jennie. adult. follow the chinese canon.
rafayel and caleb main, but i love and write all five.
twitter: applefishyearn
ao3: applefishing
╰┈➤ˎˊ˗ masterlist ordered newest to oldest.
› good girl drabble with caleb
› pretty little distraction. part one.
alpha!caleb x alpha!rafayel x omega!reader.
› mean gege fucks different
› cat banner but we are the kitten this time
› clay sculpting with rafayel
› mirror fucking with caleb
› zombie apocalypse with caleb
› caleb suckles your tits when they ache
› groping with colonel caleb xia
› daddy sylus
› showing caleb your pussy for the first time
› being in a poly relationship with each duo
› massage oil with caleb
› medical kink with zayne
› sylus soothes you during your period
› xavier is jealous and possessive
› caleb checks if he'd fit inside
› vampire caleb
› guilty caleb fucks an apple pie
› sharing your warmth with caleb
› bath sex with rafayel
hi apple, i was wondering if gege and fishie will have any actions together in your pretty little distractions?
yep, it’s tagged MMF on ao3. i’m very picky abt MMF so there’s a very specific dynamic i’m going for that i can’t get into without spoilers. you’ll see. i know some ppl don’t fuck with MMF usually but i suspect some of those people will like this anyway… but again, its too early to talk abt it too much with spoiling things
"isn't this what i deserve... what i'm owed?" he mumbles again as he presses you into the mattress, his body covering you entirely from behind—large and heavy and warm.
despite his repeated questioning, his fingers fill your mouth, preventing you from answering at all. he plays with your tongue as he grinds down against you—a rhythmic rolling of his hips to match the way he invades your mouth. in and out, but never out enough to free your voice.
"gege was so good for so long, hm?" he continues, breathy. his teeth press lightly into your shoulder, and his body drops a little more, practically crushing—so heavy that each breath you take is a conscious effort. "it's your turn now. be a good girl."
alpha rafayel and alpha caleb work together to free lemurians from omega auctions. but during a routine rescue operation, rafayel finds himself uncharacteristically sidetracked.
when he returns to the car, he carefully deposits a trembling human omega in the backseat. caleb has questions.
masterlist | read on ao3
It’d been three months since the last Lemurian had appeared at auction. Three months since their last successful rescue. It consumes him: saving them; sparing them from a fate often far worse than their human counterparts. Human omegas at least had a chance of being treated with kindness. Rafayel knew well that was not the case for his people.
In two nights, there would be another auction with a Lemurian as the centrepiece.
Rafayel buries his hands in the deep pockets of his heavy winter coat, careful with his footing on the icy concrete as he makes his way across the carpark. A spattering of other late arrivals are also making the frigid trek towards the building lit up ahead of him. Some are in groups, loud in their shared excitement for the night ahead. Some walk alone, like him—dark figures with bowed heads.
This auction house ran it’s events the way most mid-sized operations did. Weekend one-day auctions were routine, and when they got their hands on a Lemurian, they’d hold a special event that operated over multiple nights. Starting with a few nights of regular human offerings and culminating in one night focused on the Lemurian’s sale. These multi-night events would give Caleb and Rafayel time to scout the places out and figure out their plan of attack.
Tonight was the first night of bidding. All human lots. All Rafayel had to do was get a layout of the place, look for weaknesses. It was always worth being thorough, leaving the door open for lucky opportunities. At one of their first rescues—a smaller establishment unused to the attention a Lemurian lot would bring—he’d been lucky enough to swipe a set of keys and walked right out of the place with his target under his arm.
If only it was always that easy.
It had gotten progressively worse since then. The more they rescued, the more paranoid the auction houses and buyers became. Eventually, they’d need another approach entirely. But for now, the routine worked: pre-auction viewing to send a warning to their target, scouting the venue, snatch the target during post-auction exchange.
Pre-auction viewing usually commenced a week before the big night. Rafayel and Caleb would enter during the busier hours, with the crowds. Rafayel would make sure the little omega had spotted him among the bodies that circled their small viewing enclosure. It would ensure cooperation when they did come for them. They’d see the Sea God’s glowing eyes among the crowd gathered around their cages, and they’d know He would be coming for them. They’d know to be ready. Not to be afraid.
Shrugging his shoulders up, he fills his lungs with his last taste of the crisp winter air before slipping past a loud group of alphas clogging up the entrance—entering the overwhelming chaos of the auction hall. They’re always dark, noisy and overwhelming. It was intentional. They wanted people to feel invisible. To encourage even the most self-conscious, guilty, morally-conflicted spectators and potential buyers through their doors.
Rafayel finally escapes the bottleneck of bodies near the entrance and presses himself into a gap at the back wall. It’s slightly elevated, allowing him to make a scan of the large venue and make note of exits and layout.
“All good?” Caleb questions through Rafayel’s earpiece.
“All good,” he replies. “There’s an armed guard at each door. Pretty standard.”
