smile that didn't quite reach your eyes and a gut-deep fear of being the weak link.

They knew you vaguely enough, from training and simulations, and your file information, but until you sat next to Vogel in the Ares cockpit, they didn't know you.

It had taken a frank conversation with Commander Lewis early on in the mission for you to accept the truth of your position: "You're not just some last-minute replacement. You're one of my crew. Start acting like it."

So, since then you'd been feeling good. Competent. Settled. Comfortable in your role, you even started to feel like part of the crew. Through the outbound journey, your time on Mars, your frantic leaving and the return journey.

Even the Rich Purnell maneuver didn't phase you. When you'd studied it, explained it, gone over and over it with the Commander and then with the rest of the crew, you'd flourished.

That lasted until about two and a half months ago - when your body decided to betray you halfway back to Mars.

It had never been an issue before. Not on Earth, not in isolation training, not even during the long, silent stretches of the journey so far. It was... a little beyond comprehension.

At first, you figured it was just stress - everyone has off days. But then days turned into weeks. Every attempt left you more wound up than when you started.

Sleep got harder. Concentration slipped. And worst of all, it wasn't something you could exactly bring up over breakfast.

You needed to get over it, and quickly. After a quick game of cards with Martinez, and a run on the treadmill, you took yourself back to your bunk, a woman on a mission.

You'd done everything right, set the mood (as much as you could in a single bunk on a spaceship), secured your privacy, and god knows you were tense enough.

You closed your eyes, breathed deeply. In, out, in, out. And then you let your hand wander. Brushing over your breast, raising goosebumps along the way, and down. Down into your sweatpants, pinned in place by the elastic. You opened your legs a fraction more, finding the sweet spot between space to move and friction.

You circled your clit slowly, breath hitching, chasing that flicker of heat. It built... kind of. Almost. Enough to keep going, not enough to tip over.

You pressed harder, changed pace.

But, as with every single other time for the last two and a half months, in trying to force it, your body just... wouldn't give.

The pressure fizzled out. Your hand stilled.

You lay there, skin flushed, jaw clenched, heart pounding with nothing to show for it.

Again.

Your body refused to cooperate, like someone had snapped the wires that connected your body to any kind of release.

This was getting stupid. Astronauts had faced worse challenges than not being able to orgasm.

Poor Mark was proof of that.

But god if it wasn't one of the most frustrating parts of space.

~~~~

By the time 'morning' hit your bunk in the form of a false dawn lighting system, you were in a foul mood. You floated through the ship, forcibly pushing your feet off the walls like an Olympic swimmer.

Lewis was nursing her rationed coffee, half a cup now, half a cup later. You had no such patience and not only took your daily ration, but the following days as well. Future you was going to fucking hate past you.

"You look like hell."

"Thanks, Commander," you sighed.

"You ok?"

"All good, just tired."

She narrowed her eyes at you, normally you loved her to-the-point attitude but today, you were not feeling it.

"I'm not buying it," she said shortly. "You're two snarky comments away from me scheduling a mandatory psych eval."

You smiled, just a little, although you weren't sure how much of her comment was true. "I'm just... dealing with stuff. It'll pass."

"Then talk to Beck?"

"No." You'd already made your mistake in refusing before she'd even finished the sentence.

Lewis set her coffee down slowly and looked you dead in the eye.

"That wasn't a suggestion."

"I don't want to talk to him."

"You think you're the only one cracking a little out here? This mission isn't just about physical health. We all need to keep it together. Beck's trained for this kind of thing. Whatever you're bottling up, he can help."

"Commander, it's fine. I'm fine."

"You're not doing this alone, and I'm not letting it get worse. So... figure it out before I do it for you."

You sighed. Maybe that wasn't a bad idea... No! She was a married woman. She'd almost certainly say no.

Wouldn't she?

"Ok," you agreed quietly. "Ok, I'll figure it out."

You were going to talk to Beck. You'd go in, explain - calmly, clinically - and he'd be a professional about it, of course he would. He was a doctor. It would be fine.

He'd tell you what was happening, give you some tips, maybe even a workaround. You'd figure it out, get yourself off, and the whole crisis would be over.

Easy.

Simple.

A totally normal thing to ask your crewmate in the middle of a space mission.

You knew you should be able to talk to Beck but the very thought filled you with dread. You were already cursing yourself for developing a crush on the only other single person on the crew.

To have to have this conversation with him?

Your worst nightmare come true.

You might as well have been rocking up to elementary school totally naked, about to take a test you hadn't prepared for while your teeth fall out and the entire school laughs.

