Painfully shy reader getting absolutely obliterated drunk at the pub, losing all sense of timidity, and telling Gaz and Soap "I bet the reason Ghost actually hides his face is 'cause he knows everybody'd wanna sit on it".
Ghost overhearing, leaning over your shoulder, and letting you know "I'm just keeping your seat clean until you're ready to sit on it, love".
Obviously Simon fucks the embarrassment out of you the next day, but only after making sure you get your reserved seat nice and wet.
okay after seeing ur post on ryan gosling with the cowboy shoot, what if cowboy! colt with the cowboy hat rule? thinky thoughts thinky thoughts
ok for this ask, we’re taking it back to the wild wild west ok walk with me (feat. coltland!) sort of a play on the cowboy hat rule ig?
Colt is a cowboy that lives a ways out of town with his ranching family. He sees you regularly because you recently inherited one of the small general stores in the area that he happens to frequent for all of his goodly needs.
The handsome cowboy knew your parents well and by default had gotten to know you over the past couple of months when you moved back into town. Your parents had been in an unexpected accident and passed, leaving everything to you. You had to pack up all of your things and move several towns over to oversee the shop without warning.
Those had been dark, bleak days while you tried to learn how to run a shop you had last been in years ago. Colt had ducked into the shop with a handful of picked flowers and a gentle smile, softly giving his condolences and letting you know that if you needed anything to let him know.
Your days got a little brighter after that.
Colt came in constantly looking for this or that, waiting patiently by the counter while you wrapped his purchases and made small talk about what mischief him and his brother had gotten into recently. He always had this habit of leaning his forearms on the counter when he spoke to you, bringing his head closer like he was whispering secrets with a flash of a charming smile.
And that hat. God, that hat.
A pretty black felt piece that had the occasional spot of dirt or something that you wanted so badly to brush off if it weren’t for the unspoken rule that a man’s hat was not to be touched without permission. He always tilted the brim back to see you better, letting his dirty blond hair hang in his eyes while he smiled.
With his handsome face, great body and gentlemanly personality, it became harder and harder to resist to reach a hand out and place a hand on his muscled forearm when you laughed or brush a fleck of grass from his scruff. You wanted to, but it would be a highly inappropriate thing to do and you didn’t want any rumors to start that might taint yours and Colt’s image. The townsfolk liked to gossip, especially when it was about something improper.
You didn’t plan on making a move out of fear that you were sure Colt was eyeing someone else in town- that someone like him would not want to court someone like you- until he made the move first.
He showed up in your store right before closing. Normally you would’ve been annoyed at this, but any annoyance evaporated when you saw the familiar broad shoulders in the doorframe. In fact, the timing of his appearance was perfect because no one else was in the store and the streets were starting to clear while folks began going home for the night so you had some more privacy than normal. Good thing too, because as you joked with the man as you usually did and he fell quiet after a while, just gazing at you with a look that made your heart flutter, you worried that any passerby’s would read too deeply in the interactions that were definitely charged with something much more carnal than was decent.
A full article on the paper would’ve dropped if anyone saw what he did next- plucking his hat from his head and setting it onto yours with a laugh.
A cowboy’s hat was a very sacred thing and never did they let anyone else wear their hat unless that person was a spouse or child or family member. Certainly not a person he had no current relationship with beyond casual acquaintance boardering friendship. Colt had given it to you so willingly and didn’t seem shy at all when he asked if you wanted to go with him to see his family’s ranch.
So you did. But you didn’t remember the ranch at all.
All you could remember that night was the delicious stretch of the well-endowed cowboy you straddled. You didn’t have the mind to think about how inappropriate it was to be sleeping with a man you weren’t married to, but you didn’t particularly care at that moment. The way his calloused palms gripped at your hips to help guide you up and down on his cock brushed away any doubt you had about what you were doing. It was especially exciting because the only article of clothing either of you wore was the black cowboy hat that sat on your head. Colt had asked you to wear it and said something about you being a proper cowgirl now- wearing a hat while you rode.
The man introduced you to things about your body you didn’t even know and before you knew it, you were exhausted, sore and fast asleep on the man’s bare chest.
While waking up in Colt’s arms was lovely, the walk out of the beautiful farmhouse was less so. The tall man sitting and staring in awe from the kitchen table when you and Colt shuffled to the front door startled you. Colt’s brother, evidently, as they looked identical. You suddenly worried about what he thought and what the odds were that he would run to the town to tattle and start rumors but Colt waved an absent hand at the spectacled man like he wasn’t worried at all.
“My twin, Ryland.”
Ryland waved awkwardly but gave you a smile that was the furthest from threatening or judging. “Morning.”
That was the only interaction you had with the twin before Colt was ushering you outside to a pen where his lovely mare sat.
The ride back into town while you sat in front of the cowboy was fun (you were all too aware of the familiar bulge that pressed into your ass from behind) and much too soon were you being helped off the steed by the waist.
“Same time tonight? We can go to the saloon for dinner and have a proper date?” he whispered.
summary: Lars needs reassurance that he’s masculine enough.
warnings: mentions of touch aversion, struggles with masculinity and I guess a teeny bit angsty…
note: Lars my angel I’d give you the world
Lars had always had this feeling deep inside of him.
That he wasn’t man enough.
That he wasn’t the man you needed.