“Keeping the serious security out the back,” Caleb adds, sounding calm. “Eventually, they’ll get so lazy in the auction rooms, I won’t be able to resist grabbing them directly from the stage.” A puff of air buzzes through Caleb’s microphone. “I doubt they are paying the kids in there enough to even try and shoot me on the way out.”
“Yeah, well, as long as they’re armed–”
“Too many bystanders,” he interrupts. “I know. I’m the one who talked you out of the idea, remember?”
The loud thrum of a room packed with at least a thousand excited people lifts louder as a group of omegas shuffle onto the stage. It’s nothing new to Rafayel. He’d probably seen more omegas in his life than most alphas alive. It’s so routine that the sharp anger that rattled him during their first few rescues had long-since dulled into a festering pit of disgust.
Only humans could do this to their own.
He watches the bidding from the shadows, eyes flicking across each terrified face lit up by blinding stage lights. At least the intense lights offered the tiny trembling humans a little heat. They always looked so cold.
Once the bidding well and truly stirs up the crowd, and all eyes are on the entertainment, he makes his way through the crowd. Make mental notes of exits, security rotations, any points of weakness. Then he could get the fuck out.
He finds an alpha slumped against one of the emergency exit doors, head hanging between bent knees. It was early in the night be knocked out by drink, but he’d seen worse.
There should’ve been a security guard here, like at the other emergency exits. They are always quick to toss inebriated bodies out into the night, so the door had been unguarded at least as long as the man had been slumped against it. Rafayel slinks back into the crowd, checks his watch, and waits—eyes flicking between the stage and the unguarded door.
Each lot is sold, one after the other, tiny human offerings pulled off stage when each of them is done facing their fate and hearing their monetary value.
Rafayel waits. Patient. Focused.
The unconscious alpha slumps over onto his side.
He checks his watch. 10 minutes without intervention from any security.
A point of weakness.
Caleb’s words rattle around in his head. At some point, the risk would have to be taken. Their approach was getting too predictable, and opportunities like this were too tempting to pass up.
The crowd jostles him a little as a new group is bought on stage, eager to get a good look at the new batch. Unlike them, Rafayel is focused on the man at the door. Another alpha steps out of the sea of bodies and kneels down in front of him.
He can’t tell if the man is security or a good samartian. His line of sight is obscured with the movement of the crowd, and when he attempts to shove his way closer to his point of interest, an elbow nearly smacks him in the jaw.
An impassioned alpha shouts out a bid—roars it—directly in Rafayel’s ear. Then he raises his numbered paddle with equal enthusiasm, and Rafayel is forced to dodge it.
It’s enough to break his focus on his task. It’s only for a moment. His eyes instinctively flick up to the stage, towards the focus of the man’s eager attention.
That’s all it takes.
One moment of distraction, and his life is thrown off-course.
The ringing in his ear, caused by the man’s roar, seems to spread to the other without any cause. He can hear nothing around him. Just a dull hum and a high pitched whine echoing in his skull.
You’re dressed like the rest of them: a flimsy shapeless unbleached piece of fabric hangs off you, ending just above your knees. It’s almost sheer. Almost. It gives the impression that if the lighting was a little different, it would be.
It’s all intentional.
Everything about how you are presented to the crowd is intentional. Even down to the slightly raggedy nature of the dress. Omegas of all genders wear the same little sack. It makes them look… in need, wanting; clean and kept but… unloved. To nurture and provide was an instinctual desire for alphas. A need these evil fucks hoped to trigger in potential buyers.
Rafayel had laughed, hollow and bitter, the first time he’d realised all the tiny insidious ways they were targeting alpha instincts. “How human,” he’d spat, releasing his frustration at Caleb as he’d slammed the car door closed.
“What is?” Caleb had asked, starting the engine.
Rafayel hadn’t known how to answer. It was one of his first times in a place like that. He couldn’t process it: how they… how humans had so successfully ignored their own protective instincts to cause harm to the very people they were supposed to protect. Not just individually. As a whole society, in an organised manner. They were ignoring their own instincts enough to cause harm but were still aware enough of them to be able to weaponise them against each other.
“Cruelty,” Rafayel had muttered in response, suddenly finding himself too drained to offer any other explanation.
Frozen in place, with his ears still ringing, Rafayel drags his eyes over you now, searching. He doesn’t know what he’s searching for. You have something he needs.
Searching.
Searching.
The trembling girl to your left darts her hand out to grasp yours as her sale is finalised with a slam of the gavel. A flood of adrenaline floods his system as Rafayel’s eyes snap to the sudden movement on stage like it’s a threat. There’s no threat, his rational mind shouts.
Someone shoves into him.
He stumbles forward.
The girl grasping your hand is scanning the crowd. Maybe searching for her new owner, or maybe for the exit—one last desperate, hopeless instinctive look towards freedom.
There’s a tug somewhere deep inside him, reminding him he should be looking at exits too. That’s what he’d been doing. He had a task. A man slumped across the emergency exit closest to him. He’d been distracted from his task. His neck even twitches a little at the thought, like his body wants to turn towards the exit, but finds itself paralysed by an invading parasitic host that has taken control.