~~~~

You went to the med bay while desperation and two rations of coffee still coursed in your veins. It still took you forever to get there. You glided through the zero gravity spaces noiselessly.

"Beck, I need to talk to you. And I swear, if you laugh or log this, I will open an airlock."

He looked up immediately, concern flashing across his face.

"Hey. Ok. Yeah. Come in - what's going on?"

"Off the record?"

He closed his laptop slowly and raised both hands calmly.

"Completely. No notes, no judgment. You've got me."

You swallowed.

"I... have been stressed..."

Beck nodded, encouraging but quiet. He didn't fill the silence. He just waited.

Of course he did. He was good like that. Steady. Patient. A smile that make your knees buckle even in anti gravity.

God, that made it worse.

"And I haven't been sleeping well."

Still true. Still vague. Safe. At no point were you going to say the word orgasm.

He nodded again, his brow furrowed.

"Yeah, a lot of us are feeling it. Is it - like racing thoughts? Nightmares?"

"No. Well, yes, sort of. Just general... tension."

"Alright," he said gently, "do you want to talk through it? Or I can help with relaxation protocols - breathing exercises... Martinez came in the other day just for a hug."

"Huh, cute," you grimaced rather than smiled.

You were going to have to say it.

You were going to have to say the words: "I can't orgasm and it's driving me crazy."

You could do it.

You opened your mouth.

And instead you said:

"Maybe magnesium?"

Beck faltered. "Sure. Yeah, we can try that."

You nodded too fast.

"Great. Thanks. That's all. Sorry. Sorry I - yeah. Bye."

And then you were gone, heart pounding like you'd actually opened an airlock.

By the time you'd thrown yourself into work and had lunch with Vogel, a blister pack of magnesium tablets were waiting on your bunk. You figured it couldn't hurt to try, so you took one and prayed for a miracle.

It turned out, all of the current supplies of miracles were being used by Mark Watney patiently waiting on Mars for you to go back for him.

You lay there again, back arched, thighs tensed, fingers working in circles that used to get the job done.

Nothing.

Not even close.

You'd tried everything - slow, fast, edging, starting cold, starting hot. You'd closed your eyes and pictured someone else's hands, someone else's mouth. His hands. His mouth.

Still, your body refused.

Probably a good thing if you ever wanted to be able to look him in the eye again.

It was like trying to start a fire in a vacuum.

The worst part was how much it hurt. Not a physical pain, but somewhere in your gut. Deep and stupid and raw.

You wanted release. You wanted your own damn body back.

You turned over and bit your pillow, trying not to cry.

~~~~

You gave the magnesium a good try. It seemed like the sensible thing to do, but a week later, you were back.

No caffeine this time. Just stubbornness. And maybe a little shame.

Beck looked up, surprised but not unfriendly. "Hey. Did the magnesium work its magic, or you here for the hug too?"

You hovered in the doorway, guiding your feet to the floor and already regretting joining NASA in the first place.

"Um. No miracle. Still tense. Still... not sleeping."

Still sexually frustrated to the brink of madness.

He smiled gently, motioning for you to sit.

"Well, there are other options. Could be hormonal, neurological - space affects a lot. We can work through it. No pressure."

God, why did he have to be so nice?

You sat, fiddling with the cuff of your sleeve.

"So... hypothetically... if someone was experiencing... like... a persistent kind of tension. Physical. But not pain, exactly. More like... stuck energy."

Beck frowned. Then nodded, slowly.

"Ok... like muscle tightness? Or -?"

"No! I mean - not just that. More like..."

Abort. ABORT.

"Actually you know what? Forget I said anything. I think I'm just dehydrated."

You stood up.

"Dehydra -"

"Thanks. You're great. This was great. I'm gonna go... drink some water."

And before he could say a word, you were already halfway down the corridor, face hot, body still buzzing with the wrong kind of tension.

~~~~

You tried in the shower. It was a poor substitute for a roaring, piping hot shower, but it was something at least.

You braced your forearm on the wall and rested your head on it, the water running (dripping, really) down your back. Your right hand moved down, fingers curling inside.

Not deep enough.

Nowhere near deep enough.

You tried again - adjusted the angle, flexed your hand, breathed - come on.

But your body was a locked door, and the key just wouldn't turn.

You gasped out a frustrated breath, forehead slipping onto the cold wall.

The water kept tapping against your skin, slow and steady and utterly useless.