It crept through his bones like a virus and gnawed at his every nerve, some days the worry of his weak masculinity filled his every waking moment with a pit in his stomach and a ball of anxiety in his throat.
You’d been together for about a year, and it was pure bliss. Lars was gentle, kind, always listened and remembered and respected you no matter what. He wasn’t loud, or rowdy, or ignorant, he practically worshipped the ground you walked on - you knew he was your absolute dream man.
But Lars still had that feeling.
That worry.
It didn’t help that he couldn’t handle much skin-to-skin contact. You’d made it to the point in your relationship where hand holding or a fully-clothed cuddle was okay, but anything past that was too painful for him to handle. The burning sensation which spread through his body like wildfire, sending his body into panic.
You began to notice it, his worry, when one morning you woke up to Lars gazing into his mirror with an unsure smile.
His hair perfect combed as usual. His pants pressed and shoes shined, but he was missing his sweater.
Every single day he’d wear a new sweater, your favourite being the beige one with little reindeers on it. Lars would slip it on over his dress shirt and look at you with joy as you told him, ‘that’s a nice sweater.’
But where was his nice sweater?
You’d asked him about it, and all he’d said was that he wanted a change. That sweaters were too soft for him.
Too soft? For a gentle giant like Lars?
You weren’t having it.
He’d replaced it with a suit, one which made him look perfect as always, but something still seemed off. The waistcoat was tight across his torso, something he always tried to avoid due to sensory issues, and the blazer was stiff and well-tailored, far different from his usual soft, breathable sweaters.
You finally addressed his worry when Gus spoke to you about something Lars had asked him earlier in the day - how did he know he was a man?
You felt as if your heart could genuinely ache out of your chest. Your sweet boy had been thinking this? Gus told you that Lars had always felt different, and it would benefit him if you could reassure him of his manliness.
And by god did you.
It started with comments in passing, a quick ‘my handsome man’ or asking him to help you around the house with heavy lifting or handy work.
Sure, it was stereotypical, but he needed it.
One January evening, one where the frost creeps through your skin and settles deep inside of your bones, Lars was outside chopping wood.
It was a common occurrence, but recently he had been doing it far more often, and in far less layers.
His blazer had been strewn aside, hanging from a branch on a nearby tree, and his dress shirt sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, revealing his muscular forearms and shivering hands.
Slamming the axe into the stump, Lars pushed his sleeves up further, extenuating his biceps. He threw a look of approval in your direction before picking up the axe once more and continuing to chop, breathy grunts breaking the atmosphere.
He was showing off.
“Lars, Angel?” Wrapping your dressing gown around yourself to shield from the chill, you stepped outside.
“Hm?” Putting down the axe and walking over to you with open arms, Lars masks a shiver with his usual warm smile, the one which melts your heart every time.
“It’s cold, don’t you think you should come inside?” You place a warm hand on his biceps, juxtaposed to the icy material of his shirt.
“No, I’m okay.” He smiles at you, gaze full of love.
“I’m worried about you y’know.” You adjust his waist coat.
Lars shrugs, pulling you into a rare but welcomed hug as an idea pops into your brain.
As his arms envelop you, your hands run over the plane of muscles on his back before travelling to his biceps and shoulders, tense from the hard work of swinging the axe.
“You’re so strong, Lars.” Smiling wide, you look up at him with doe eyes. “I love your muscles. My big strong man.”
His eyes practically light up.
“You do?”
“You bet it, baby.” Taking his hand, you gently guide him inside.
“Don’t want you getting ill now do we? How about you go and put on a nice jumper and we can snuggle down in bed, yeah?”
Nodding in agreement, Lars slips inside with a newfound sense of happiness and self.
In the morning, when you wake up to see Lars in his reindeer jumper with the cosiest smile you’ve seen on him in weeks, you know he’s the one.
Happy Anniversary | Steve Harrington x Byers!reader
Summary: Steve misses your anniversary dinner, then shows up at your window at midnight with rumpled flowers and a guilty face.
Warnings: ANGST! ANGST! ANGST! Some Nancy slander, sorry hehe love Nancy tho. Implied smut (nothing actually happens tho), Joyce being a bad mom to reader, sad ending :(
w.c: 2.5k
divider by @uzmacchiato
The clock struck 7 PM, and you inhaled sharply, a huge smile overtaking your features. You and Steve had planned a date night tonight for your first anniversary, and he had promised to take you to Enzo’s, the fancy Italian place that's normally too out of budget for you. So, for the occasion, you pulled out a dress from the deep, dark depths of your closet that hasn’t seen the light of day in approximately three years but somehow miraculously fits. You paired that with a stunning pair of high heels, styled your hair, which you rarely did, put on makeup and jewelry, and felt and looked quite possibly the most put-together and gorgeous you had in the entire trajectory of your relationship.
Now, you didn’t normally care about what people thought of you. But tonight, you really wanted Steve to see you. You wanted that lovestruck, awed look to cross his features when he took you in, the one that always sent the butterflies in your stomach into a frenzy. You wanted to see him floundering as he thought about what words might best convey his sentiments, and you wanted him to come up short. And at the end of the night, you wanted him to hold you like you were precious, to worship you with reverence like you were the only deity he’d bow down to while he slowly moved in and out of you. You wanted to hear the quiet praises in your ear right before he came.
You were getting giddy just thinking about it.