His ears are still ringing.
Your lot number is called next.
Rafayel doesn’t hear it.
You’re entirely still, like him, eyes fixed over the crowd.
He wonders if the lights are hurting your eyes.
The girl beside you is tugged away, and when she reluctantly releases her grasp on you, your arm hovers awkwardly out from your side—stiff and unnatural.
He’s never seen you before.
He searches his memory desperately for any trace of you.
Nothing.
So why does he knows you.
He’s looking at a face he’s never seen before in his life and feeling instead like he’s looking at someone precious to him. Not just precious. Someone resurrected from the dead. It’s a flood of emotion like he’d been missing you for lifetimes and had now, finally, found you. His emotions are incongruent with reality to such a degree, he wonders if maybe he’s dreaming, or dead.
A bony elbow jabs into his ribs hard enough to bruise.
Sound floods back into his skull.
The auctioneer is shouting numbers out across the hall. The current going price.
Your price.
You are being bid on.
Someone is about to own you—take you away.
The voice in his ear snaps the tension in his body like a jolt of electricity, and it’s only his years of masking all his emotion—of keeping his cool in places like this—that prevents him giving any physical indication at all that he’d been startled.
“Status update,” his partner says through his earpiece, business as usual.
He’s asking.
It’s a request for information.
Rafayel is aware he should answer.
His eyes settle on your clenched fist, grasping tightly to the fabric of your dress now that you’ve lost your one hand to hold. That hand was gone now. Sold.
Rafayel lifts his sleeve to his mouth to communicate with his partner. “Call in and bid on lot 520,” he orders, letting no trace of his dazed state leak into his voice. “Secure her.”
A beep. Another beep. The line opening and closing. A buzz of empty static fills his ear. Caleb had opened the line and let silence hang.
The buzz cuts off.
A second or two of dead line.
Then, “Secure lot 520?”
This wasn’t normal. Nothing about this was normal. There was no precedent for this. They didn’t participate in the auctions. Ever.
Rafayel watches as the auctioneer searches for a higher offer, gavel raised like a threat. Dread turns his gut inside out, his eyes flicking between you and the lanky man threatening to take you away forever.
“Do it now,” he hisses, panicked.
His heart thumps rapidly in his chest as he imagines you being dragged off… to be collected by some other alpha. A feral urge to surge through the mass of bodies and climb up onto the stage runs like an electric current through his muscles, shocking him still. He even considers the unguarded door with the drunken man. Fuck bystanders. He’s a man suddenly afraid of himself—out of control—paralysed in that microsecond before fight or flight.
The lanky auctioneer points his gavel at a woman at one of the phones with her hand raised. Caleb had called. The tension leaves Rafayel’s body in a flood that nearly brings him to his knees. Caleb has an instruction, and he wouldn’t fail him. He knows it now like he’s always known it. It was one of two things he grasped onto in his darkest hours: the ocean and it’s people were his, his responsibility; and Caleb would never, ever fail him.
He begins to weave through the crowd, partially freed from his paralysis. He can move his body freely, but only towards you, and his eyes never leave you. Drawn towards you like prey hypnotised by a glowing light pulsing in dark ocean depths.
The noise around him dulls to a muffled buzz again, entirely tuned out.
He’s close enough now to see your fingers are pale at the tips as you squeeze white fabric like a lifeline. He wants to reach out and pry them free—to hold your hand in his—transfer them to the lifeline he could offer instead.
Your eyes are still fixed at the back of the hall. He doubts you can see anything at all with the stage lights pounding down on you. Still, he looks up at you, and wills you to see him. His lips move with his silent pleas. Look at me, he begs. Over and over.
The gavel drops.
Sold.
It looks like a string snapping. Like you’d been a puppet, forced by your invisible master to keep your body held up on the stage in one position, and now, released, the lifeless puppet pools into a mess of limbs on the floor.
He has to press his nails into his palms until he’s sure he bleeds to stop himself giving into his urge to jump the barrier and climb the stage. Maybe Caleb was right. Maybe no one in the room cared enough to shoot him.
But if they did, they could hit you.
He watches as two men step out from the shadows, lift you up, and carry you away.
The moment you slip behind the curtain, out of his sight, he staggers back, his own string snapping.
There’s a big dark empty pit inside him. One that had existed before he’d entered this hall. How was it possible he hadn’t paid it much mind before now? He can feel the shape of it, the depth, the space it carves out from his flesh.
Caleb’s saying something in his ear again. The final price. The price they had paid.
“Can I get her now?” Rafayel fires back in response, breathless. He’s shoving his way through bodies as he fails entirely to keep the desperation from his tone. Caleb will know something is very wrong if he hadn’t before. This isn’t how their missions usually go. It’s not how they’ve ever gone before. Not in all the years their years together.
Silence.
And then, “I’ll finalise it and send you the authorisation to collect her.” A pause. “Should I remain in place?” It sounds like many questions in one.
Rafayel knows, even if his frenzied state, it’s only the trust and bond between them that saves him from an on-the-spot interrogation through his earpiece.