And for the first time since this whole mess started, you let yourself whisper it:

I need help.

The thing that terrified you most was that the help you needed was not in the abstract. Not in the "relaxation technique" kind of way.

It was in the hands-on kind of way.

Someone else's hands.

You couldn't think about that.

There had to be another way and Chris Beck was going to help you find it.

You shut off the water.

Toweled off, got dressed, and before you could talk yourself out of it again, you went to find him.

He was in the common area, being beaten at chess by Vogel.

You hovered awkwardly, trying to gauge how much attention you'd draw if you asked to speak to him.

Instead, you slumped down beside Martinez, who was shuffling cards.

"Poker?" he offered, raising a brow.

"Nah."

"Snap?"

You were about to.

"Yeah. Sure." You sighed.

Martinez dealt you both in, and you tried to focus on the game. You really did. But Beck was still in your periphery - calm, focused, chewing his lip as Vogel moved his knight.

Eventually, Vogel said something low in German that you didn't catch, but Beck laughed, shook his head, and stood.

"I'm gonna shut down the med bay," he said. "You need anything before lights out?"

The question was addressed to no one in particular, but your pulse jumped anyway.

You glanced at Martinez, who was too busy flipping his cards to notice you hesitating.

This was it.

You could get up.

You could follow him.

You let Martinez win, ruffling his hair as you left him to make your agonising trek to the med bay.

You hovered outside for way too long, watching the light through the hatch. He was moving around inside - locking drawers, powering down screens, tidying with that same quiet precision he always had.

You told yourself to leave.

You also told yourself to wait.

You didn't do either.

The door slid open with a soft hiss just as he turned toward it.

"Hey -" he started.

"I can't come, ok?!"

It was out before you could stop it. Loud. Sharp. Way too loud for a spaceship full of thin walls.

Beck froze. You froze.

To his credit, he didn't flinch.

Didn't laugh. Didn't even look surprised.

"That's actually... more common than you'd think under stress."

His tone was gentle. Medical. Matter-of-fact.

You were already flushing, words tumbling in a desperate, horrified whisper now:

"I've tried everything, Beck. I've tried so many times I've lost count. My body just - won't. I can't sleep, I'm wound so tight I feel like I'm going to explode. I need to fix it."

His expression softened just slightly - not pity. Not amusement. Just understanding.

"You want to sit down?"

You didn't.

You wanted to run.

You wanted him to help.

You had no idea what to say next.

You hovered like an idiot in the middle of the med bay, arms folded tight over your chest.

Beck leaned against the counter, watching you carefully. He didn't push. Just waited.

"I know this isn't exactly... urgent medical protocol," you said finally, staring somewhere near his collarbone. "But I've tried the stupid magnesium. I've tried yoga. I've read every article in the psych archive and I'm still..." aching. No, you couldn't say that. You exhaled sharply. "Still nothing."

God, this was the most mortifying conversation you'd ever had.

He nodded slowly. "You're dealing with a perfect storm. Stress, confinement, no privacy, no real bodily autonomy. It's not unusual. And it's nothing to be ashamed of."

"But it sucks," you snapped. "And I've had enough. I want one thing that's just mine, and my body won't even let me have it."

Silence fell again.

"There's gotta be something I can do, something I haven't thought of," you whispered pleadingly.

You stood there, breathing shallowly, the air in the med bay suddenly too warm. Beck hadn't moved closer. He hadn't looked away, either.

"I don't even know what I'm asking," you said finally, throwing your hands up. "I didn't come here with a plan."

"You don't have to have one," he said.

You looked at him, eyes searching. "If I asked for help... what... what would you suggest?"

He didn't answer right away. Just stepped gently into your space, careful not to touch you.

"If you ask," he said quietly, "I'll say yes."

Your eyes shot to his. He looked calm, maybe too calm, but there was something unreadable beneath it.

"What? You mean like...?" you started.

"I mean," he said, still gentle, still maddeningly professional, "if you needed... assistance, I wouldn't think less of you."

A moment passed.

Then, quietly he asked, "would it help if someone else touched you?"

You didn't answer out loud.

But the look you gave him was answer enough.

You looked away, ashamed. Heat crawling up your neck.

"I - no," you said quickly. "I mean... yes, probably. But - no. You're the medic. You'd get in trouble. I don't want this to be some... some ethical violation on a NASA report. Absolutely not."

He smiled softly. "Pretty sure that report would be redacted."

