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Pink. It's the color of doom, the color of big problems and boredom. And it's the color of the Engex bubbling gently in one of the pipes behind the bar.
You're sitting at the bar, with only a shred of patience left for the situation. Swerve's is empty except for you and the bartender; the entire ship has been in quarantine lockdown for hours now, after the Lost Light got stuck in that strange pink fog. The engines have stopped humming and the crew has started acting strangely - so much so that the two captains have finally sent everyone to their hab suites and put the entire ship under a very strict medical lockdown.
The doors are locked and there's no way out of this bar. You're not in your own hab suite, because unfortunately you just helped Swerve out when the lockdown has been initiated- because Ten had to be repaired yesterday, after forcibly removing Whirl from the bar. Now your selfless help for the minibot is rewarded by being stuck here, on this much too hard barstool and bored out of your mind.
"If only the TV was on," you mutter as your hand plays with an empty, square glass. "Screw it, watching that stupid superhero movie for the thousandth time would be better than this. Doing nothing."
"The lockdown killed the intergalactic satellite signal," Swerve grumbles, polishing the same glasses with a cloth for the fourth time. He's panting heavily through his vents, his own core temperature obviously well above normal. Whatever virus or parasite this ship is carrying is turning everyone into stupid, horny, overheated bots. The room temperature of each habitation suite must now resemble the inside of a boiler room, with all the mechanical beings whose processors are running hot. Just like the minibot, who desperately tries not to let you know that he himself is struggling with this strange condition.
You've been sitting at the bar for hours, and while he's been cleaning the entire inventory multiple times to distract himself, you've been listening to the desperate moans of his vents. Hot air hisses out from under his chassis, making your own condition worse.
You're feeling hot. Very hot, in fact. Just like all the bots on the ship.
You've already shed one layer of clothing, and taking off more would be inappropriate in a public place like this, lockdown or no lockdown. Beads of sweat tickle your neck, as does the hot breath that burns your lips; what affects the robots also affects you, gravely. The fabric of your clothes is unbearably itchy, and your underwear is already damp and soaked.
Swerve. The way he works through the sea of cube glasses, polishing them over and over again so he can to avoid your gaze, is just more tinder for the blazing fire in your belly. This whole situation is proof that the minibot is definitely attracted to you, because every time your eyes meet, his vents emit hot air, almost steam, and he quickly grabs the nearest glass to polish again. It's kind of cute, actually.
Though this... condition is so bad that the bartender hasn't said anything in about 20 minutes. His jaw hydraulics are stiff and immobile, his frame tense and hard. The red and white paint reflects the light from the Engex tubes behind him, bathing the entire bar in a dim light. The thought of what you could do with this rather attractive bot, alone in the bar, just the two of you - it makes you feel a little tense. Hot chains that capture and completely negate your common sense wrap around your brain when you think about it too much. Actually, why not do something stupid? What could possibly go wrong?
Hm. Good point.
"Hey, Swerve."
"Huh?"
"Wanna fuck?"
Silence. You can almost feel Swerve's processor working hard on that short sentence, on that question, and finally stuttering and giving up. He stares at you, fans already on full blast, but you swear you can hear his engine revving.
"Uh- Come again?"
"You heard me," you say. "So: Do you want to or not?"
His hands stop polishing the same glass and he drops the rag without bothering to pick it up from the floor.
"You're making fun of me." His voice is much softer and more vulnerable than expected. So vulnerable, in fact, that it makes you sit up a little straighter. He almost sounds as if he suspects you of wanting to annoy or bully him. But on the contrary, you like Swerve. You've always liked him because of his very unique and endearing charm. He's just... so shamelessly himself. And the fact that a sexy alien virus has been added to the mix to make things even more complicated is just bad luck.
"What? No, Swerve - I'm serious," you assure him. "No joke, no deception. I just want, uhm--" Yeah, what exactly do you want? It's hard to say with this thick fog in your head, that trance that makes it almost impossible to think. Heat creeps into every fiber of your body, whispering sweet temptations and promising that a little physical activity will surely be a lot of fun.
But Swerve hesitates. He has probably had bad experiences with such offers in the past. Admittedly though, you really could have phrased that a little more elegantly. You won't win any prizes for sweet-talking, that's for sure.
"Listen." Damn, it's so hard to think when this blindingly hot lust is pushing its fingers into the deepest recesses of your brain. All you can think about is throwing this minibot on the floor and riding him until he can't remember his own name. Until he has to reboot or you collapse from exhaustion. "I know this whole lockdown thing is hard, but I can't stand this- this feeling, this heat inside me any longer!"