“Yes,” Rafayel responds, bursting through the crowd of bodies and into open space, breathless. “Stay in place. We’ll be out.”
We.
Him and… you.
He presses his palm to the cool concrete wall, catching his breath and regaining his composure. The noise and chaos floods back around him slowly, a welcome distraction from the throbbing pit of absence in his chest.
There’s a ramp to his right, leading down into the collection hall.
He straightens his coat and tie and makes his descent, composure restored—at least to any eyes that happen to pass over him.
When his hands start trembling, he shoves them in his deep coat pockets.
Steel mesh separates his walkway from another. The one mirroring his descent, ascends up to a separate exit, where newly purchased lots could be led out by eager owners without having to battle through the bustling, inebriated, crowd in the auction hall.
A towering man passes him on that other ramp, separated from Rafayel by mesh, and trailed by a shivering figure in white. Rafayel scowls, eyes catching on the little omegas bare feet.
They didn’t even clothe them properly for collection.
It was mid-winter outside. Cold enough to see his own breath as he’d marched from the car to the entrance. He shoves his hands deeper in his coat pockets at the memory. Pausing, he fishes out his discovery: a woollen beanie buried in the deepest corner of his right pocket. It was one of Caleb’s, likely stuffed into one of Rafayel’s pockets out of convenience during a previous outing. He shoves the hat back down again and tries not to think about how Caleb will react when he discovers Rafayel has no explanation for what he’s done.
He sits in the waiting area, staring at his phone in anticipation of authorisation paperwork, and slowly, gradually, returns to himself. His heart rate steadies along with his trembling hands.
What the fuck had just happened to him?
Mates were fairytales. A fantasy long relegated to the past—before omegas had faced a population decline so sudden and catastrophic, the entire structure of human society had cruelly shifted to compensate. There was no space for the fantasy of finding YOUR omega. Not in the corrupted hell humans had built for themselves.
His phone buzzes in his hand. Rafayel sucks in a steadying breath as he refocuses on his task: collect you, get out. Until you were physically by his side, outside this pit of moral decay and desperation, he wouldn’t take an easy breath. He clenches his palms and swallows the anxiety down, and by the time he catches your scent in his nostrils, he’s a picture of calm composure.
He knows it’s your scent before he sees you, like he recognised a face he was seeing for the first time. It’s so familiar, it feels like a childhood memory. All emotion without the details.
You’re still dressed solely in that scrap of almost-sheer natural white fabric. And with a gentle shove from the woman who had led you out, you shuffle to stand at his side. You’re all-consuming presence beside him feels entirely out of proportion with the reality of you: tiny, cowering, and shivering.
He hadn’t noticed you shivering on stage. Either he was too far away or you were colder now. Or more afraid. His stomach flips at the thought. Why wouldn’t you be afraid of him? He was your new captor. Another in a long line for an omega born into a world such as theirs. And for all you knew, he wanted something more from you than anyone that had come before him. That’s what people bought omegas for, after all. He swallows, suppressing a wave of nausea.
Refocusing on his mission of getting the fuck out of the place, he shakes a clammy hand over a desk, collects a large envelope containing his certificate of ownership, and leads you towards the ramp—hyperaware of any potential threat between you and the exit.
He resists looking down at you as he leads you up that ramp towards your freedom. He knows you’ll be feeling anything but free.
Rightly so, really.
The envelope feels heavy in his hands.
There’s a small seating area at the top of the ramp, tucked a little to the side, out of the way of any natural route to exit the building. He quickly leads you into the small nook, drops the envelope on the floor and begins to tug his coat off, rushed and pumping with adrenaline now the exit is so near. You stumble back a step, clearly startled by his frenzied attempt to free himself of the heavy wool.
He freezes, the heavy coat hanging from one arm, paralysed in response to your little display of fear.
Nausea wracks him again.
He takes a shaky breath, forced to inhale a lungful of your fear in the process. Bitter.
You were so afraid. Afraid of him.
“It’s cold outside,” he starts, gently. “I’m just going to put this on you, okay?”
Your eyes are fixed at his feet, and you are entirely unmoving. Apart from an uncontrolled tremble as a shiver racks your small frame.
You aren’t running, or stepping further back. That’ll have to do.
His hands tremble, matching you, as he drapes the heavy coat over your shoulders. He hesitates, suddenly nervous about releasing its full weight onto you. An image of your crumpled body under the stage lights flashes in his mind, unwelcome.
But then you thread your arms into the sleeves and wrap the oversized coat around yourself, cocooning yourself in the remnants of his body heat still clinging to the fibres.
A little marble of warm light rolls into that dark pit inside him, bouncing in the bottom, echoing. He’s done something good for you—provided—and you liked it.
He could do so much more. God, he wants you to know how much he’s willing to do.
You lift your shoulders up a little and tuck your chin into the cocoon you’ve made, like you’re attempting to bury yourself in the cashmere.
The beanie.
He takes a small step. Then hesitates. “I’m just–” He moves like a stalking cat trying not to startle a mouse. “–getting a beanie from the pocket.”