You huffed a laugh, but your arms were still crossed, hugging tight around yourself. "I'm serious, Beck."

"So am I." He took a cautious step forward. "I would never touch you without consent. And I would never treat you like a problem to solve. But you came to me. You asked for help."

"Yeah, but I didn't think you'd suggest... that."

You met his eyes again, and this time the air between you felt like something fragile - something you could break with a word.

He added, "I'm not offering out of duty. I'm offering because I care."

Your throat tightened.

Your hands opened, half surrendering. You weren't even sure you couldsay no.

Your voice came out small, barely a whisper.

"What if I say yes?"

He didn't move.

Didn't assume.

"Then... I'd take care of you." He said quietly, steadily.

"I should be able to fix this myself," you muttered.

"I know," he said quietly.

"It's probably just like... a brain block. Once I get over it..."

"Yeah."

You sighed. "They should allow vibrators in space."

He huffed a short laugh through his nose. "They really shouldn't. NASA would never survive the press leak."

"I want to say yes. I just... I don't know how to without sounding like a fucking deviant." You put your head in your hands and sighed.

Beck watched you, read you the way only someone trained - and maybe someone who cared - could.

"I think..." he started gently, "you should sleep on it."

You flinched.

Just a little, but it was enough.

He caught the flicker of devastation in your eyes before you could look away.

"Hey," he said, voice lower now, almost a whisper. "How long has it been since ..."

You didn't answer, your jaw clenched. You shook your head.

"That long?"

"I can't," you said, desperately. "I close my eyes and everything's tense. I can't unwind. I can't relax. My body's on this awful loop, and I can't break it."

He didn't say you should've come to me sooner. He didn't say you're overreacting.

He just nodded, steady and calm.

"Ok," he said. "Ok. We'll figure it out."

Not you'll figure it out. We.

You nodded, slowly at first, like your body didn't quite trust your mind to mean it.

Your voice was barely audible. "Not later. Not tomorrow. I can't keep doing this."

His expression didn't change, but something in his eyes softened like he'd been waiting to see if this was what you needed.

"I've got you," he said quietly.

You inhaled, shaky but steadying. "I don't know how this works. I've never..." You trailed off, cheeks hot again. "It's not exactly a standard medical consult."

"No," he said. "It's not."

He took a cautious step forward, close enough for warmth, far enough for safety.

"But you don't need to know how it works. We start slow. We figure it out together. And if you say stop, I stop."

Your mouth opened to respond, but the knot in your throat stole the words. You just nodded.

He took a step back and you felt his absence immediately. He pulled the curtain across, shielding his examination area from the rest of the room.

When he returned, you drew in a shaking breath.

"This is so weird," you whispered.

"It doesn't have to be -"

"If you feel like this is some sort of obligation -"

"I don't. I want to help. You can still say no," he said softly. "Whenever you need to. If it's still not... happening -"

"I know," you said, eyes locked on his chest. "I just... I've forgotten what it's like not to feel like this. Like I'm constantly on edge."

His hand lifted, hovered in the air between you. "Can I?"

You nodded.

Fingertips brushed your arm, just a light touch, but it sent a tremor up your spine. Not from lust - not yet - but from relief. From not being alone in this.

"It's not weird," he promised. "It's human to want to be held. To want to be touched."

He stepped closer again, guiding you back a little to lean against his workstation. He dipped his head, his lips brushing the shell of your ear.

You could feel it already, the heat in your core tightening and building. His warm breath made you whimper. Goosebumps prickled all over. With his left hand on the workstation behind you, his right traced the waistband of your sweatpants.

You held your breath.

His fingers didn't rush. They just traced, slow and careful, reading every twitch of your breath, every shift in your body.

"Still ok?" he murmured.

You nodded, almost frantically, your body hummed with anticipation.

Then, finally, he slipped his hand beneath the fabric, and you let out a sound you hadn't meant to make. Not loud, but raw, aching.

"That's it," he whispered, more breath than voice. "Let me help."

He reached for you and your legs parted with far less hesitation than you'd expected. When his fingers brushed your core, you thought the dam was already going to burst. You weren't sure what to do with your hands, unsure whether to reach for him. Whether it was ok for you to touch him. You settled with gripping the edge of his t-shirt and bunching it in your hands, the soft cotton warm in your grip.

You were soaked, more than ready when he carefully slipped two fingers into you.

"Ohh, god -" you breathed, letting your forehead drop onto his shoulder.

"Yeah?" He asked, his voice strained and rough.