It's 7:15 PM now, and there are still no signs of his familiar beamer pulling up outside. Normally, this wouldn’t bother you. Steve had never been the most punctual, so you weren’t too worried. He had been late to dates in the past by 5 or 10 minutes, and he always apologized profusely afterwards, even when you said it was alright. However, lately, he had been cancelling more and more dates, missing your calls at night, and disappearing for days without an explanation, leaving you to imagine the absolute worst.
By the time the clock struck 7:30, the heels had come off, and your feet were propped up on the coffee table. Now you were growing upset. Questions like ‘did he forget?’ were starting to swirl in your mind, but you did your best to push them aside. Steve wouldn’t forget, right? He’d always remembered the most trivial days, like the exact date you met (he’d gotten you the teddy that sat on your bed) and your first kiss (he’d taken you to a picnic near the same spot where you kissed), so surely he’d remember your anniversary. And even if he had been acting suspicious the past few weeks, he’d show up tonight. Tonight was an important night. He wouldn’t miss it…right?
However, the more you watched the hands of the clock turn farther from 7, the less sure you became. Hurt started to rear its ugly head past the 8 PM horizon, but you refused to cry. By the time the sun had fully set on your date night excitement, you were more angry than anything. You changed into your pajamas, then played the stereo in your room while lying on your bed and staring at the ceiling. You were grateful the house was empty since Joyce was on a date with Hopper, Jonathan probably with Nancy and Will at the Wheelers’ house. You were happy to be alone. No risk of having to explain your swollen, red eyes or puffy face or tear-stained cheeks.
Not that anyone really bothered asking even when they were home. Most days you felt invisible in front of your own family, partially why you were so excited about tonight: being celebrated was a luxury only afforded to your brothers in this house for the past few years. Even your graduation was given minimal attention, barely acknowledged, and you’d ended up cutting a small cupcake alone in your room.
How could Steve do this? He had been talking about this date for weeks! About how he was going to treat you like a queen the way you deserved, how he’d been saving up from his job at Family Video so you’d be able to enjoy a nice dinner without having to feel guilty about the price of whatever you were ordering (of course, you had agreed to split the bill 50-50 still. “It's your anniversary too, Stevie. You deserve to be celebrated too,” you had explained, and Steve had pretended his eyes didn’t gloss over at that), and now, he’d just…forgotten.
You had also gotten him a gift you had spent days making. A scrapbook with basically the entire trajectory of your relationship, complete with the wrapper of the gum that sparked your first conversation when he asked for a piece in class, to the tickets to the drive-in movie you two watched two weeks ago, pictures of you both taken on Jonathan’s camera, developed by you, some taken in photo booths, and some journal entries you had written when your relationship was progressing. It was the rawest, most vulnerable you had ever been with Steve, but he deserved to know how special he is to you. How being in this relationship had healed a part of you damaged by years of being sidelined by your mom in favour of your brothers.
Tears slid down your cheeks as you looked at the scrapbook lying on your side table. You had planned to give it to him later tonight when he dropped you back home. You were going to invite him in, since it was unlikely anyone would be back until pretty late, and you two would probably celebrate some more; then you’d give him the scrapbook, explain the significance behind it, and you’d talk until he had to leave.
That obviously wasn’t happening anymore.
You didn’t realize you had fallen asleep in the pit of your hurt and betrayal until three taps at your window roused you. You squinted, forcing your tear-stuck lashes open groggily, blinking to clear your view enough to glance at the clock on the wall. It was nearly 12 A.M. You listened for a second at the house, but the silence replied that nobody was home yet.
The three taps demanded your attention again, and you pulled yourself out of bed to draw back the curtains. You knew who it was even before you drew the curtains. It wasn’t the first time Steve had shown up in the middle of the night for a quick make-out and cuddle session via the thick pipe running along the length of the house and through your window. You drew back your curtains to reveal a very guilty-looking Steve, but you were so incredibly angry and hurt that even his puppy eyes couldn’t thaw the ice.
You debated for a minute whether to let him in at all. It was as if Steve could read the internal conflict on your face and somehow, his face became even more guilty, if that was even possible. He gave you his best pleading eyes to get you to open the window, and in the end, your curiosity got the better of you. You wanted to know what was more important than your anniversary, so you slowly opened the window.
Steve looked relieved for a second, then quickly squeezed through.
You stepped back, settling on the edge of the bed with your arms crossed and glaring at him. Steve knew he was in deep shit, so the smile disappeared from his face pretty quickly.
“I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry for missing our anniversary,” he started immediately.
The first thing you noticed was that he was still in the clothes he usually wears to work: blue jeans and a polo. Your eyes dropped to the bouquet in his hands. Rumpled, messily packaged, with blue roses and lilies – your favourite. You might have felt a flutter in your heart if it weren’t for the third, and the most gut-wrenching of it all: there was a lingering scent of perfume on him. Not his for sure. It was too flowery. Not your perfume, either. Too sweet for your taste, but perfect for someone else's.
You looked at him in utter betrayal. Another apology had already made its way up to his lips, but you spoke before he could.
“You were with Nancy,” you stated, voice slightly catching on her name. All the fear from the past few weeks, all the missed calls and unexcused absences compounded with the betrayal of your missed anniversary, started boiling. Had he been with her all those times as well? How long had it been going on? Were you just too naive to believe someone like Steve Harrington would genuinely be interested in someone like you?