A painstakingly slow dip of his hand into the nest you’ve made around yourself, and then he steps back quickly, successful in his delicate extraction.
“Can I…” he trails off, gesturing awkwardly with the navy blue beanie. It’s covered in Caleb’s scent, flooding Rafayel’s senses with a comforting familiarly as he waves it in front of him.
No shuffling away. That’ll do, he supposes.
Slowly, he lowers the beanie over your head, finger brushing the shell of your ear.
Your eyes snap up to meet his.
He freezes.
He’s bent over at an awkward angle, arms acting as a bridge between your bodies, held stiff where he’d been working to arrange the hat so it wouldn’t fall down over your eyes.
You blink up at him, eyes watery, either from the cold or emotion. He wishes he knew which.
It wouldn’t be until much later that he’d fully process it, but something about the way you look at him now triggers the first stages of a spiralling thought: Why did he instruct Caleb to bid on you? Why had he so instinctively side-stepped all his long festering disgust and participated in the human torture system instead of snatching you from your buyer’s hands like they did will all their Lemurian rescues? The envelope with the papers certifying his ownership of you slides under his boot on the floor as he shifts his weight. What… the fuck… had he done?
A small, cold, trembling hand snaps him from his spiralling thoughts.
You cup his wet cheek, arm extended towards him, mirroring the way his arms still bridge the distance between you.
“I won’t hurt you,” he promises—a little broken noise. It comes out of him like a plea for mercy.
Your lashes flutter as you blink a few times. Then you nod, retracting your hand back into your cocoon.
He’s hardly breathing as he begins moving again, careful not to touch your skin. You let him arrange the hat carefully on your head, staying still as he delicately moves your hair out of your face in his final touches.
Then he steps back, admiring his work.
His satisfaction is short-lived.
Your feet are bare.
Slowly, he lowers himself to one knee, crumpling the large envelope that now sports a large boot mark on it’s cover. He looks up at you. “Will you let me carry you to the car?” he asks, again, sounding much like a man begging for mercy.
You take a small step backwards.
He goes stiff.
He stops himself reaching out.
“I won’t hurt you,” he says, repeating his pledge. “And I won’t ever touch you if you don’t want me to. It’s just very cold—probably colder than it was when I came in—and you don’t have shoes.” He watches you look down at your feet, like you hadn’t noticed. “I’m sorry I didn’t bring any,” Rafayel adds, finding himself unable to stop speaking, desperately seeking the right words. “This wasn’t… the plan. I wasn’t ready for you.”
You shuffle towards him.
It’s a tiny little movement, hardly closing any distance between you at all.
He holds his breath.
Watches your face.
Your chin dips.
He’s almost afraid to rise to his feet. But then you take another small step closer, and suddenly, he desperately wants to be out of this place. He wants to take you home, where it’s safe and warm and he can finally process what was happening—how his life had just changed forever.
He snatches the crumpled envelope from the floor, bends it in half, and shoves it in one of his back pockets. Then, just before he can take a cautious step towards you, the hand that had rested on his cheek so gently, slips out to tuck a little stray clump of hair behind your ear. He can feel your touch on his cheek still, lingering, and he suddenly finds himself desperate for the chilled night air on his face.
With calm movements, careful not to spook you, he scoops you up: a delicate bundle wrapped in soft wool.
You tuck you chin into your chest and curl in on yourself, and he makes sure he’s got a secure hold on you, aware you aren’t holding onto him at all. It was all on him, and idea of you relying on him so fully, even in his little way, triggers another little marble of warmth to roll into that deep dark pit inside him.
Then he catches the scent of you, stronger than ever before. There’s something else in it now. Something new. It’s not all bitterness, like it had been up until now. He can’t decide what it is exactly. One day, he’d know your feelings like he knew his own. For now, all he knows is that little tinge of something new is… sweet. And sweet had to be good.
So he presses you to his chest, up against where those two little warm marbles roll around inside him, turns to shove the heavy door open with his back, and marches out into the clear winter night.
omg the amount of people who thought your mean gege drabble was about renowed mangaka gege akutami 😭😭
wait, they are talking about an author???? i get it so often and have always assumed it was an anime character, but it’s an author?? why would so many ppl assume tumblr fic is about a manga author? is that a thing?
can you write a drabble about caleb turning into a dog hybrid 🙏 doesn't need to be good doesn't need to be long (hell 1 sentence will suffice) just so the vibrations can hit infold hq
i've got wolf caleb fucking u in the dirt in my wip list so bear with me bestie, i got you
summary you and ryland got hit by some kind of dust
word count 8K
content 18+. smut. sex pollen. fuck or die. masturbation (m). penis in vagina sex. riding. humour (i tried). crack. ryland's glasses stay ON during sex.
a/n officially the longest fucking thing i have ever written. i'm not truly satisfied with this but it's whatever. i hope u guys enjoy it. english is not my first language
masterlist | read on ao3
you and ryland have been staring at yet another mysterious gift sent by rocky like it was a trunk shot from pulp fiction.
you know, the one where— okay so nevermind. that's not important.
what's important was what rocky had sent, which was another cylinder.
you glanced at ryland. ryland glanced at you. then you both glanced at the cylinder.
it sat in the center of the lab table, perfectly still, perfectly silent, and deeply, profoundly suspicious.
