bibigo lover ,, 🎣🥟

currently mailing myself to erid all fics cross-posted on ao3

[bibigo-lover]

masterlist !!

updated 06/04/26.

ryland grace:

love hypotheticals series:

(i) love hypotheticals. after stratt hires you on as a documentation specialist for project hail mary, you find yourself being more and more drawn to one dr. ryland grace.

(ii) odd reunions. you wake up late on the hail mary, and grace doesn't seem to remember anything about you—or, your relationship. you don't know how to break the news to him.

(iii) marriage talk. life on erid is good, aside from the occasionally nagging desire to get married.

exhibit g. after re-acclimating to earth life for a whole year, grace comes to your museum on a random monday in the middle of april to view the "project hail mary" exhibit.

mayday. grace can't seem to get the hang of flying the hail mary—and you're definitely the problem

eridian logic! your heart-to-heart with rocky leads to a lot of unnecessary teasing targeted towards grace. you can't help it—he just makes it so easy

close quarters. physical contact on the hail mary is at a premium. you hold yourself a little too highly to ask grace for help.

holland march:

pine and scotch. you spend the night over at the march house after tasking yourself with babysitting. your feelings, holly's gossip, and holland's drinking are a worrying combination.

colt seavers:

quiet on set. on your fourth big blockbuster working together, you find yourself scolding hollywood’s favorite, tom ryder. to much success, it manages to capture colt’s attention.

jack abbot:

picking favorites. after taking the same shoddy bus from your apartment to the ptmc, you’re shocked to find your attending on the same line. you start commuting together.

benedict bridgerton:

good company. benedict bridgerton has a twofold plan: to resolve his brother's rake-like reputation and to delay your entry into the marriage mart. very quickly, you realize that the scheme is much less simple than it's made out to be.

johnny storm:

silk and storm. you're strung between two lives—freelance journalist and friendly neighborhood vigilante. one night saving johnny storm unintentionally leads to him pining over both versions of you.

steve harrington:

sucker for a good cliché. you and steve have to fake-date after an awkward dinner at the wheeler-byers household—all while you're sure that he still wants nancy.

growing pains, 1989. you take a drive down to philly to spend some long overdue quality time with your hometown friends; your unresolved issues with steve are just as interruptive as anticipated. gasoline. overnight in philly means that you and steve don't have much time alone (you both make do). (nsfw)

jud duplenticy:

only over you. you come to chimney rock for the winter season, not expecting to become acquainted with the new priest of our lady of perpetual grace (nsfw)

bosco leroy:

mostly chimes. in which reader has to work through some unresolved feelings towards bosco after landing in antwerp

[bibigo-lover]

oh no i hope nobody drops coltland x reader related headcanons in my inbox for me to think about before i go to bed tonight !! 😵

[bibigo-lover]

ryland canonically having tattoos is making me feral like i can soo see grad student!ryland getting tattoos GAH just wanted to share it with you

i know this isn’t aligned at all with any of ryan gosling’s real life tattoos, but don’t you just love the thought of ryland grace who gets some of those symbols on the voyager disk tattooed on him on whim (thinks it’s a really good idea in grad school—and it is a really good idea because they’re sick)

like specifically the sun/pulsars symbol. on his back or bicep please. or inner wrist. also know there’s probably a couple stick-and-pokes on him he probably got at a colleague’s house party. and at least one molecular structure. let’s be real

[bibigo-lover]

just thinking about cocky!grad student ryland and how he has evolved since being ousted but we still get glimpses of him (i.e “you’re not going believe this, nothing happened!”)

i’m thinking he was lowkey messy and a hot mess of a grad student but still pulled through bc he’s also a smartass and what fuels him besides caffeine is spite LOL

see this is the underrated version of grace that i need to write for more. because i just know that cocky!grad student ryland is sooo insufferable (and unfortunately it does work for him).