"And I know I'm the only bot here right now, I get it." He still sounds hurt and suspicious, as if someone like you could never really be interested in him. Oh, how wrong he is! "Come on, I know I'm no Rodimus, no Drift, no Megatron. No need to beat around the bush."
"I'd rather say it's a damn lucky coincidence that I'm locked in here with you of all people," you retort curtly, a little annoyed that he'd react that way. Not because Swerve is suspicious of your true intentions, but because so many bots make him think he's second or third choice. But that's not true, not at all! He's a keeper - he just doesn't believe in it.
"Yeah, right." He scoffs and picks up the rag to continue cleaning, which should distract him from the tightness of his modesty panel. Your own sex is throbbing with frustration because this very special treat in red and white is so close and yet so far. Maybe, just maybe, it's time to finally expose yourself to him. Literally.
With an annoyed grumble in your chest, you grab your shirt and pull it over your head, only to drop it to the floor of the bar and climb over the counter in one smooth motion. You hear a startled gasp as you grab the rag and glass from Swerve's hand and approach his face with a serious look in your eyes.
"I like you," you say in a firm, serious voice. "Swerve, I like you."
"Uhh. Okay." His visor is a little brighter than before, and you know that his eyes keep darting to the cleavage that is now right in front of him. "Um. As a friend, or...?"
He just doesn't get it. It takes all his self-control not to roll his eyes and groan. "Guess I'll have to express myself more clearly." Still sitting on the bar, you reach behind you and with a soft click, your bra opens. The covering fabric is thrown in a high arc through the bar and lands somewhere out of sight as you lean forward. Warm, human hands rest on the minibot's helm, forcing it to meet your gaze.
"Swerve," you say seriously. "You're funny, endearing, and shamelessly yourself. I like that about you. And I find you very attractive. Do. You. Understand?"
His mouth opens, but no sound comes out; only a violent gust of hot air hisses from his vents; hot air that ghosts over your naked torso, leaving slight goosebumps.
"Uh." Well, you can probably forget about him speaking in complete sentences. The impromptu striptease has completely fried his processor, and the minibot is frozen in place. You can't tell if it's a reaction to your nakedness or if he's just unsure how to give you a friendly rejection, but hopefully it's the former.
You sigh barely perceptibly.
"It's just that--" he finally babbles, managing to string together at least a few words that make sense. His fingers fiddle nervously with his forearm plate, just to have something to do. "You're so pretty. Much too pretty for someone like me."
Oh, Swerve...
With a small sound of protest against those nasty words about himself, you lean forward even more and press your lips against his. Something that could be called a squeak escapes from the bartender's voice box, but there's no resistance at all. As your legs wrap around his midsection, pulling him up against the bar and closer to your pelvis, it turns into a soft moan. Red, hard hands automatically go around your waist for support.
The kiss then breaks, but since your partner doesn't move away, you just grip him tighter. Your mouths meet again, this time with more force behind it; lips of flesh and soft metal greet each other like long separated lovers, desperate and warm. His oral coolant tastes slightly bitter on your tongue, but not bitter enough to deter you.
Your hands grip his helm tighter so you can tilt your head and deepen the kiss. The hands on your waist, however, are shy and don't dare to do anything; they stay where they are, which doesn't make the heat in your body feel any better. It's a heat that snarls and rumbles and digs its sharp claws into already battered nerves. No, seriously, you have to do it right, now.
"Swerve." You murmur against his lips as you pull away; he follows, pressing further into your embrace, hungry and begging for more. But not like this, no. Not yet. "I need an answer. Do you want more? Do you want me?"
"Who wouldn't want you?" the bartender answers quickly, but with a little hesitation in his voice. "But-"
"But?"
"But I..." His hands move up your waist at a slow, unobtrusive pace that can only be interpreted as pure adoration. "I don't want to make a complete fool of myself."
Okay, that's really sweet - and not at all justified, considering you were the one who just took your clothes off. You've already earned the title of idiot of the day, so he doesn't have to worry about that anymore.
"It's just you and me here," you say with a wry smile, planting a very fleeting but tender kiss on his visor. "I won't tell if you won't."