“so,” you said, arms crossed. “before you do anything impulsive and deeply stupid, let’s review our options.”
ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”
“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”
he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.
“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”
“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”
you sighed.
“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.
ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.
“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”
you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”
“so.... none of it?”
“exactly.”
pause.
just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.
“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”
“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”
you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”
he ignored you.
of course he ignored you.
the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.
for a second, nothing happened.
you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.
“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”
poof!
a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.
“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”
“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”
“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”
the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.
you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.
“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”
he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”
“define normal.”
“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”
you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”
“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”
you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”
“fair.”
then there was a beat.
“so.... that’s it?” you asked.
he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.
“that’s it.” he confirmed.
“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”
“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”
“great,” you muttered.
“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”
only for a while.
only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.
you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.
it should have been reassuring.
it wasn’t.
because about an hour in, you noticed something off.
not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.
you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.
“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”
ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”
“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”
“maybe you’re just stressed.”
you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”
you tried to ignore it.
it didn’t work.
because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.
you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.
“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.
except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.
this, whatever this was however, was far from it.
“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.
“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.
he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.
“....ryland?”
he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.
“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.
you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”
“fine. totally fine.”
“you don’t look fine.”
he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”
“you’re flushed.”
“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”
“....that’s not a thing.”
“it is now.”
you crossed your arms, studying him.
“you’re acting weird.”
ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.
“nothing. nothing. um—”
you frowned. “are you okay?”
“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.
“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.
by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.
“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.
ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.
he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.
your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.
you didn’t know why but it just happened.
you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.
you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—
you flinched.
jesus, what the fuck?
since when the fuck did you notice that?
nope. absolutely not.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.
it didn't.
you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.
that was a mistake.
because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.
your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.
and yet—
“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.
“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.
“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.
he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”
“it’s nothing.”
ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.
“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.
you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”
“you absolutely were.”
“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.
he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”
you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”
you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.
and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.
“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”
“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.
“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.
he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”
“obviously.”
“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.
he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.
“ryland.”
“....also very aware of you,” he finished.
pause.
“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”
“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”
you crossed your arms. “why?”
“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”
“i’m always here!”
“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”
you stared at him.
“more noticeable.” you repeated.
he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”
“it sounded very weird.”
“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”
“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”
“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.
you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.
then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.
“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”
“all of the above, probably.”
you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—
“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.
he went still. “what?”
you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”
“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”
you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”
“i don’t have a better word!”
“well, find one!”
“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”
you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”
“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”
“yep.”
“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”
“yep.”
“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”
he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”
you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”
“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.
“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”
you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.
you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.
“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”
“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”
“we observe.”
“we hypothesize.”
“we do not panic.”
“we are absolutely not panicking.”
you were both very clearly panicking.
“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”
“no judgment,” you agreed.
“elevated body temperature.” he started.
“check.”
“heightened sensory awareness.”
“check.”
“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”
you folded your arms tighter. “check.”
“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.
“check.”
he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”
“attraction?” you said bluntly.
he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”
the word hung there, heavy but accurate.
you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.
not just the symptoms.
the pattern.
your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.
you frowned, thinking harder.
“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”
“toxins,” he said automatically.
“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.
“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”
“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”
“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”
“so it’s not attacking us.”
“it’s affecting us.”
you both went quiet again, thinking.
he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”
he stopped.
you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.
his entire posture went rigid.
“....no,” he said.
your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.
he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.
“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”
“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”
he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”
“okay....?”
“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”
“ryland.”
he stopped and looked at you.
you held his gaze.
“say it.”
he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.
“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”
your chest tightened.
“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”
your breath caught.
he exhaled, defeated.
“....pollen,” he finished.
silence.
thick.
absolute.
you stared at him.
he stared back.
“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”
“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”
“so it’s not pollen.”
“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.
you both paused.
“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.
“yeah.”
another silence. longer this time.
he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”
he stopped himself.
you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”
he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.
you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.
to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.
you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.
“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.
he nodded, equally quiet.
“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”
“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”
“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”
you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”
“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.
“oh, jesus.”
another pause.
longer this time.
he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”
“wait it out,” you repeated.
“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”
“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.
“not even in a funny anecdote way.”
“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”
he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”
you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.
really looked.
the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—
“ryland,” you said slowly.
“yeah.” he did not look at you.
“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”
he let out a short, strained laugh.
“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”
your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”
his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.
“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”
pause.
you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.
the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.
you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.
“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”
you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”
he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”
“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.
“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.
you both paused.
“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.
“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”
another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.
another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.
you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.
it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.
and yet.
both of you looked away at the same time.
he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”
you perked up. “yeah?”
“isolation.”
silence.
“what?” your voice came out small.
“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”
you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”
“i’m not kidding.”