All the colour immediately drained from his face.
He took a tentative step forward. “Doll, I can explain,” he started carefully.
You turned your gaze away from his, unable to keep all the intrusive thoughts out of your head. You knew, realistically, that faintly smelling like her perfume didn’t necessarily mean he'd done anything with her. But you couldn’t help the dread pooling in your chest, the images that covered your field of vision.
“We were just hanging out. That’s all,” he explained, stepping closer.
You whipped your head around to face him, eyes wide and blazing in disbelief. “On our anniversary?! You were hanging out with another girl when you were supposed to meet me for a date?”
Steve grimaced. “Okay, I know that sounds bad, but I swear I wouldn’t have gone if it wasn’t urgent-”
“Oh, what? She needed to be dicked down that desperately?” You knew that was a cheap shot, that Steve wouldn’t do something like that, but the anger and betrayal had created a thick cloud cover over reason and logic at the moment.
Steve physically stepped back, eyes immediately glossing over. “That’s not fair,” he whispered, looking down. “You know I would never cheat on you.”
“Do I?” you retorted immediately. “Because from where I’m standing, my boyfriend has been cancelling dates for the past few weeks, has been missing our calls every night, and has been disappearing for days without notice, only to come back with some bullshit excuse. And now, the cherry on top, he shows up on our anniversary five hours late, and smells like his ex-girlfriend. So tell me, Steve, how do I know you’re not fucking your ex behind my back?”
He floundered, absolutely bewildered by your accusations but not knowing how to dispute them. “We went to that drive-in movie two weeks ago!” he retorted.
You scoffed. “You’re right,” you replied sarcastically. “One distracted movie totally makes up for all the problems we’ve been having!”
Steve pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing in defeat. “I’m sorry, okay? What more do you want me to say?”
You stood up from the bed, arms falling to your sides. “I want you to tell me the truth about why you weren’t there tonight and why you’ve been acting the way you have for the past few weeks.” You looked at him as he processed this and remained silent still, which made you cock an eyebrow. “Steven Harrington, if you don’t want to be with me anymore, be a fucking man and say it. Don’t play these games with me.”
You saw the panic in his eyes at that. “Of course I want to be with you!” and you thought you’d finally have some answers, but then Steve hung his head. “I can’t tell you,” he whispered.
Tears welled in your eyes. He was cheating, wasn’t he?
“Why not?” you whispered.
“I-it’ll put you in danger. I can’t do that, doll,” he looked at you with pleading eyes, imploring you to understand.
You furrowed your brows. “Danger? What kind of danger?”
“The life-threatening kind,” he gulped. “I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you. You’re the best thing in my life.” His voice was so quiet, so raw, that for a second you considered backing down.
But he still smelled like her.
“So she gets to be in the club, and I don’t?” you whispered.
He was doing that thing that your mom had been doing since Will came back: leaving you out. Since his return, it was like Jonathan, Joyce, and Will were a team, and you were a spectator on the bleachers, trying out for the team every year but never making the cut. The thought made your chest hurt. You had truly thought Steve was different. That he’d never deliberately leave you out, but here you are, being left out once again.
“Baby, please,” he pleaded in a defeated voice. “This isn’t about her. This is about us, about me wanting to keep you safe.”
You sniffled. “Well, that’s not really your decision to make, Steve,” you whispered.
“Like hell it isn’t! I promised your mom-” he cut himself off, eyes wide.
“My mom? What does she have to do with this?” You furrowed your brows.
He shook his head. “Forget I said that,” he waved his hand dismissively.
“No, I will not just forget about it. Tell me, is my mom in on whatever this bullshit is?” you questioned.
Steve didn’t meet your eyes, looking down at his shoes as he meekly nodded.
You scoffed in disbelief, taking a step back. “Un-fucking-believable,” you shook your head. “Who else is in on it, huh? Are my brothers in it?”
Steve didn’t respond.
“Fucking tell me!” you yelled.
“...yes,” he whispered.
You couldn’t believe your ears. “So everyone’s just collectively decided I’m not what? Not good enough to join this little club you have going on?”
“It's just to keep you from getting hurt,” Steve responded from between gritted teeth.
“You’re hurting me right now, Steve!” you yelled, throwing your hands up in frustration. “You’ve been hurting me for weeks!”
Steve flinched when you yelled, pinching his nose. He looked away from you, unable to stand the angry tears that were rolling down your cheeks. He was well aware that he was hurting you, knew of your issues with being excluded, knew that this must be killing you right now, but all of that was still preferable to getting you mixed up in the monsters they were dealing with. Because you might hate him right now, might be angry at him and your family for deliberately keeping you out of the loop, but he would much rather that than be kneeling over your dead body because he couldn’t keep you safe.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered again.
You let the tears flow freely down your face. “I’m sorry, too,” you responded, taking a step back from him.
Steve’s head snapped to you, dread filling his features. “No,” he murmured. “Doll, don’t do this, please.”
“I’m sorry, Steve. I can’t be with you if I can’t trust you not to keep things from me.”
