Captain Azrian reporting for Duty!

"Life is ours to choose" He/They Pansexual :P I do reblog NSFW stuff so please be aware

[cxlxrx]

when James is in Vietnam he can disguise himself as a yoga instructor and when he walks back to the client two women walk by and they say something along the line like: "Wouldn't mind going on all fours for him."

i was like: what did i just hear??? 0-0

[obserbolisk]

Normally I do not give a fuck about my age matching or surpassing that of timeless fictional characters. Can’t even understand why someone would be bothered by that. However, in the new James Bond video game, Bond very casually and conversationally references SpongeBob, and it hit me like a fish fired from a rail gun.

[totallynottinsel]

bi ppl can't flirt normally it's always gotta be shit like this

[multi-fandom-imagine]

It can also be x Reader with any other character

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Saved || James Bond ||

A/n: So I am taking a lot of creative liberties with this one since the fic will play out a lot differently than the actual game.

*Spoilers*

The Grand Carpathian Hotel was beautiful in the way that rich people always insisted beautiful things should be. Crystal chandeliers hung from impossibly high ceilings, expensive paintings stared judgmentally from the walls, and hundreds of people had gathered for what was apparently one of the most prestigious chess tournaments in Europe.

You hated it.

After three hours of pretending to care about tiny wooden pieces being moved across a board, you had reached your limit.

Adventure was calling.

Unfortunately, adventure apparently lived in the basement.

You had wandered through a maze of hallways, accidentally ignored two “Employees Only” signs, gotten mildly lost, and somehow ended up in the hotel’s enormous wine cellar.

Rows upon rows of ancient bottles stretched into the darkness. At first, you thought you’d stumbled into something exciting.

Then you realized you had.

Because twenty feet away, a tall blond man was standing over another man who was clutching a bloody stab wound in his side.

The injured man was slumped against a wine rack, breathing hard.

The blond man had a knife and he looked very much like he intended to finish the job.

For exactly one second, you froze.Then your American survival instincts kicked in.

“Oh my God!”

Before your brain could stop you, you launched yourself forward.

The blond man barely had time to register what was happening before a five-foot-something tourist crashed into his back like an angry squirrel.

“What the—”

You wrapped both arms around his neck.Unfortunately, he was much larger than you and much stronger than you.

The man grabbed your wrist and immediately threw you off.

You landed hard on the stone floor and scooted backward as fast as your legs could carry you, heels off, dress scrunched up.

The assassin stalked toward you. "Stupid American,” he sneered. “You’ll just be another girl who went missing.”

"First off all rude!! You don't even know me?!"

The assassin contiued to stalk closer as your back hit the rack of wine bottles.

You immediately held up both hands. “Wait! Wait! Wait!”

The man paused.

You pointed at him. “You can’t kill me.”

His eyebrow twitched. “What?”

“You can’t kill me.”

Something about your confidence actually made him hesitate, the blond man narrowed his eyes as you. "And why is that?”

You reached into your purse. "Because I have a gun.”

The confusion on his face was almost comical.

“Wha—”

The pistol appeared.

You fired.

The shot echoed through the cellar like a cannon.

The blond man’s expression transformed from confusion to shock before he collapsed sideways between two wine racks.

Silence followed.

A bottle rolled somewhere in the darkness.

You stared at the gun for a moment. "Huh.”Then you looked toward the injured man.

He was blinking at you.

You were blinking at him.

Finally, he managed, “That was a good shot.”

A smile immediately spread across your face as you puffed out your chest waving the pistol around in the air. "Thanks. My dad owns a ranch.”

The man stared.

You stared back.

Neither of you seemed sure why that had been your response. Shaking yourself free of the moment, you hurried over and dropped to your knees beside him.

“Oh wow, that’s a lot of blood.”

The man looked down. “Yes.”

“Right.” You immediately pressed your hands against his wound.

He hissed through his teeth.

“Sorry!”

“It’s fine.”

“It’s not fine. You’re bleeding.”

“That’s generally how stab wounds work.”

You looked up.

Despite the circumstances, the injured man actually seemed amused.

“You know,” he said through a grimace, “this isn’t how I expected today to go.”

“Tell me about it. I thought I was going to spend the afternoon watching old men move chess pieces.”

A sudden burst of footsteps echoed through the cellar.

Fast.

Urgent.

He was clearly expecting the worst.His gun was already drawn.His eyes immediately found the body on the floor.