“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”
“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”
you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”
“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”
“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.
he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”
you stared at him. really stared this time.
“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”
“yes.”
“yao and ilyukhina are—”
“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.
“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”
“we’ll adjust.”
“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”
his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”
“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”
“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.
you took a step closer without thinking.
his entire body reacted.
it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.
that alone made your point for you.
you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”
he didn’t answer.
you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”
“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.
“or it could be days,” you said quietly.
he didn’t argue.
“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.
“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.
you stilled. “what alternative?”
he didn’t say anything.
which, unfortunately, was an answer.
you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”
“we really don’t,” he said quickly.
“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”
he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”
“ryland—”
“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”
you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”
“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”
“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”
“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.
“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”
“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”
“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”
he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.
“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”
“we might not have a choice,” you said.
“we always have a choice.”
“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”
he flinched. barely, but enough.
“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”
your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.
“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”
“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”
“you don’t believe that.”
he didn’t answer.
you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.
“look at me,” you said.
he did.
“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”
his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”
“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”
“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”
“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.
“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”
you followed without realizing.
“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”
“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.
the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.
you frowned slightly. “what?”
he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”
“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”
“is it?” he asked quietly.
that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.
“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”
you stared at him.
he looked away again, jaw tight.
“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”
“it is for me,” he said.
there was a beat.
“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”
“i know,” he said. “i know that.”
“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”
“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”
pause.
you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”
“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”
you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.
“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”
“at what cost?”
a beat.
he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.
his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.
“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”
you didn’t answer right away.
he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”
there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.
“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”
you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.
“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”
“maybe not,” he admitted.
“then—”
“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.
you blinked. “ryland—”
“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”
“even if it makes things harder?”
“yeah,” he said. “even then.”
you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.
“you’re really that set on this,” you said.
“yeah,” he said quietly.
another pause.
“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”
he nodded once.
“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”
“we reassess,” he said immediately.
neither of you moved.
just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.
like it could disappear in a second.
like he might cross it.
like you might let him.
his jaw tightened.
his shoulders went rigid again.
and for a split second, he looked like he might—
but then he turned away.
“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”
you swallowed. “okay.”
“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”
“right.”
—
you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.
you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.
“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”
another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.
your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.
ryland’s voice.
ryland’s face.
ryland's arms.
ryland's hair.
just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.
you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.
with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.
“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”
you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.
“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”
you closed your eyes and tried to focus.
in.
out.
in—
“mhmmph—”
pause.
you blinked an eye open.
what—
“mhmphhh— fuckk—”
—the hell was that?
you tilted your head slightly, listening.
at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.
but then—
“oh, please— please—”
it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.
and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.
you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall
unmistakenably ryland.
he was in the room next to yours.
awake.
and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.
he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.
heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.
is he—
no.
no way.
no fucking way.
another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.
you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.
dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.
option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.
option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.
you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.
“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”
you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.
“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”
you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.
you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.
your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.
“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”
a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.
you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”
a beat.
“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.
before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.
no turning back now.
inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.
ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.
you didn’t give him time to speak.
you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.
he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.
for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.
then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.
the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.
after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.
“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”
“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.
you blinked. “what?”
“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”
you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”
“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”
“current events,” you repeated.
“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”
“and that data is?”
“i need you.”
a beat.
“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.
“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”
you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”
“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.
you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”
“yeah?” he laughed too.
“yeah.”
“can i kiss you again then?”
you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”
this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.
you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.
slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.
his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.
naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.
you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”
“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.
“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.
you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.
only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.
then you started to move.
slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.
gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.
“ryland— fuck, just like that—”
“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”
it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.
“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”
you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.
for a long moment, neither of you said anything.
you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.
ryland was staring at the ceiling.
very intently.
like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.
“....so,” you said eventually.
“so,” he echoed.
another pause.
you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”
he didn’t look at you.
“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”
you snorted. “wow. rude.”
“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”
“mostly,” you repeated.
“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”
you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”
“for the record, i did not consent to that.”
fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”
“unfortunately, yes.”
“and then to me.”
he hesitated.
“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”
you stared at him for a second.
then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”
“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”
“i could tell.”
another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.
“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”
he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”
“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”
“you did not hear everything.”
“ryland.”
he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”
“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”
“please, just kill me already.”
“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”
“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.
“just making sure.”
he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”
“oh, constantly.”
“i walked into that one.”
“you really did.”
another quiet moment passed.
you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.
“....hey,” he said after a while.
“yeah?”
there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”
it caught you off guard.
not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.
you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”
he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.
“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”
you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”
he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”
another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.
eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.
you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.
he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.
“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”
your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.
“…me neither,” you murmured.
that was the last coherent thing either of you said.
because a few minutes later, the exhaustion finally won.