You saw the tears escape his eyes; let yours fall with his, but your decision was final.
summary: being robin's friend means you need to be careful with the things you say to her. a little drama can go a long way in a crowded house with a mouth like hers. so, when robin finds out steve may have a thing for you, it doesn't go long before you hear about it
wc: 2.9k
cw: loosely based off that one episode where rachel finds out about ross (don’t have to have watched friends to understand the fic), no use of Y/N, use of she/her, mentions of steve's trauma, suggestive content, set in season 4, swearing (fuck, dick)
G: i've been watching an unhealthy amount of friends recently and thought of this. no spoilers!! this is my first time watching 🫢
m.list
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You'd lived with Steve for nearly a year now, ever since the mall "fire" in 1985. After it, he was bruised and hard of hearing in his left ear. You'd offered him help every day, even if it was over the phone, hearing his voice that was still raspy weeks after because of the screams pulled from his throat.
Though approximately nine days of you checking up on him every day, he reluctantly caved.
Well, kind of. He knew he needed someone there for him when he couldn't lift his arms past his head to wash his hair. And of course, that was the biggest deal to him.
Soon enough, you moved in.
There was no conversation about it. In fact, it was never even mentioned. It just happened. All there was was just a day where you started to bring clothes and perfumes and body wash and leave it at his house. Then eventually you'd go weeks without returning home, sleeping in the bedroom next to his every night.
And you loved it.
He never said it out loud, and never will, but he undeniably fell for you. Somewhere between the nights you would hold his hand until he fell asleep and the days you'd bake his favourite for him on a sunny morning. He didn't know if it was because you were the only person who'd ever understood him in a way that made him feel somewhat lovable, or because you were the only constant female in his life. Or even because you were so gorgeous that he had to force down his hard on every time you attended to his wounds. Maybe it was all three.
But after Steve finally somewhat recovered from his trauma, he and Robin eventually landed a new job at Family Video. And of course, Robin had to move in too. Apparently it was "easier to get to work on time." So, Robin took the bedroom down the hall from yours.
However, three people in Steve's mansion wasn't enough. After Dustin and the gang hunted down Eddie, he needed somewhere to hide for a while.
Somewhere that wasn't too obvious for people to find him, and the perfect place is obviously some guy who hates your guts' house.
Soon, the house began filling up incredibly fast.
Nancy and Jonathan took the bedroom next to Robins, which she hated since allegedly she can hear sounds from them every night. El would occasionally stay for a few nights per month when Hopper was on night patrol and couldn't trust her enough to leave her at the cabin alone. He trusted you to look after her and not Steve, which caused problems when Hopper would barge in and see El hanging out with Steve, Eddie, and Mike while you were out with everyone else. Dustin would stay for sleepovers, and of course if Dustin was having the time of his life with Steve and Eddie, Mike and Will had to tag along. If Mike was going then Lucas had to come too, and if Lucas was going, clearly max was going to have to join too.
Ultimately, it became jam-packed within a week of nancy and Jonathan moving in all because they were the ones who wanted a space without Joyce's worry filling the entire house, and without Karen arguing with Ted every night. But instead, they got kids arguing over what movie they should pick that night and worrying that there wouldn't be enough pancake mix in the kitchen for the morning.
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"Steve, please can you drive us to the movies?" Dustin whines. He's been following Steve around the house for an hour now. Even with people yelling at him to shut up, he's still at his knees, pleading with the high pitched tone that makes everyone cringe when his voice cracks multiple times in a sentence.
"Will you give it a rest, Henderson?" Steve grumbles, his hands that he uses to frustratedly hide his face in. "I told you, I'm not going out at eight p.m. and have to wait up just for you to be finished so I can go back out and pick you up." Steve looks at him tiredly. "I've got work in the morning. Something that you kids wouldn't understand since you live off my dimes."
Dustin scoffs. "We don't live off your money!" he defends his friends and himself. "We collectively paid for Cinnamon Toast Crunch cereal last week."
"Cinnamon Toast Crunch costs two dollars." Steve stands in the middle of the kitchen, his gaze hard on Dustin. "You all contributed forty cents and ate it before you even made it back here."
Dustin points at him factually. "Actually, Lucas was three cents low, so Max had to pay forty three cents."
"ah, yes." Steve's face sarcastically lights up.
"Suddenly I feel as if a weight has been lifted off my shoulders hearing that information."
"Haha." Dustin replied dryly. "Personally, I don't think it'll be that difficult for you to drive us to the movies if it gives us a chance to see Molly Ringwald in Pretty in Pink." Dustin shrugs.
"What about Molly Ringwald?" Eddie excitedly asks as he slides into the kitchen.
"She's in a new movie that me and everyone else want to go see." Dustin's face lights up as he notices Eddie, his demeanour copying his excited one.
"Oh, really? Didn't realise you wanted to go see a movie." Eddie answers back sarcastically.
"That's only if Steve will take us." Dustin's glares at Steve.
"That's a thousand percent chance that I am not taking you because who calls a movie Pretty in Pink?" Steve frowns. "What if she also looks pretty in orange? What about that?"
"You know, if you don't want to take them, I can." Eddie says with a reserved smile. "Though, I don't have my van right now, so you'll have to let me take your car." He says confidently.
"You know, Eddie, you're so funny you could be the next Joker." Steve says bluntly, his face still holding a stern expression.
"Thanks, I get told I have the looks for him." Eddie dramatically pushes his hair out of the way.
"You're still hung up about not taking them to the movies, huh?" You ask from the doorway, leaning against the frame with your arms crossed and a skeptical look pointed to Steve.
"Well, yeah." Steve huffs, still standing his ground.