And that works. Swerve snorts with laughter and his hands grab your waist to lift you off the bar with a swing; a hearty, easy giggle is squeezed out of your lungs as you then lie on the bar floor. He's definitely seen this move in some movie or show, probably a romcom, but that's not quite what you want; the hungry monster in your chest wants to make the bot feel truly valued and desired. Make him feel good.
It doesn't take much to change positions: you wrap your legs around his middle and spin around, tossing the already slightly unbalanced bot around with you, and now he lies beneath you, his visor glowing with exactly the heat that tingles in your own spine. It's all about leverage with these minibots: if you find the right spot, they're really easy to maneuver.
"Will you be a good bot for me?" you ask, voice dripping with greed and fire.
He nods eagerly and you almost purr. The reward is another kiss, deeper than the last; saliva and oral coolant create a taste somewhere between sweet and bitter, with a slight undercurrent of metal that, under the influence of this alien virus, seems absolutely delicious. Swerve's entire frame is hot, as is his glossa, which you encourage with your own tongue to engage. Red hands run over your back, your sides, and basically every bit of soft skin they can find. Gentle caresses that can't hide the hunger behind them; Swerve is definitely a touch-starved bot, as you secretly expected. That's actually quite wonderful, because it means this whole thing is really special, for both of you.
"You're doing so well," you coo as your mouth leaves his. It tastes of more, of more kisses and sighs and moans. And then you grind your pelvis against his in a fluid, wanting motion. A gasp escapes him at the friction, and a click reveals, without looking, that his panel is already opening for you. The feeling of the some sticky transfluid on your pants is unmistakable, and admittedly, it's very arousing that only a few kisses can get the bartender this far. He's practically dripping from behing his panels, the fluid now free to stain your clothes.
Your mere presence in the bar during this lockdown has made him uneasy from the very start. Ever since you were locked up together, his eyes have been darting around and his hands have been doing something, just to be busy. On top of that, he's been much quieter than usual: No endless chatter about this and that, but an unusual silence instead.
For the moment, you ignore the fact that his hot spike is already pressed against your thigh. It's not long, but it's very thick and gloriously red, twitching slightly when you shift your weight. The monster in your chest, sending biting impatience to your loins, drools and growls at the thought of feeling it inside you; but that will have to wait a little longer, just a little longer.
"As soft as I imagined it would be," Swerve whispers as his hand slides over your bare chest, carefully following the curves of the human body.
You smile. "Been thinking about me?"
"Uh-" Caught, a darker blue flashes through his visor and he makes a coughing sound in his chassis. "Maybe."
"Oh? What exactly?" You lean over him lasciviously, your bare skin touching the hot frame; a touch that makes your sex beg for more, for merging your own body with his. The muffled sound of the bot beneath you only makes it worse.
"This." His hands on your back trace the spine, up and down. They're gliding over your sides as if he had imagined this position a thousand times before. He probably has. "You know, you and me... and you on top.” He pauses. "And me inside you."
You hum. "Sounds good to me. Tell me more."
"Really?" he asks, stuttering. "Um-"
A brief kiss follows, during which you also rub against his spike, drawing a hoarse, low moan from the bartender that flows like liquid fire into your belly. It's echoed by an ecstatic sigh from you, which makes the minibot brave enough to continue.
"I often think of you when I close the bar," he reveals in a dark voice. "I imagine you still sitting at the bar when I turn around after locking the door."
Your hand reaches between your bodies and finds his spike, gently encircling it. Swerve's pelvis bucks at the touch, along with a brittle groan.
"And then?" you ask.
"Then-ahhh!" His hands find your thighs as you gently rub his spike. "Then we kiss and I pull you behind the bar and-ahhh!" He shudders. "And I..."
"Go on," you urge him. "Be good, Swerve. Tell me what you're going to do to me."
The hand on his spike seems to completely distract him, so the words come out in fragments. "A-And then you let me frag you."
You swallow. Hard.
Your sex pulsates heavily, demanding something to satisfy all the hunger that hangs in the air here. And the shameless lust the bartender is displaying beneath you only draws you deeper into the abyss.
"You want to frag me?", you ask with a heavy voice.
He moans. Your hand moves faster.
"Do you think about me when you touch yourself?" The question doesn't really need an answer, but you want to hear it anyway. "When self-servicing? Do you think of me?"
Swerve moans louder and his pelvis rubs against your grip; then he nods eagerly.