You nodded against him, your body eagerly bearing down on his hand. He drew his fingers back and pushed back in slowly, taking his time.

He moved with maddening patience, curling his fingers just enough to make you gasp.

Your grip on his shirt tightened, pulling him closer. He didn't stop you.

"Been like this for months?" he asked softly, his lips brushing your temple.

You could only nod, too far gone for words.

"Easy," he said, a little firmer. "You're doing so good."

Your hips rolled into his hand and you let out a soft, broken sob.

"Just like that," he said, the edge of restraint creeping into his voice.

You couldn't help the whimper that escaped you.

"Don't fight it. I've got you. Always." His thumb brushed against your clit, untouched til now, and your knees buckled.

Your hips jerked as his thumb circled again, more deliberate this time.

His breath hitched, just a little.

"Jesus," he whispered. "You're - God, you're perfect like this."

That was enough. It took an embarrassingly short amount of time, but it hit you like a freight train. Months of build up and failed attempts took your breath away and you cried out, muffling the sound in his shoulder. His name on your lips.

He held you through it, his hand slowing but not stopping until you'd stopped pulsing around his fingers.

You both stood totally still for a minute, his breathing just as ragged as yours.

"You ok?" He asked quietly.

You nodded and shifted slightly, his fingers - still inside you - found a new angle which made you sigh, and at the same time his breath hitched as you brushed against him.

He was hard.

Solid against your thigh.

You'd been so consumed that you hadn't realised.

He'd started moving again, "again?"

His voice was a low murmur, more breath than sound, but it curled warm through your chest.

You hesitated for just a second, "please -" you breathed.

He didn't ask for more. Just kissed your temple, and eased his fingers in and out slowly - so gently it made you shiver. You didn't realise how badly you wanted to be kissed until his lips brushed yours, tentative and soft. Testing.

You kissed him back. Immediately.

This time wasn't like the first. The first had been rushed and desperate and clinical. This felt like something new. Something that belonged to both of you.

He was surer this time. The awkwardness was still there - you still couldn't believe that you'd both almost suggested this solution together - but now he knew you weren't completely freaking out, he was leaning into it.

He leaned into you too, trapping you between his body and the workstation, his deft fingers reaching and curling mercilessly inside you.

Your hips bucked and rolled, you gasped, already sensitive, already teetering again. Your hands found his waist, anchoring there as his mouth found yours, deeper this time. Not hesitant now - hungry. Like something had been unlocked in both of you.

Your moan was swallowed into his mouth, your hips rolling into every movement of his hand. His other arm braced beside your head, steadying you both.

"You feel so good," he murmured against your lips, his voice low, rougher now. "You're so damn responsive."

You whined at that - words sinking deep, pulling your body tighter, hotter. He felt it too, the way you clenched around his fingers.

"Chris -" you gasped - warned - you weren't sure which.

"There it is," he whispered. "That's it. Don't hold back this time."

You didn't.

The second release crashed over you sharper, harder than the first. You buried your face in his neck, hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, breath caught in your throat.

He didn't stop touching you until the aftershocks faded. Didn't pull away, either.

When you finally lifted your head, flushed and dazed, he was watching you like he couldn't quite believe what had just happened either.

Your eyes dropped between you, and only then did you register how hard he still was, pressed against your hip.

You hesitated, biting your lip.

"Should I -?"

He shook his head, brushing your hair back from your face.

"No. No, I can... I'm not having the same trouble as you."

That made you blush all the way to your toes.

The thought of him - of the hands that had just been inside you - pumping himself to release, quiet and alone, made something new twist inside your chest. With the clarity that came from your second orgasm, something else had taken root. Not just tension. Not just need.

Desire. Real and focused.

And now, for the first time, you weren't entirely sure who this had been for.

He didn't move right away. Neither did you.

The air between you was thick with something unspoken - something heavier than just release.

He stepped back first. Slowly. He let you go, giving you space to move away from the workstation.

You didn't quite meet his eyes.

"I should..." you started, voice hoarse. You cleared your throat, tried again. "I should go."

He gave a small nod, lips pressed together. "Yeah. Ok."

You turned to leave, then paused near the curtain. You looked over your shoulder - not at his face, but at the floor somewhere near him.

"This doesn't... mean I expect anything. I'm sure that's... I'm fine now. Should be good to just, y'know, go... solo."

"I know," he said gently. "Me neither. You - well, enjoy."

But there was something in his voice. Not regret. Not indifference. Something quieter. Something careful.