The injured man’s expression changed instantly and relief flashed across his face.

A second later a dark-haired man rounded the corner at a sprint.

Then the blood.

Then Monroe.

And finally.

You.

James Bond came to a complete stop.For several seconds nobody spoke.

You recognized him immediately, of course you did.You had somehow been running into him across Europe for nearly three months.

Venice.

Prague.

Vienna.

Budapest.

Every time you turned around, there he was.

The annoyingly handsome British man who always looked mildly concerned whenever you appeared.

Now he looked outright horrified.

“Monroe!” Bond crossed the room in seconds and dropped beside his friend.

Monroe gave him a tired nod. “Still alive.”

Bond checked the wound before looking toward the dead assassin.

Then his gaze shifted to you.

Blood covered your hands. You were holding pressure on Monroe’s side.

The gun sat beside your purse.

Bond’s eyes widened. "You.”

You smiled brightly. "Me!!.”

“What happened?"

You stared at him, unimpressed. "You are welcome.”

Monroe actually laughed despite the pain.Bond looked like he was developing a headache.

“You shot him?”

“Technically, yes.”

“Technically?”

“Well, first I jumped on him.”

Bond closed his eyes.

Of course you had.

Monroe sounded entirely too entertained. “She did.”

Bond opened his eyes again. "You jumped on an assassin?”

“He was stabbing people.” You stated that it was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Monroe was already stabbed.”

“Exactly.” You pointed at Jame's, blood getting flicked on his face.

Jame's flinched closing his eyes for a moment.“You could have been killed.”

You considered that. “Huh.”

“That’s your response?”

“Well, I’m not dead.”

Monroe laughed again.Bond shot him a look and Monroe ignored it.

The recruit seemed thoroughly entertained by the entire situation.

Bond looked back at you. “Why are you here?”

You immediately pointed toward the ceiling. “If you wanted to know, I wandered away from the boring chess match.”

Bond stared. “You wandered away.”

“Yes.."

“Into a restricted wine cellar.”

“Also yes.”

“You found an assassin.”

“Correct.”

“You jumped on him.”

“Uh-huh.”

“And then shot him.”

You thought about it. “That about sums it up.”

For a moment Bond simply looked at you. Then he looked toward the ceiling as though silently asking the universe why this kept happening.

Behind him, Monroe was openly grinning now.

“You know,” Monroe said, wincing slightly, “I think she just saved my life.”

Bond let out a long sigh because unfortunately, Monroe was right. The realization only made him stare at you harder.

You smiled sweetly. “...I'm not hearing a thank you~.”

And somehow that made the headache worse.

For a moment, the only sound in the wine cellar was the distant dripping of water somewhere between the stone walls.

James stared at you.

You stared back.

Monroe watched the exchange with the sort of fascination normally reserved for train wrecks.

Finally, James spoke. “I am trying to wrap my head around this.” He gestured vaguely in your direction as though the motion might somehow explain you. “You wandered into a restricted area.”

You pointed at him. "I can say the same to you, Mr. Fake Car Driver.”

James immediately ignored that comment. Mostly because he didn’t particularly want Monroe hearing about the fact that you’d somehow figured out his cover story had been in fact nonsense.

Instead, he pressed forward.

“You leapt on a dangerous criminal.”

“Correct.”

“Then you shot him.”

“Also correct.”

His eye twitched. “Where did you even get a gun?”

Your expression brightened immediately. “Oh. I found it.”

The silence that followed was profound. Monroe slowly looked up from where he was sitting against the wine rack.

James blinked once. “You found a gun.”

“Yup.”

“Where?”

You pointed casually toward the ceiling.

“In a hotel room.”

James felt something inside his soul leave his body.

Monroe actually choked.

“A hotel room?” James repeated slowly.

“Yeah.”

“What hotel room?”

“The hotel room.”

“There are hundreds of hotel rooms in this building."

You nodded. “Exactly.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“It was one of those fancy rooms.”

James closed his eyes.

Every answer somehow created three new questions. When he opened them again, you were still smiling.

Monroe was trying very hard not to laugh.

James pointed toward the pistol lying beside your purse.

“Are you telling me you found that weapon in a random hotel room?”

“Well, not random.”

“How is it not random?”

“The door was unlocked...I thought it was my room."

Monroe burst out laughing. The movement immediately made him clutch his side. "Ow.”

James wasn’t even sure where to begin with that statement. “You found a firearm in your room.”

“Yep.”