before unesco and before getting into teaching, ryland is… a cocky academic perfectionist who thinks he knows best. which, yes, he is well-versed in molecular biology and is always keeping up to date with academic journals (probably sleuths forums, too). he has his laptop glued to his hip 99.9% of the time to work on his thesis. always attends conferences—probably sits in the back with a notebook to write down his thoughts and, more often than not, counterarguments. so not afraid to get into debates with colleagues and faculty, but really everyone can tell that he’s set to go far and advance the field, so only a few people really hate it. very into the weekly all-nighter, lot of coffee runs (two minimum a day), not the best cook in world, probably runs on frozen meals. will go out to bar crawls with his grad cohort—and that’s probably the extent to which he goes out.

unfortunately, he also needs to learn when to take a real break—which you could definitely help with. also probably would benefit from someone who can’t put up with too many of his smartass remarks. secretly likes being put in his place. can i also mention: a really hot TA. probably an ideal campus crush, whether or not you’re in the sciences.

[bibigo-lover]

when i get around to watching lars and the real girl, you guys are SO cooked.

[bibigo-lover]

what do you mean HE didn't write this.

[bibigo-lover]

close quarters.

summary: physical contact on the hail mary is at a premium. you hold yourself a little too highly to ask grace for help. (based on this ask // @z-0m-bi-3)

pairing: ryland grace x gn!reader

word count: 3.2k

tags: fluff and humor, lightly hurt/comfort (?), insomnia, close proximity, banter, awkward tension, overall clumsiness, touch starved!reader, sharing a bed, so not timeline compliant gn!reader

cross-posted to ao3

You’re feeling a little frustrated. It’s almost comparable to growing pains in the kind of restlessness you feel—tossing and turning in the middle of your sleeping pod like there’s something wrong in your bones, your skin, you. It’s always like this when you’re trying to sleep. Between you and Grace, you’ve been trying to stick to a semi-consistent sleep schedule. Mary’s set to keep you both on as close to a Circadian rhythm as possible. It’s near impossible though, with the way you’ve been feeling, to adhere to any sort of routine.

It isn’t about the dying stars; that you know for certain. You’re confident that you and Grace will be able to figure out some kind of solution, seeing as you’re stuck permanently in space to do just that. The worry that you’ve been festering in the past couple of weeks has to do more with yourself than anything else. The sensation comes in waves, worse at “night,” whenever you’re in bed. There’s too much thinking involved, which you think worsens the condition.

It’s contact—or lack thereof. You need contact—skin-to-skin, or at least something warmer than your own body. There’s only one way to get it, and you just can’t bring yourself to do just that. It’d feel like a surrender of your dignity to ask Grace outright to touch you. Sounds vulgar enough as is, regardless of intention.

When you think it couldn’t get any worse, the thought of him being in the sleeping pod right over from you, no less than ten feet away, is driving you up a wall. In the night, sometimes, you think you can hear Grace’s light snores. He’ll talk in his sleep on occasion about the most random things; he’s discovered he’s a schoolteacher, and you’ve deduced that he dreams in lessons. It’s a sweet presence to be by, and it’d be even sweeter if you were laying together.

—

The first time you’re able to gauge your little issue isn’t climactic by any means. It’s a minuscule action, on Grace’s part, that makes you realize that there’s something wrong.

Trying to get yourselves more organized, you find yourself trying to take stock of the pantry that you’ve been sent up with. It’s a very generous area of storage, boxes upon boxes, contained behind white gridded netting and secured by carabiners. You’re convinced that there’s a printed manifest somewhere detailing the contents of the pantry—and you just can’t find it. So, the two of you have been on a manhunt, because neither of you are keen on counting out all the astronaut food that’s been packed for you.

“This is definitely on me. I must’ve tossed it out somewhere,” Grace sighs, taking his glasses down to rub his eyes. You don’t doubt it. When you’d woken up and found the Hail Mary in a state of disarray, it wasn’t difficult to map out. Grace panicked. He’d emptied out a generous number of  shelves in an attempt to make sense of his surroundings. He’d also been searching desperately for clothes and food—and rifled through the belongings of your now-deceased captain and engineer. Only a day or so after, when you’d been roused out of your coma by the ship’s computer, he was embarrassed beyond repair. He spent a couple of hours straight trying to tidy up his trail of mess.