"I just..." You hesitated. "Thank you."

That made him smile, soft and tired. "Anytime."

You weren't sure if he meant that like a joke, or if it was literal. You weren't sure what you wanted it to mean.

You slipped through the curtain and out into the ship, pulling the door closed behind you before anyone could see.

You went back to your bunk, mind racing. The first time could almost be considered medicinal, you thought. Victorian doctors used to do that, right? Treat 'hysteria' with a well-placed orgasm. Hand cramps and everything. At least Beck had the decency not to charge for it.

The second time? You weren't sure you were ready to dwell on that.

You had felt borderline hysterical, and now? You couldn't remember feeling so peaceful.

~~~~

The next morning, you woke up before the lights even shifted.

Not because of stress. Not because of the usual gnawing, skin-tight anxiety that had wrapped itself around your nerves like a second skin since Sol something or other.

You were just... awake.

You'd slept. Actually slept. The kind of deep, dreamless sleep that left you feeling like you'd borrowed someone else's body - someone rested. Someone sane.

For the first time in weeks, you didn't feel like screaming into the vacuum.

And then you remembered why.

The flush rose in your cheeks. The memory came back in fragments - your desperate voice in the med bay, Beck's hands, the look in his eyes. His mouth on yours.

You buried your face in your pillow and groaned.

How on earth - or not - were you supposed to act normally.

You ate your breakfast like a person who hadn't come apart for the ship's medic just twelve hours ago. You smiled at Martinez's terrible jokes. You nodded along to Lewis's briefing. You even managed to remember some of the German you'd been learning with Vogel.

Beck, for his part, played it cool.

He sat further along the table, jeered with Lewis about some suggestions NASA had sent up.

Did he regret it? Did he want to pretend it didn't happen? Had you hallucinated the whole thing?

By the time lunch rolled around, and you'd caught up on your work, you found yourself drifting towards the med bay.

He looked up from his tablet as you stepped inside.

"Hey," you said, trying to sound casual, hoping it worked.

"Hey," he replied, equally neutral. Then, after a pause, he asked, "you sleep ok?"

You hesitated.

"Like the dead."

There was a flicker of a smile on his lips. Just a flicker. But it was enough to settle the knot in your stomach.

You weren't crazy. It happened. He remembered.

Things went back to normal.

You were more focused. Less on edge and irritable. It felt like a reset.

A few days later, you settled in your bunk, your hand reaching into your shorts.

You followed the path his hand had taken, like some kind of lucky charm. You even closed your eyes and let yourself think of him - his voice, steady and warm in your ear. The way he'd kissed your temple. God, the praise. The way he'd looked at you like you weren't unraveling, like he wanted to see you come apart.

Your fingers moved slower, more deliberately. You tried to recreate the rhythm. The angle. The pressure.

It wasn't the same.

You shifted, trying again. Focused harder. Thought about his breath catching when your thigh had pressed against him. About the heat in his eyes when you'd whispered please.

Still nothing.

You let your hand still. Breathed out hard.

"Seriously?" you muttered to the ceiling.

You waited a second. Then rolled onto your side, pulling the blanket over your head like it could smother your frustration.

You couldn't go back again.

You just couldn't face it.

It was not realistic for you to spend the next two years unable to make yourself come.

He couldn't be the only way out of this situation.

You started avoiding him completely.

Not in a dramatic way, and definitely not in a way the Commander would notice. You were subtle - taking a longer route to the lab, skipping the usual post-briefing coffee refill you knew he'd be at, ducking into your bunk just before lights-out instead of lingering in the common area.

But Beck was observant.

It only took three days for him to seek you out.

You were tucked into one of the far-side workstations, supposedly reviewing data logs. You weren't. The same paragraph had been blinking at you for half an hour.

He appeared without a sound, leaning lightly against the bulkhead.

"Did I do something wrong?" he asked quietly.

You jumped.

"What?" you blurted, too fast, too loud.

His gaze stayed level. Steady. "You've been avoiding me."

You gave a weak laugh. "No, I've been... busy."

He didn't push, but he didn't back off either. Just crossed his arms over his chest and waited.

Then, like he knew it was coming, the frustration hit.

"Fine," you whispered, voice sharp with embarrassment. "I thought maybe it was just the reset I needed, you know? That I could pick up from there, that my body just needed a jumpstart or something, but -" you cut yourself off, exhaling harshly. "Turns out, I'm still broken."

Beck stepped in closer, slow and careful like you were something fragile. "You're not broken."

You didn't look at him.

"Pretty sure I am."

"I wasn't sure if you'd want to talk," he said, voice low. "But... I'm here."

You looked up at him. That steady calm. The offer, just hanging there.

And you didn't need to say anything. He already knew.

You stared at the console, jaw tight.

Then, finally, you said, without looking at him, "I know."

Another silence. Not uncomfortable, just... charged.

"I'll be in the med bay later."

Then he was gone, leaving you alone with your heartbeat thudding in your ears.