"I've got work in the morning and I'm not staying up any later than I need to."
"Grandpa." Eddie mutters between a deliberate cough.
"Why don't I take them? That way you can have a few hours in a quiet house without the kids." You question softly.
Steve sighs, scratching the side of his face in thought. He studies you for a moment. The way your eyes sparkle and the sincerity of them. The way your freckles glimmer under the light of the kitchen. The way your lips look so plump and soft and so kissable. The way heat starts pooling at his dick. Fuck.
"You'd do that?" leaning against the counter in attempting to hide his growing boner, the corner of his lip creeps into a small smile.
"Steve, l've done bigger favours for you. Driving the kids somewhere is nothing compared to it." You nod.
"Uh, hello." Eddie interrupts the moment between the two of you with a wave. "Did I not also say I'd drive them down?"
"Unless you want to end up on the front page of the New York Times." You giggle.
"Family dead on their way to the movies because punk payed more attention to metallica's guitar solo than the road."' steve joins in, turning his tone formal.
"Seriously, I know how to drive a car!" Eddie defends himself.
“Maybe a toy car." You snort, finally leaving the room.
“To be honest, I feel like I need at least three seatbelts when you’re driving.” Dustin pats Eddie on the back as he follows you out the kitchen.
“Sorry, didn’t realise being self taught was a problem.” Eddie mutters frustratedly under his breath, making his way the fridge to take a swig of milk.
Steve grips the edge of the countertop with his hand, forcing it white when he hears a chuckle bubble up in eddies throat.
“She didn’t even touch you. You’re gone, man.”
───── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ─────
Seven thirty came sooner than expected.
The sun was beginning to dip below the horizon, and there was a slight chill to the air.
You were by the front door after successfully managing to get your shoes on without untying them. You slipped on a jacket that rested on the coat stand and smoothed out your jeans before announcing your departure.
“I’m leaving now. I’ll see you guys later.” You shout. Just before you could step outside, Steve appears behind you, leaning against the wall closest to him.
"See you later." Steve appears from the living room, already having put on a baggy shirt and an old pair of basketball shorts. He looked comfortable like this. Relaxed. In a way, it relieved you. Knowing the change between now and a year ago. A year ago, he could never settle down, he could never get comfortable or relax fully. But now, he does it without second thought. Goes to sleep without fearing the Russians and actually wants to go to bed.
"Thank you, again." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "For taking them." He nods his head in the direction of the car.
"Don't worry. I've told you a million times it's not a big deal." You murmur with a smile. “You need the rest anyway.”
"I know, I know. Just wanted to thank you." He puts his hands up in defence. "And thank you for all the things you do for me." He mumbles.
“You’re my best friend, Steve. Of course I’m going to help you and be by your side.” A soft smile finding your lips.
Friend zoned. Ouch.
Steve just huffs a laugh. “Yeah, course.” He nods. “Appreciate it.” He says quietly.
“Get some sleep.” Once the door closes gently behind you, Steve lets out a breath he didn't realise he was holding, wiping the sweat that was starting to pool in his hands on his shirt.
He makes his way back into the living room where Robin sat comfortably on the love seat that rested in the corner. He groans as he sits down, tilting his head against the soft pillow behind him.
“What’s going on with you two?” Robin asks suspiciously.
“Nothings going on between us.” He grumbles, his hand finding the remote and turning on a show he doesn’t have to pay much attention to.
“There is.” She says confidently. “You never get that awkward and sappy around anyone apart from her.” She states. “I may not be a genius, but I know sexual tension when I see it.” Her brows knitting together as she watches him intensely.
Steve scoffs. “There is no sexual tension. What are you talking about?”
Robins crumbled face eventually softens out into wide grin. “You like her.” She gasps like she’s found a secret formula.
“You need to stop taking so many late nights. It messes with your head.” He points at his head.
“Okay, but will late nights be able to notice the way you get all fiddly whenever she’s around. The minute she glances in your direction you look like you’re about to melt.”
“Wow, Robin, thanks. Not only do I feel like I’m being heavily judged, but I also feel like I should start be aware of where you are in the house at all times.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. It’s obvious now that I think of it. She’s one more conversation from finding out you have a thing for her.” She points at him. “You better say something before she starts thinking you’re a man who pretends he likes her when he actually doesn’t.”
“You think she notices I have a thing for her?” He asks anxiously.
“You’re more obvious than Dustin thinking he can get away with stealing your hairspray.” She bluntly says.
“He steals my hairspray?”
───── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ─────
The following morning, you wake up to the glimmer of sunshine peaking through your curtains, leaving it long enough to rest gently on your face as the soothing warmth of it made your skin tingle.
You were wrapped comfortably around your blankets, your hair spewing down your pillow and off your shoulder.
You could already hear the kids rattling around in the kitchen, arguing over who's getting the last slice of toast. Something you've gotten used to hearing quite quickly.
There's a knock on your door before you can fully open your eyes and adjust the sunlight spilling through your window.
"Thank god you're up." Robin groans stressfully, sitting on the side of your bed.
"I mean, I am up, but I'm not ready to be up." You yawn, rolling over to the other side of the bed so you can look at her.
"I'm stressed-"
"I can tell."
"Vickie came into Family Video five days ago, and we have a seven day rent policy. So you can only have the movie for a week before having to give it back, by law of course–"
"I assumed so."