“It’s really not a big deal, Grace. We know that it’s on the ship somewhere. It’s not like it has anywhere to go.” You’re on your tip-toes, trying to rifle through the creates and shelves. It must be a binder. Or, a folder. At the least, it’s a stapled stack of papers. What’s important is that it’s in this general proximity. You’re sure of it. “That’s a benefit to being air-locked, right? The stupid thing’s not getting in or out.”

“That is a creatively positive twist on, ‘We’re stuck in space indefinitely,’” Grace tells you, lightly surprised and largely sarcastic. He doesn’t know how you come up with them.

“Thanks. I’m flattered.” You’ve been building up a good rapport with Grace in the past week, too. You’d call it flirting if you weren’t so hell-bent on keeping your space. For whatever reason you’re up on the Hail Mary, you don’t think the powers that be intended on you being intimately involved with your now only crewmate. You’re still rustling through the shelves, arms shoving around different gaps between the crates, when you see something. “Oh—that’s got to be it.”

It’s peeking out only slightly over a high shelf, a grayish-blue binder with a stack of papers clipped inside the rings. It’s utterly out of place, maybe easier to grab if you were in a different gravitational pull. Grace, who’s since been searching on the other side of the room, comes over to you in a hurry. He traces your eyeline all the way up, before noting the binder in its very impossible position. “Here,” Grace volunteers, “ I think I can get a better reach than you.”

“I think I can manage—” The sight of Grace’s muscled arm nearing your eyeline, shooting up just over your head to grab from that unreachable shelf, makes your words die in your throat. His hip collides recklessly with your own as he reaches for the binder. Though it’s just a mere brush, nothing more, it’s enough to make you pause. Grace is warm. You pivot around hastily, fast enough to catch the sight of him tugging the grayish-blue binder with his hand. He brings it between the both of you, blinking softly. Grace’s brows are furrowed together, a little concerned at your frazzled appearance. You take the binder out of his grasp with a murmured “Thanks, Ry.”

“Sure.” Grace looks down at the binder. No labels. “Is that it?” he asks. You open it between the two of you. Grace is making an exerted effort to read the pages upside down as you flip through. You can only think about how this binder is the only thing separating your body from his. The few words you’re able to focus on—ramen, coffee, vodka—alongside their respective quantities and weights, is enough to confirm it.

“Yep. This is the one. I think I’m going to go read through it upstairs,” you say committedly, shutting it close with a loud thwack. “Maybe do a couple calculations for how we should ration.”

And, with that, you’re rushing straight out towards the projection deck. Grace can barely keep up with you. One second, you’re right at his side, and the next, your back is to him—nimble feet carrying you through the circular frame of the corridor. “Okay. I’ll… tidy up here.” Grace narrows his eyes. You’re being flighty—rarely in a rush to get away. Warily, he shouts to you down the corridor: “I left the white-boards in the lab. And the pencils.”

You can only shout back, “I’ll do mental math.”

—

A few days later, you’ve sorted out the entire rations situation—but you haven’t been able to do a thing about that empty feeling on your skin. It’s been a bit cruel, all things considered, that you’ve felt an unconscious separation from Grace for this reason. It isn’t his fault. He’s been nothing but patient with your sudden withdrawal, probably under the assumption that you’re going a little stir-crazy. If it means you’re more likely to conceal the issue altogether, so be it.

You’re in separate rooms, him in the lab and you in the crew quarters, when the announcement rings out over the ship’s comms. Mary’s computerized tone rings through the hull. “Diagnostic check required in cockpit.” You can feel your stomach drop at the sound. You’re quick to hurry out towards the corridor. You nearly jump out of your own skin when you realize it; Grace is running towards the ladder up to the cockpit with just as much urgency as you are. You nearly collide together—and probably would if you weren’t so quick to push the brakes on your own sprint. You’ve both rushed to fix the issue, and now, you’re at a standstill.

Grace stands back, looking between you and the cockpit. “This is a new one,” he says in a nervous chuckle. “I hope she doesn’t want to self-destruct.” He’s only half-kidding. After trying to get yourselves organized with the cockpit’s various sliders and buttons, on top of the ship’s built-in computer, Mary hasn’t ever required a diagnostic. He’s rightfully concerned.

You make sure to grab onto the ladder first. “You stay here,” you insist. “I’ll resolve the tech issue.” It’s more dismissive than you’d like, but being crammed in that tight space with him is a no-go.