"Y-Yes!" he manages. "Yes, I often think of you, naked and soft and so tight-"
And then he falls over the cliff, and the overload squeezes a weak yelp out of his frame. Mechanical hands grip hard into the soft flesh of your thighs as he rides the waves of climax in your hand. His spike pumps pink transfluid over your hand, hot and sticky. Without thinking, you raise your hand to your mouth and lick the fluid from the fingers. It tastes sour, somehow metallic; and a loud moan from below is the reward for this lewd act.
Swerve watches carefully as your tongue licks the transfluid between your fingers with relish, a fiery look that sends unspoken words into the room.
"Oh Primus," the minibot stammers at the sight of your half-naked form above him. His vents are desperately sucking in fresh air, but the heat is just too much; no matter how hard his system tries to cool him down, an erotic deity like you nullifies all efforts. "Primus, that's-you're-"
And then you frown as something drips from under Swerve's visor. Coolant? Lubricant?
"Hey, you okay?" Your voice is soft despite the rising temperature in your body. There's a tremor in your legs and a deep need for release, a desperate longing for a ridiculously good climax. But it doesn't matter, because right now Swerve seems to be...
"Swerve, are you crying?"
"What? No, I-" He sits up immediately and his hands leave your thighs to rub his face to wipe away the drops of lubricant. "No, I'm not!"
Though as hard as he tries to hide the tears, they just won't stop.
"Do you want to stop?" Your body rebels when you ask this question, but even an alien virus can't keep you from worrying about your favorite bartender.
"Are you crazy?!" He replies immediately, and his hands find your waist again to keep you from getting up. "Now that I'm living the dream?!" The Cybertronian tears are still flowing. "It's just... you're here and this is real and you're so beautiful and you make me feel so good--" His words become a waterfall, sliding over his lips without a full stop or comma until you stop him with your own lips, a short and loving kiss. "I'm fine, really. More than fine, in fact!"
With a gentle smile, you nod and lean back against him. The next kiss is somewhere between desire and tenderness, a promise that you return his passion and enjoy it very, very much. Warm hands ghost over his frame, tracing the small nicks and dents that time has left on him. A brief moment of pure gentleness and warmth, then quickly back into the realm of desire.
The kiss becomes deeper and more erratic, sloppy and greedy for more release. You slide down, away from your position on his pelvis, to bend over and reach for his spike again. A muffled, almost tortured sound escapes from Swerve as your hand closes around him again; the warmth of a human seems to instantly throw him back into that fiery pit where his processor has been writhing for hours. His visor flashes brightly as your eyes meet, just before you lean down and take him into your mouth.
The wet heat of your tongue on the underside of his spike makes him curse softly, and a hand digs into your hair to press your face even closer to his panel; Swerve almost whimpers as you comply with this silent request, gently moving your head to create that sweet, wet friction that seems to send any bot over the edge.
"Oh Primus- Frag-!" His voice is distorted by the static that runs through his voice box like sticky tar. Every word is scrambled and hard to understand, especially when you suck on the tip of the spike. His moans get louder, his pelvis pushes further towards you, along with so many sweet, interesting sounds that chase a needy pull through your whole body - until Swerve finally stumbles headlong into the next overload, suddenly and quickly.
Hot transfluid fills your mouth as Swerve experiences his second overload with a choking sound and you automatically swallow - without thinking about what exactly transfluid is doing to your organic insides. Is it toxic? Surely not, right?
"Ah, frag, I'm sorry!" Swerve straightens up slightly as you do the same, wiping some of the pink, sticky liquid from the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand. "I'm sorry, sorry, I'm so sorry-!" His hands hover over the skin of your torso, as if he wants to touch you but doesn't dare. "I didn't mean to - it just felt so good and I--"
"It's okay," you assure him immediately, putting aside the question of whether you can safely digest the liquid. The fact is, you barely have to touch Swerve to send him into a heavy overload. The power you have over him is omnipresent and limitless. All it takes is a snap of your fingers, and his processor collapses under the weight of that desire - and if that's not extremely sexy, what is?
Though your own body now reports a longing for its own climax that almost hurts. Your sex is throbbing, your pulse is pounding in your ears, and the heat is making your muscles tremble. This overwhelming feeling of unfulfilled desire is like a millstone that is slowly but surely destroying you. The absence of a relieving orgasm must be remedied urgently!
With a soft hum, you rise from the minibot, whose hands automatically move up to keep your warm, soft form in place. But instead of leaving, you unfasten your pants and slide the fabric down your legs.