~~~~

The lights in the corridor felt dimmer than usual as you ghosted through corridors. You told yourself it was fine. That it was just like before. But you weren't sure that was true.

The door slid open with a hiss.

Beck was there - alone, waiting, his expression unreadable but calm. He didn't say anything at first. Just met your eyes like he'd been listening out for you the whole time.

You stepped inside, your heart thundering.

Neither of you said a word.

You both moved forward at the same time, his hand brushed yours, fingers curling just slightly, and you didn't pull away.

Without a word, he pulled you behind the curtain.

Your heart was hammering now - not with panic, but anticipation.

He turned to you, eyes searching.

And you made the choice.

You reached up and kissed him.

Soft, sure.

This time, there was no hesitation. No fumbling. Just the warmth of his mouth on yours, the tension melting between you like it had been waiting for this.

You arched into him, your hands sliding up his chest to wind around his neck. He seemed momentarily at a loss with what to do with his own, but when your t-shirt rode up to expose your skin, they found their purpose again. His palms were warm on your ribs, resting in the curve of your waist.

You let your tongue trace the line of his lower lip, and he stilled. Just for a moment.

Then he made a soft sound - surprise, maybe - and kissed you back like he meant it this time. Like he wanted it too.

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you closer, and when your hips pressed to his, there was no mistaking how much he wanted you.

Your fingers curled into his shirt, holding him close. But you needed something more than touch.

"Did you... after I left?" you asked, your voice barely above a whisper. "Did you -"

He stilled. Just for a moment. Then nodded once.

You could feel the heat fill your body, crawling up your chest, and down to settle in your core.

He nudged you backwards to the consultation bed.

"Should we be doing this in here?" You asked against his mouth.

"Depends what this is. It's a little different to last time?" He asked.

You nodded, barely. "Yeah."

He searched your face. "Is that ok?"

Your fingers tightened in his shirt. "Yeah. I want -" You faltered, then said, "You."

That was all it took.

He gave you a look that suggested he'd be picking that conversation thread back up later, but then quickly lifted you to sit on the bed.

His hands gripped your hips, steady and sure, as he settled between your knees.

"And this?" he asked, voice low.

You nodded, pulling him in by the front of his shirt.

And then he kissed you again - deeper this time, less cautious.

It was hundreds of Sols without being touched, or held or kissed. It wasn't just wanting, but the relief of finally having permission.

His fingers dug into your hips as if grounding himself, as if he needed proof you were really here. You couldn't stop touching him - his jaw, his chest, the back of his neck - like you'd forgotten what it felt like to touch someone else.

You kissed like you'd both been starving for it. Your hands clung to each other, not frantic, just certain.

No more pretending this was just relief - for either of you.

His fingers flexed at your waist, and he exhaled like he was steadying himself.

And then -

He dropped to his knees.

Not rushed. Not demanding. Just... deliberate.

You stared down at him, stunned.

This wasn't clinical. This wasn't controlled. It wasn't even casual.

It was him, on his knees, like he'd made up his mind days ago.

Your breath hitched.

"I -, wait, what -" you tried, but the words failed.

He looked up at you, steady, sure. "Can I?"

No pressure. No assumption. Just... offering.

Your whole body answered before your mouth could. You nodded.

He leaned in, slowly and deliberately without taking his eyes off you. He slipped your sweatpants down, and when his mouth found you, your head tipped back with a sound you couldn't contain.

"Shit, oh god -" you gasped.

It had been so long you'd lost all concept of time, but you'd been on the Rich Purnell maneuver for ages already. Over halfway back to Mark, waiting for you all. You'd been away from Earth for nearly two years.

It was embarrassing how one slow swipe of his tongue had you whimpering, how his breath on your inner thigh made you tremble.

His hands anchored you in place more than any artificial gravity could, strong and steady - tightening slightly as he adjusted his grip. You could feel the calluses on his fingertips pressing into your skin, a reminder of who he was outside this moment. Capable. Calm. Always in control.