Still, Grace tilts his head. “There’s two seats.” He could easily accompany you, make sure you’re all good up there. You’re lucky—it’s conceivable enough for you to fix it yourself. Even without a proper grasp on why you’re there on the Hail Mary, you still have the intuitive mind of a pilot, more so than Grace. He knows it, too. It’s the only reason why he won’t push harder to join you.

“Just stay—it’s probably nothing. I’ll click around and fix it.” You don’t give him another chance to ask, turning to climb up the ladder. Once in the cockpit, you’re slipping into the main seat. It’s largely unnecessary, you think, to strap yourself into the seatbelt. “Pilot detected. Please execute diagnostic test.”

“I’m on it, I’m on it,” you mutter under your breath. Muscle memory carries you through the main interface, to the list of sub-interfaces.  Your hand reaches for the spherical mouse, rolling the cursor down the menu. You calibrate onto one screen, a block of text scrolling along the singular black background. It’s a quick read. You tap your forehead soft against the monitor. It’s fine. Your being up in the cockpit is necessary only to start this diagnostic procedure, and take a breather from being around Grace.

Grace, who’s very confused and looking straight up the hatchway of the cockpit from below. You’re sure it sounds to him like a lot of rapid typing and clicks. “Are we going to implode?”

“No—it’s just a systems check. It’s probably going to take thirty minutes and it’ll clear up on its own,” you yell down to him. “Told you.”

“Great. That’s great news,” you hear Grace say. Once you’re sure that the loading bar is coming along nicely, without any additional pop-ups, you make your way down from the cockpit. It’s a careful descent, one rung after the other. You’re turning over your shoulder to look at Grace as you come down the ladder; he’s a little quiet, watching you, arms crossed.Grace’s glasses are sideways off his face, as if he’s gone through some kind of inner turmoil about this potential self-destruct scenario. It’s difficult not to snicker at the sight of him. “Were you scared?”

“Maybe. I don’t know anything about avionics.”

“I’m pretty sure we’ll know if we’re ever going to get obliterated. There’d be… flashing lights and sirens.” You’re almost towards the bottom when you miscalculate the last rung. A hand slides off. Then, a foot. You’re falling inelegantly, and before you can brace for a fast fall, Grace steps over to you. His arms scoop up your torso, and you feel your hands instinctively grasp around his neck.

He’s looking down at you with a worried, old look on his face, trying to make sure you’re not hurt. What you are is embarrassed. The sensation of Grace gripping your hips with his hands is making you short-circuit. “I… uh…” You’re acutely aware of the fact that Grace’s chest is pressed flat against yours, and that his fingers are held stiffly over the fabric of your shirt. You’ve never felt so hot in the face.

“Whoa,” Grace murmurs, “Hi.” He immediately pulls you back, letting you steady yourself on your own two feet. You draw your hands back as fast as you can, pinning them to your sides. Per your recovery, you find Grace’s chest puffed. He’s a little sheepish about the contact. “Sorry.” You’re not much better, hands shoved into the pockets of your mission hoodie; they’d be shaky if they were left out.

“No, it’s cool. I would’ve sprained an ankle otherwise,” you tell Grace. “Thanks.” You wish there were more air vents in the Hail Mary; maybe then, you’d be able to cool down the prickling feeling of heat rising from your cheeks. So much for keeping space.

—

You can’t stop tossing and turning. Again, there’s the unsettling feeling that you’ve been having, the absolute need to feel the same warmth you felt in the storage room and at the bottom of the ladder. You can’t stand it. No matter how many times you flip your pillows or stir around your sheets with your legs, it doesn’t change. You still feel just as bare as usual. A last resort: you need to grab a cup of water from the dispenser, and maybe do a bit of pacing up and down the corridors. You push your fingers against the eject button on your pod, rustling out of your sheets as gently as you can.

Grace is mumbling. You stop in your tracks, trying to quiet down as best as you can. It’s more coherent the second time he asks. “Are you okay?” So, Grace is awake. You should’ve known.

“I’m fine,” you murmur. You swing your legs over the cot, still seated just over the edge.