At the sight of more bare skin and soaked underwear, Swerve swallows hard and is left speechless - especially as the last piece of covering fabric falls to the floor. Normally, standing over a bot with your legs spread wide and everything exposed would be a little more awkward - but the alien virus ensures that any nervousness is covered by burning white pleasure. There is only the quiet, crackling tingling in your spine and the inside of your thighs, anticipation as a physical sensation.
The bartender doesn't move, just stares at this erotic apparition above him for a few seconds. "Please sit on my face," he finally manages to say, exhausted, with an undertone as if he were begging for his life. "Please, please, please. I'll do anything. Please."
You smile. Anyone who asks so nicely should be rewarded.
And as you lower yourself down on him again, your knees next to his helm and just above his faceplate, his arms grab your thighs and he plunges into you as if he's been waiting his whole life for this moment. Like a hungry animal, Swerve sinks into your folds and licks generously over your entrance, the hot skin all the way to your clit. He's much more precise than you'd expect; this is obviously the fulfillment of his wildest dreams and a fantasy he's played out a thousand times in his mind.
And when he circles your clit with his glossa just to suck on it a second later, you moan and throw your head back. It's impossible to stop your hips from grinding against his faceplate, so you don't even try - instead, you ride his face, making shameless sounds that fall easily from your lips and elicit an approving rumble from his engine. The bot's frame trembles, but his grip on your thighs is strong and won't let you escape this decidedly devoted caress. Not that you'd ever want to.
"Swerve-" Your voice is definitely several octaves higher than usual as he finds the perfect angle to lick over your clit; his attention scratches the spot that has been burning inside you for several hours, as he's absolutely lost in the delicious fulfilling of your needs. Your climax is approaching, already sending that impatient, hot tension through your lower body. "You're doing so well, Swerve-" Words come out of your mouth, random fragments that make it clear how much you're enjoying being treated like this. "So good, oh-- Right there, yeah, keep going-"
He moans at all the praise and the vibration of his voice against your sex makes you ride his face even harder to reach your climax. With half-closed eyelids, you watch him squirm beneath you, holding you tighter and licking you as if his life depended on it. You grab his helm to push him further into your body.
"Good boy," you say breathlessly. "You're trying so hard. You're so good to me, Swerve."
A muffled sound escapes him as you continue to praise him, and you feel a warm liquid on your back as he overloads again. For a moment, his movements on you slow and become erratic, but as his third overload slowly ebbs and his ex-vents become somewhat steady, his lips close around your clit again and he sucks; until, with a yelp, you finally reach the relieving orgasm. The burning hot construct collapses completely and your muscles tremble as the waves of sweet release wash over you.
For a wonderful moment there is nothing but pure bliss, the feeling of trembling hands on your body and the hot ex-vents of the minibot.
Each breath you take is deep, bringing a hint of calm to this chaos that should be a human body, but is just a jumble of shaky knees, trembling fingers, and a desire for more still.
"You make me feel so good," you breathe, sitting back down on Swerve's chest armor. He gets a very deep, very loving kiss, eliciting a sound from the minibot that is somewhere between a soft whimper and a longing sigh. His hands leave your thighs to settle on your hips.
Absentmindedly, his fingers draw invisible circles on your skin as his system manages to reduce the power of his fans slightly. It's a brief moment of silence in which there is a wordless exchange of kisses, caresses and gentle touches. Lubricant runs down his faceplate in the form of small tears, and you kiss the wet trails they leave behind. There's no need for more words, just a few minutes of silence and the low hum of the Engex tubes above you.
It's all very wonderful, sweet and loving - until finally you feel the greedy scratching in your chest flare up again.
"Swerve." You whisper between two lazy kisses. "Again? For me?"
He lets out an exhausted groan, but straightens up and grabs your waist, wrapping an arm around it. Just as you threw him around earlier, he now does the same to you; your back hits the cold floor of the bar and the sudden movement draws an excited giggle from you that is immediately stifled into a rough moan as you feel his hard spike at your entrance. You have to hand it to him - the fact that he can go this many rounds is quite remarkable.
But just as you think that, he takes a deep breath and lowers his helm, placing it on your chest to collect himself for a moment. Your body demands another orgasm to rid itself of this mysterious virus, preferably immediately, but once again your common sense manages to regain control for a moment.
You gently place your hands on his jaw and pull him up to meet your eyes. His visor glows bright blue, but he doesn't really seem exhausted or disgusted, no - he seems rather... tense.