"So that means I have at least two days to prepare a speech for when she comes back in. I have to confess to her. It's killing me that I don’t know if she likes me, and it’s killing me even more that she’s not my girlfriend." She moans.
"Rob, I'm sure she likes you. I've seen the way you speak to each other and the way you look at each other." You sit up, resting your hand on her shoulder. "And remember, no one pauses fast times at fifty three minutes, five seconds, other than the people who like boobies." You add quietly.
She huffs. "Easy for you to say. At least you have someone who makes it obvious they like you." She spits out before her body stills.
"Uh, what did you say?" You say with feigned calmness.
"I said nothing, that's what I said." She stands, her hands clamped down by her side.
"Who likes me, Robin?-"
"Okay, fine, I'll tell you as long as you won't tell anyone." She easily caves. "It's Steve." She squeezes her eyes closed and winces as she awaits your reaction.
"Steve?" Your eyebrows shoot up as you dive back into your memory for any truth behind this. You were aware of how close you two were. I mean, how couldn't you after you moved in with him. You just assumed that it was a strong bond of friendship between you two. Nothing else.
“How many people know about this?” You were quick to question.”
She swallows. “Everyone.” She whispers. And honestly, you weren’t surprised in the slightest.
You chew your lip in thought. Maybe you wouldn't mind being an item with Steve. He was the whole package, really. Hot, funny, caring, good with kids.
Anyone would be lucky to have guy like steve. And with thought, you hoped that you'd be that lucky person who gets to call him yours one day.
You’d never really noticed it before but whenever he was close you felt happy. You felt free and safe. He was like a blanket you never wanted to get free from.
"Where is he?" You ask.
"In the car waiting for me, actually. I better be off." She rushes out of your room, the door slamming behind her as she stomps down the stairs and slides out the front door.
There were a whirlwind of emotions spinning in your head. Confusion, happiness, excitement, worry, and even a little horny.
You'd been single for over a year now, not noticing anyone really taking interest in you other than the drunk guy at the bar who just wants sex. But the fact that the person showing an ounce of interest in you was Steve? You’ve never felt so happy.
───── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ─────
Robin was first to arrive home.
The door swung open, the same way it has for the past few months. Tiredly and annoyingly.
She kicked off her shoes at the front door and slipped off her jacket, throwing it somewhere on the floor for future Robin to deal with.
You’d barely moved off the couch since this morning. You felt as if anticipation had glued you to the seat until you and Steve talked about it.
She easily made herself comfortable on the couch, spreading out her arms and legs with a few cracks of her joints.
“She didn’t come in today.” she mentions.
“I guess tomorrow’s the big day.” you teasingly smile at her. “You got your speech ready?”
“All I have is, ‘I can’t help but notice you every time you walk into a room. You light it up like a firework, and I like fireworks even if they make me jump. They’re pretty cool, and I think you’re pretty cool, so do you want to go out sometime?’”
You bite down on a smile. “Maybe scratch that idea.”
───── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ─────
Everyone had gravitated to the living room by the time Steve made it home a few hours later.
You heard the door squeal open, followed by the sound of shoes being kicked off.
You felt chills float down your spine as he made his way into the living room. A smile intoxicating his face that you quickly grew suspicious of.
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.
thinking about ryland pushing you into subspace on purpose because he loves how sleepy and happy it makes you. he edges you for hours, denying you over and over while you writhe on the bed, begging for him to let you come. he'll have you in every position, using his cock, his fingers, his mouth, toys, anything he wants as he works you up again and again while telling you how good you're doing, how well you take him, how perfect you feel around him, how much more he's going to do to you before he's done.
and when he finally lets you come, he doesn't stop. he makes you come so many times that you lose count, just riding the waves as they come, letting him take what he wants. you're boneless when he's done with you, so spacey and floaty, you can't even look at him when you're like this, vision too blurry to focus. he cleans you up so gently, hands never leaving your body, making sure you feel safe and secure, grounding you if there are any tears.
he holds you against him so tenderly, hands stroking over your skin, kisses landing anywhere he can reach. he can see how out of it you are, whispering quietly about how proud he is, how he's there for you, however you need him. and even if you can't make out the words he's saying you recognize the care in his tone, can feel how he radiates love and safety.
he never rushes you back to him, just lets you float for as long as you need to, knowing that you'll blink the fog away and kiss him senseless as soon as your body and mind can sync up again. and you sleep better than ever on those nights, wrapped in his arms, his breath on your neck, big hands holding you tightly
thinking of introducing rocky to pet names but he thinks grace shouldn’t be included in such verbal affections
“watch out rocky!” you yelled out, but before he could catch on, the xenonite ball tipped over the edge to the bunkers, and he fell a good 2 feet before smacking the ground and bouncing in the ball. the spindrive has been out of wack since your fishing trip in tau ceti and everything was upside down. what would’ve been just a small step up into the room, was now a 2 foot drop from what was actually the ceiling. “oh gosh, are you okay honey?”
a long string of musical notes that grace had not yet translated followed the crash— something you assume is eridian curse words that he refused to translate. you jump down the ledge and hold the ball steady as rocky stands, doing a move you can only describe as a shake off like dogs do. “rocky okay,” he sighs, “what does last word mean, question?”