Now, he was using that control on you.

He didn't rush. Every movement of his mouth was deliberate, exploratory. Like he was mapping you - learning you by feel and sound and taste. The softness of his tongue, the way he flattened it and dragged it slowly. The stubble on his jaw grazing your thigh just enough to make your hips twitch.

You couldn't keep still. One of your hands found his shoulder, clinging to him, the other twisted in the fabric of your shirt where it bunched near your stomach.

"Chris -" you breathed, voice cracking.

He glanced up just briefly, eyes dark and focused. His lips were already slick, his mouth working you open with slow, devastating patience. And when he finally closed them around you - just enough suction to make your vision blur - you cried out, head tipping back, spine bowing.

You felt like you were burning alive from the inside out.

He was merciless. Unbothered that you were both wildly out of practice, unused to even the slightest platonic touches, let alone this.

You pushed his shoulder, needing him to stop but unable to speak.

He paused immediately, lifting his head.

"Too much?" he asked, voice low, rough.

You shook your head, breathless. "No - yeah... just... give me a second."

Your chest was heaving, your thighs trembling where they bracketed his shoulders. Every nerve in your body was singing, stretched tight from neglect and now lit up like a mission critical console warning.

He didn't move far, just rested his cheek against your thigh. Grounding. Solid. Present.

"You're not broken," he murmured again like he was determined to prove it to you.

"Well, no, apparently not. Not when you - oh, fucking fuck - when you do that -" your rebuttal was lost to his insistent mouth.

He huffed a laugh against you, and the vibration made your hips jerk.

Your hand fisted in his hair, not to push him away this time, but to keep him there, anchored.

He didn't let up.

Didn't ease off.

Like he wanted to rewrite every memory your body had of being let down, left wanting.

Like he needed to prove it wasn't just release - it was care, it was connection, it was him.

You came apart with a sob. Literal tears of relief, legs shaking, your fingers digging into his shoulders like they were the only thing keeping you on the ship.

He didn't stop until you gasped his name - half plea, half prayer.

When he finally pulled back, his face was flushed, eyes blown wide. He looked proud.

You couldn't move. Couldn't think. Only stared down at him, chest heaving, heat still blooming through every nerve.

"You're crying," he murmured, getting to his feet. You sat up slowly, legs trembling as he reached for you, wrapping his arms around you.

"I'm OK," you insisted, "I'm fine, totally fine."

"Totally lying," he said quietly.

"It was just..."

"A lot."

You nodded against him.

His hand slid slowly up your back, fingers light, comforting.

"It was good," you whispered. "God, it was -" You couldn't finish. Just breathed in his scent, let yourself feel how solid he was against you.

He didn't rush you. Didn't ask for anything. Just held you.

You pulled back eventually, enough to see his face. His eyes searched yours.

"I want to," you said quietly.

He shook his head. "No. No we're not keeping score, this is for you. I'm not going anywhere."

You let out a shaky breath and leaned in, pressing your forehead to his. "I know."

The silence stretched, comfortable and strange.

You got dressed and sat side by side on the edge of the bed, shoulders touching.

You broke it first. "So... that happened."

He let out a breathy laugh. "Yeah. Definitely did."

Silence, again, but it wasn't awkward. Just thoughtful.

Then he said, almost too casually, "I've thought about you, you know. Since before. Since Sol... I don't even know. Lost count."

You turned your head toward him. "Me too."

He looked at you properly then, eyes softer than you'd ever seen. "Didn't really work though. Not the same."

"No," you whispered. "Guess I needed you."

He nudged your knee. "Yeah, well. For the record? I really, really didn't mind."

You smiled, a real one this time, and let your head rest lightly on his shoulder. The moment held.

There was no going back. But maybe neither of you wanted to.

You stayed like that a while - shoulder to shoulder, words thinning out, breaths falling into sync.

No promises. No grand declarations. Just something quieter. Steadier.

Eventually, you said, "Maybe that's why I couldn't do it alone."

He turned, brows raised. "Hmm?"

"I thought I was broken. But maybe I just... needed you."

Something in his face shifted. A softness. A stillness.

"I was always here," he said.

"I know," you said. "I think that was the problem. I was working so hard to not think about you."

A smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, lopsided and real. He didn't push, didn't ask for more. Just sat with you in it.

Outside the curtain, the ship hummed its steady song. But something between you had settled --- not fixed, exactly. Just seen.

And maybe that was enough.

FIN

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