"I'm pretty close again," he finally admits meekly, with a hint of shame in his voice. "I won't last long inside you, I-- You're just so beautiful and so warm, so perfect, and I - I don't know, I--"
"Woah, hey." You use your elbow to push yourself up slightly and press a kiss to the corner of his mouth as Swerve shifts uncomfortably between your legs. "That's okay." Then you add with a smile: "Just enjoy it. I am."
He hesitates. "Really?"
"Oh, very much." And with that, you pull him with you as you fall back onto your back. The minibot follows this movement, his forehead resting on your chest again, and you wrap your legs around his midsection to meet his spike. The vague sensation of the transfluid on your back hitting the cold floor distracts you for a moment, and you open your mouth in a slightly surprised, silent gasp as he slides into you.
A low, hoarse moan escapes from the bot's chassis above, just as his hand grabs your hip so your bodies can meet. His spike may not be long, but his girth is considerable; it takes a moment and some gentle rocking into each other for your walls to adjust to the stretch. The oral coolant that's still all over your crotch makes an excellent lubricant, as does the mysterious alien virus that makes your body more than willing and ready.
It takes only seconds before you nod wordlessly and Swerve begins to thrust into you. It's a slow, stuttering rhythm; a constant clash of metal against soft flesh, both of you tangled up in this web of lust and affection, of unspoken words and the smoldering climax that's about to hit you both. In between, there are soft sounds, sweet and obscene at the same time: sighs and moans, the wet sound of his spike sliding in and out of you, and the soft sobs of Swerve, whose tears fall on your chest.
He rocks his body into you, faster and more uncontrolled now, with aimless words falling from his lips. That you're beautiful, just perfect and feel so good on his spike. And while your own hand moves between your bodies to rub your clit just right, you praise him to the heavens: he's doing so well, he's trying so hard just to make you feel good. And he’s very successful - good doesn't even begin to describe it.
"Primus. Oh frag, I'm gonna-" Swerve's movements become faster, more erratic, and he moans hoarsely, chasing the next overload that will probably finally force his processor to reboot. He's panting now, systems unable to regulate his core temperature in any way. His thrusts are fierce and sloppy, so desperate for release and you meet him halfway with your own movements, sinking into the hot pit yourself, which turns out to be a quickly approaching climax. It takes only a few more thrusts before Swerve calls your name, prays to you, this erotic deity in his hands, only to drag you down into the bliss with him.
There's not enough air in your lungs to even make a sound, but your mouth opens with a silent noise as you come so hard your spine bends. Warm fingers grip the chassis of the bot, trying to find anything, anything at all, just something to hold on to and not drown in this hot wave. Your sex throbs violently, your brain rewards you with a blindingly hot rush of happiness, and suddenly you understand why Swerve sheds tears - the feeling is so intense and overwhelming that it brings a few tears to your eyes, too.
"Frag," you then manage to say weakly. There's a vague feeling of clinging to him as the world spins around you; the fading orgasm takes a tiny bit of your consciousness with it, making you see stars for a second.
"'m fine," the minibot mumbles, his faceplate still pressed against your chest and his arms wrapped around your torso in a tight embrace.
"Me too," you reply, propping yourself up on your elbows. Breathe. That's priority number one right now. Breathe and enjoy the fact that this impatient scratching in your chest, this outrageous horniness, is less bad now. "I feel good. Very good, actually."
"I would even say fantastic."
Yes, fantastic is a good description.
As you sit up fully, he lets go of you; the absence of his spike inside you means that the pink liquid is now dripping out of you onto the floor. Involuntarily, you have to think about the fact that you will definitely have to clean up before the lockdown ends and people start flocking to the bar for drinks. Seriously though, if the rest of the crew has been passing the time like you have today, it's definitely going to be a record-setting night! After so much sex, you want a drink, don't you?
"Hey." You put your hand on his jaw and lean forward to plant a kiss on Swerve's lips. It's a promise that this wasn't just because of that weird alien virus. This, between the two of you, is real - even if it took a sexy virus to get the ball rolling.
"Hey." he replies shyly, but with a big grin as the kiss ends. "So, I was thinking - now that the ice is broken..." His hands fiddle with a clean rag that he pulls out of one of the drawers in the bar and hands to you. "Maybe you want to watch a movie tomorrow night after closing? Well, if you're someone who wants to do something like that with a guy like me, um-"
You laugh. An affectionate laugh, full of relief and happiness.
"A guy like you is exactly my type, Swerve."