“You’ve been rolling around in your cot for the past thirty minutes.” Grace hits the eject button on his sleeping pod next. He props himself up with one arm, before pushing up completely, upright posture matching your own. Face-to-face now, it’s difficult not to stare. Grace just looks so homely with his two-sizes-too-small Cats t-shirt and the blue-gridded boxers. He’s shoving his glasses on just to get a better look at you. “If you’re embarrassed about falling earlier, I think you’ve seen me much worse. We’re basically even now, when you think about it.”

“No, I’m not—I’m just turning into a bit of an insomniac. It’s normal, I think.” You think he could buy it. It happens all the time when people go on vacation, and they’re just not comfortable enough to sleep in their hotel beds. Except, of course, this is a permanent vacation. It’s believable. With the hang of your head, you tell Grace, “You sleep, I’ll walk.”

He doesn’t make any effort to listen to your request. “I know that it’s not the most stimulating environment to be in. It isn’t like anything changes outside the window,” Grace says, “And you’re probably not getting much out of me, either.”

You scoff. “If you weren’t here, I’d probably drive myself crazy.” He’s here, and you’re still driving yourself crazy. You wish he’d just get back in his cot.

“So, it’s the environment then,” Grace deduces, the scientist that he is. He rolls his ankles, trying to mull it over. “We could start watching more of those unlimited movies Mary has stocked up—dealer’s choice.” He pauses. “Anything but Interstellar.” Too close to home.

You’re getting a little impatient, in a rush to get away. “Okay. I think I’m having a personal issue. That’s all,” you sputter out. “I’ve just been feeling a little bit… lonely? Physically, I mean.”

“Oh. Okay.” The look on Grace’s face sends you into a fit of embarrassment. You bring your palms up over your face, groaning to yourself. This is a terrible turn of events. “Hey. It’s fine,” Grace tells you delicately, “I get it.” It really seems to irk you, how delicate he’s acting. It’s sweet, obviously, but you’d hate to feel burdensome about this whole thing.

“I’m not asking you to fix it or anything. It is what it is,” you tell him, hands muffling your words. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek raw as Grace processes what you’re telling him. It’s taking too long, and you’re just about ready to leave him for the cockpit.

“Could I… fix it?” Grace murmurs. It’s indeterminable whether he’s asking if he’s able to fix your problem, or if you’ll let him. Very possibly both. You can’t tell, but it’s enough to make you lower your hands back down. Grace seems to let out a ragged breath at the sight of your tensed brows.

Slowly, you urge out a “No. Maybe.” The bridge of your nose crinkles with embarrassment. This is the last thing that you’d want to happen. Air-locked in space, no way in or out, and your only source of human contact is finding that you’re some kind of poor, deprived soul. “I don’t know.”

“Okay. How about this…” He slips off his mattress, white socks sliding across the padded floor of the crew quarters. Grace stops for just a moment, pulling the kaleidoscopic quilt from the middle cot, and bunching it up in his arms to bring over to you. He tosses it onto your lap spreading it over your top sheet as a makeshift comforter. “I can lay here. With you.”

You put a hand up as he approaches your cot. “You don’t have to.” “I want to,” Grace tells you. It’s a mix of earnestness and concern that makes you let up. You scoot to the very opposite edge of your cot to try and make room for him.

Despite this, you still warn: “We’re not going to fit, Grace.” It’s a poor and unconvincing defense. Grace is still moving to get in with you. He lifts up the corner of the quilt and your sheet to settle beside you, his knees knocking against yours. As it happens, he does take up a lot more space than you do. It’s fixable, one way or another. You feel like you’re on the verge of falling off the thing, and he can tell you’re still a bit reluctant about the whole arrangement. You’re anxious to get any closer to him.

“Can I—?” As soon as you give him a curt, wordless nod, Grace nudges you over. “We can fit. You just have to be…” He takes your arm, and slings it over his chest. “Here.” He wraps his own arm around your back, using his free hand to tuck the quilt over the two of you. With your weight half-leaned onto him, it’s a lot easier to lay. As much as you want to be pissy with him, you can feel your body easing into this position. He’s right. You do fit.