No what if you're manifesting the banners and the next one IS an applefish threesome 🙂↕️🙂↕️
my men don't even interact in the main story :(((((((((( so it would be a miracle beyond any known to humankind... but i'll put my whole magical pussy powers into it
how does it feel to have a galaxy brain, seeing as how in the next sylus solo banner we are in fact, the ones to turn into a cat? absolute banger and great timing on your part to have made that post w the li's and their reaction to us being the cat hahaha
you should've seen me when i clicked the notif and realised what i was looking at ghjfdks .... am i.... a witch???? AND THEN i walked into a waiting room for an appointment where this old lady started telling me i'm pretty and complimenting my outfit and telling me i look way younger than i am like just GASSING me up and i'm like oh so i can predict the future AND i'm pretty and stylish and defying the aging process???
jennie jennieee wyt of the upcoming sylus solo?? i wanna pull solely for the pose but gege is near and personally im not rlly interested w the card. also why is his clothes kinda giving convict,,? i mean, lore accurate as he's canonically a fugitive but damn boy🤷🏽♀️🤷🏽♀️🤷🏽♀️
you say his outfit is giving convict is so funny bc everyone has been saying he raided caleb's wardrobe. love gege but he has some questionable fits ghjfdk and it is reminiscent of his worst. are you getting convict bc america has orange jumpsuits for prisoners? (i think?? i'm basing this on orange is the new black)
i wouldn't pull on it if you are just pulling for the pose! it'll be added to the lunar shop eventually and caleb is very soon like you said. they put the poses there intentionally to try and lure ppl who wouldn't otherwise pull on the banner into pulling, so don't give into the gacha tactics!
oh my god girl…. i literally cannot make this up i read ur daddy sylus fic on ao3 and i was like…. omg……
and then literally right after that i was checking out ur blog and i saw ppl talking about it in asks and i was like omg! two cakes! lemme go check it out AND IT WAS THE SAME FIC OMFG
jus know ur iconic
djdkdj you cannot escape me
i’m gonna write a part two as some point so i’ll keep feeding u dw
HOW ARE YOU AFTER BEING SO CORRECT ABOUT THE KITTEN HEADCANON
i was tweeting about sylus being a vampire 2 days before his vampire myth dropped and… i feel like it’s even funnier this time bc ppl were theorising about his myth but this was just entirely fucking random dhdkdjdk i dunno i feel like nostradamus, i may as well have been investigated by infold for leaking the next banner the way it was DAYS before… it’s so funny
cat banner but we are the kitten this time and they get overprotective and clingy about it
xavier: possessiveness turned up to the max. he locks you in his apartment with him for the duration and orders in every possible thing he thinks you might want or need. it's too risky to leave, or leave you alone. you're too cute, and gentle, and your little purrs sound like a siren song to him. someone might snatch you out from under him. makes you a little nest of blankets and pillows and plays with your ears and tail for hours, feeding you snacks, delivered directly between your lips. sleeps curled around you and mutters about how soft and sweet you are, over and over again.
zayne: at first he seems entirely pragmatic about it. another strange protocore symptom, it'll pass. checks if you need anything before he leaves for work. you're immediately lonely and curl up on the couch. it lasts five minutes. he's back, and he's packing a day bag for you and informing you that you are coming with him to work. you follow him around all morning, wrapping your tail around him as he talks to busy people, and when he realises he'll have to leave you for hours in his office alone, he reassigns his surgeries to colleagues. it's so out of character that you're an anxious ball of anxiety and guilt as he packs up all your things to head home. he spends the rest of the day soothing you, gentle hands petting and massaging, telling you he couldn't bear to leave you alone; that he needs to look after you. he takes the rest of the week off.
rafayel: attempts to hide his immediate enamourment at first. how could anything cat be an improvement on perfection. but when you crawl into his lap and purr into his neck, he gives in. you practically spend the entire week in his lap or arms, vibrating against him. he glows with happiness. overprotective, ultra-clingy rafayel mode all hours. keeps his arm around you in public and glares down anyone who looks or gets too close. starts calling you his cute little kitty cat.
sylus: thrives. best week of his life. his little kitten takes on her true form. the world can see what he sees: a blessing and a curse. shows off his treasure. parades you around while remaining an ever-present looming threat to any nefarious parties that look your way. he collects trinkets and toys that he thinks you'll enjoy playing with. you spend a lot of time straddled over his hips as he lounges on his back in the nest he made, admiring you with a small smile as you pat his belly and tell him how much fun you had that day and what you'd like to do tomorrow.
caleb: all that pent-up cute aggression threatens to tear him apart from the inside. his eyes never leave you. he tucks you in at night and drapes himself over you for extra warmth. he won't shut up about how tiny and cute you are; how tiny and cute the sounds you make are. you get anything you like the whole week. he invites gideon over just to corner him in the kitchen and gush about how cute you are, how he can't believe a person can be so tiny and soft, how pretty your tail is and how you wrap it around him at night. gideon leaves very shortly after, and when you pout about your unfinished board game, caleb lifts you into his arms and promises you all the milk and cuddles you want.
edit: i forgot collars! i don't think xavier is putting one on you, rafayel's looks like a pretty ribbon tied in a bow, zayne's measures your heart rate (for freak reasons), caleb's has a pretty little bell, and sylus' looks like jewellery and is worth more than a house.
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