“huh? honey?” you ask and he nods, “oh it’s a term of endearment, something you say to someone you care about. it means you’re sweet”
rocky lights up at your words, “erdian have similar concept. statement. is called 🎶🎵🎶, adrianne call rocky 🎵🎵— 🎶🎵, means “soft bear” statement.” rocky hesitates for a moment, rolling back away from you, “but is only for mate. rocky and friend not mates. statement”
you laugh a little, “dont worry rocky, humans use it for anyone they care about. it does not make us mates, buddy, but i appreciate the loyalty. im sure adrianne does too.” he visibly relaxes and if on cue, grace walks in.
“is everything okay? i heard a bang” concern is written on his face, one hand holding onto the doorway as he peers down at you and rocky.
“is okay. statement. rocky fell because dumb dumb dumb human mess up centrifuge. statement.”
grace scoffs at his words, giving you a look of betrayal when you laugh. “forget i asked! how rude rocky.” he shakes his head in faux annoyance
“wrong. friend say rocky sweet. statement.” his voice raises an octave as he waves jazz hands around as if absolutely enthused by the idea. it’s really just to make grace mad
-
on the trip back to erid, you continue to use various pet names for rocky. cute ones like “honey” or “sweetie” he never returns the gesture but appreciates and enjoys the praise regardless. it made rocky feel special after being alone for so long, so you can imagine the betrayal he feels when you start using them for grace.
it wasn’t anything crazy either, the three of you occupied the mental health room, some earth show playing in the background to pass the years time. neither of you thought anything of it when a simple, “baby, can you pass me a blanket?”left your lips.
“why call grace human child, question? is because he acts like child. question?” grace pretends not to hear rocky and tosses you the blanket half heartedly.
you laugh, “no rocky, it’s another term of endearment, cause he’s like my little baby, you know?” you reach over to pinch ryland’s cheeks, softening the annoyance on his face.
“no rocky do not know. statement. grace not deserve pet name. only rocky. statement.” his voice gets higher with frustration and he rolls the xenonite ball to tap your leg. “human no longer care about rocky, question?”
your eyes widen, and you look to grace for assistance but he only shrugs as if to say ‘you started this.’ he was no help, so you’re left to your own devices with a jealous alien at your feet. “rocky, honey, that’s not true at all.” you lean over to put a hand on one of the panels, “i still care about you, but i also care about grace too. you only use pet names for your mates, well grace is my mate after all.” your voice isn’t mean, but it is stern enough to get your point across.
he sinks a bit in defeat, “understand. even though grace not sweet. or cute. or human child. rocky understand. statement”
you can hear grace scoff in the background and you know he’s rolling his eyes, “yeah i could say the same thing about you. you’re a weird alien spider, nothing cute about that.”
“adrianne disagree. statement.” rocky hums at the man and you laugh loudly, “human grace gross and leaky. erdian do not leak therefore better species. statement.”
grace shakes his head and turns away, “whatever you say, man.”
୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅୨୧ ⋅┈∘┈⋅⋅┈∘┈⋅ ୨୧ The safe house was nothing more than a rundown cabin tucked in the woods, one room, one bed, one sad—narrow couch, and the faint smell of old wood and moss.
The mission had gone sideways—close call with hostiles, comms cut, but thankfully the two of you had made it out with little casualty. Ghost had taken a grazing hit across his side; nothing life-threatening, but enough that he needed to clean it properly.
You were still catching your breath, peeling off your plate carrier and vest, when he finally shredded his shirt.
You weren’t expecting what you saw.
Ghost’s torso was a map of scars and hard muscle, but that wasn’t what made your brain short-circuit. Both of his nipples were pierced—thick, silver barbells that caught the low light from the single lantern. Then a delicate but deliberate navel piercing sat right above the waistband of his pants. small, glinting balls. And when he ran his tongue over his teeth, catching his breath, you saw the tongue piercing too—metallic ball flashing for half a second.
He noticed you staring, those dark eyes didn’t miss much.
“Problem, Sergeant?” The usual clipped Manchester edge softened by exhaustion and something else.
You opened your mouth. Closed it. Heat flooded your face so fast you were surprised steam didn’t rise off you. The piercings were so… unexpected on him. Hidden under all that tactical gear and that damn mask, secret and filthy.
Your gaze kept dropping—to the way the nipple bars stood out against his pale skin, to the way the navel hoop shifted when he breathed, to the way he licked his lower lip and that tongue piercing caught the light again.
Your mind went exactly where you told it not to.
What else is he hiding?
You could almost picture it—more silver glinting lower, maybe a Jacob’s ladder running the length of his cock, each rung a shock of cold metal you’d feel if he ever—
“Eyes up here.” he said, but there was a rough edge of amusement under it. He didn’t move to cover himself. Just stood there, scarred, pierced, and stupidly hot, letting you look. The air in the cabin felt twenty degrees hotter.
You swallowed. Your pulse was hammering in your throat. “I… didn’t know the military let you have those.”
“They don’t.” He shrugged one broad shoulder, the motion making the barbells shift. “Keeps things interesting when nobody’s looking.”
Your brain was supplying very vivid, very unprofessional images of exactly what “interesting” might look like beneath his belt. The thought of cold metal dragging against sensitive skin, of him letting someone see—letting you see—made your thighs press together involuntarily.
Ghost’s head tilted slightly, like he could read every filthy thought crossing your face. His voice dropped even lower as his hand hovered over his belt.