You and Grace seem to lay there in silence for a little while. You can only describe the two of you fitting together on this cot as bliss. You’re listening to the pattern of him breathing in and out, soaking in the soft warmth of his body under the covers. Grace feels like comfort. You couldn’t want for much more than this. You can feel the vibrations of his chest as he murmurs against you. “Better?”

“…Yeah.” You feel him sink his head a little lower, lips leaving a soft kiss just on your temple. Your eyes flutter shut with the sensation. “Still embarrassing, though,” you admit, stretching your legs out against his.

Sleepily, Grace replies, “It’s 2.7 Kelvin outside and you’re a human being.” He brings one hand up to the back of your head, fingers massaging deeply into your scalp. It conjures a soft sigh out of you, and you can feel Grace grinning a bit at the noise. He wins.

Though you could probably argue with him a little bit harder, you’re starting to drift off a bit. It’ll be nicer just to take this in. You’re both here, coddled up under the same quilt, and a little bit less lonely. If you’re lucky, and you think you are, you’ll have the same arrangement tomorrow.

[bibigo-lover]

ik local coffee shop hates to see me coming (i’m about to set my laptop up to answer one e-mail and then write fanfiction)

[i-am-dead8]

[bibigo-lover]

like ngl. ts is in my wallet as we speak.

[bibigo-lover]

about the artemis ii crew talking about how they consulted a poet to teach them how to relay what they were experiencing into words — i am so enchanted by thought of rocky asking “why is a poet in space?”

[bibigo-lover]

the only reason ryland grace and i wouldn’t be compatible is that i think we’d both be frequent migraine havers and in that sense two wrongs don’t make a right.

[bibigo-lover]

HELLO I AM THE ANON WHO REQUESTED AN EVENING SHOW 😚😚 I LOOOOVE the way u write sm and im actually SOSOSOO happy u actually did my req THANKUSM 🫶🫶

WAAAA YW AND THANK YOU FOR REQUESTING !! looove holland with domestic fluff so this was a rlly fun req to work on <3 don't be shy and send me hc's whenever you want anon !! i love talking about our 70s bf

[bibigo-lover]

grace taking you on a planetarium date while you’re both in grad school, not knowing that years from then you’d be looking at the real-deal through circular glass windows on the hail mary.

[bibigo-lover]

ugh im shy so please bare with me going anon but UGH I LOVE YOUR MIND ESP ON HOW YOU WRITE FOR RYLAND AND ROCKY cause wym i can actually see him getting flustered over this and that ><

AAA I JUST LOVE U AND UR WRITING PLS WRITE MORE BUT ALSO NO PRESSURE AT ALL

- 🐰

(hopefully no one has taken the bunny emoji huhu)

HELLO AND THANK YOU !! genuinely feel so grateful that my fics are reaching readers, and that they’re enjoying reading grace and rocky as much as i enjoy writing grace and rocky <3

anyways THANKS FOR YOUR SUPPORT !! i appreciate it a lot and trust i’m not finished writing fics for my rygos boys anytime soon 📝📝📝

[bibigo-lover]

literally went through the whole effort of writing ilyukhina in my next grace fic as a best friend just to be reminded that she’s not going to survive. god

[bibigo-lover]

Yeah yeah everything very cute and stuff with your latest coltland twins headcannons

But then shit hits the fan when you remember Ryland was yeeted out of Earth against his will

And Colt probably felt a gnawing sensation all the while because how could he not???

i'm imagining colt waking up in a sweat at 5 o'clock in the morning, wondering why he has a pit in his stomach. the last time he’d gotten this sort of feeling was when ryland got into a car accident in grad school with some of his molecular bio cohort—but that was years ago and ryland’s been really cautious about accidents ever since. by comparison, colt knows brother rarely gets hurt and now that ryland’s abroad somewhere doing his classified astrophage research, colt just has the worst feeling about it.

and stratt calling colt a few weeks later (only then finding out that colt even existed, given the name change) — she gives him the news. stratt is mortified that it almost sounds like grace on the other end of the line. and colt realizes his middle of the night tremors make sense now. it was early morning in los angeles, launch time in russia.

[brainstreams]

[bibigo-lover]

me except it’s attempting to conceptualize the layout of the hail mary