“And your first thought wasn’t to contact hotel security?”

“Well, I was going to.”

James narrowed his eyes. “You were?”

“Eventually.”

“Eventually...."

“After breakfast.....maybe...if I remembered."

Monroe’s shoulders started shaking again.

James shot him a look.

His friend looked entirely too entertained for a man who had nearly been murdered ten minutes earlier.

James returned his attention to you. “You simply kept the gun?”

You looked confused. “Well, I wasn’t going to leave it there.”

“Why not?”

“What if a child found it?”

James stared.

That was somehow reasonable. The problem was everything surrounding it.

“So instead, you put it in your purse.”

“Exactly.”

“Without knowing if it was loaded.”

“I checked.”

That made both men pause.

“You checked?” James asked.

You nodded. “Of course.....I'm not an idiot."

Monroe blinked. "You know how to check a firearm?”

“Sure..."

James was beginning to suspect your cheerful tourist act was hiding significantly more than it appeared. “You said your father owns a ranch.”

“He does.”

“A ranch where people regularly carry firearms?”

You nodded. “Pretty normal where I’m from....do you not have mountain lions, wolves and other things that attack live stock?"

That explained some things.

Not all of them.

But some.

James let out a long breath still trying to process it all. “Let me understand this properly.”

“Oh good. Because I think we’re finally getting somewhere.”

“You found a gun in your hotel room.”

“Correct.”

“You checked it.”

“Correct.”

“You put it in your purse.”

“Correct.”

“You wandered into a restricted area.”

“Correct.”

“You encountered an assassin.”

“Correct.”

“You attacked him.”

You thought for a second. “That part wasn’t very well planned.”

“No,” James agreed immediately. “It was not.”

“And then I shot him.”

“Yes.”

You smiled. “And now we’re caught up.”

Monroe covered his face with one hand. James looked like he wanted to do the same. Instead, he stared at you for several long seconds before finally asking the question that had been bothering him the most.

“Why would you jump on him?”

The answer came instantly.

“Because he was trying to kill your friend....I mean I could have grabbed a wine bottle and hucked it but I didn't trust myself."

James froze.

The simplicity of it caught him off guard.

You shrugged. “Also, I didn’t know who either of you were. I just saw somebody getting stabbed.”

For the first time since entering the cellar, your smile softened.

“It seemed mean not to help....like how can I not step in."

The words hung in the air.

Monroe looked away.

James found himself unexpectedly speechless. Because to you, apparently, there had been no calculation.

No weighing of risks.No concern for your own safety. You had simply seen someone in danger and acted.

It was reckless.

Completely insane.

Dangerously stupid.

And somehow James found that infinitely more unsettling than finding you covered in blood holding a gun.

After a moment, Monroe broke the silence. “For what it’s worth,” he said dryly, “I appreciate the attempted rescue.”

You beamed. “You’re welcome.”

Monroe nodded. “Next time, though?”

“Yeah?”

“Maybe don’t jump on the assassin first.”

You considered that. “That’s fair.”

James pinched the bridge of his nose. Unfortunately, he had a feeling there would absolutely be a next time.

[midniqhtt]

RYLAND GRACE RECS .ᐟ

꒰ MASTERLIST I RYAN GOSLING I 06/09/26 ꒱

a collection of fics i’ve read and thoroughly enjoyed all in one spot! read each warning before diving in and please give writers some appreciation for all their hard work by reblogging and/or commenting! ꨄ

A: angst F: fluff S: smut C: comfort H/C: hurt comfort

fly me to the moon I @scarletmika I F I The entire school knew how close you and Ryland Grace had become since you'd joined Grover Cleveland Middle's staff a year prior. That knowledge only fueled the rumor mill, that one that ran between the staff and students alike, on just how close the two of you were. It didn't help that you were definitely head over heels for the slightly awkward and endearing science teacher.

your love is a threat I @sinsilk I A I ryland falls hard but is scared of being left behind. but there are consequences to avoiding what is right in front of you.

infected I @lostinwildflowers I S I You and Ryland are both given the amnesia serum so the primary crew has scientists on the Hail Mary. When you wake up 12 light years from Earth, neither of you remembers anything except for an unsettling dislike for the other person. An interaction with alien life has Ryland infected with a disease neither of you have seen before. What are you going to do?

grace have mate, question? pt2 I @rockyhatemark I A I rocky and grace talk about the mates they left behind. grace finally gets around to making a video log for her

nook rivalry I @/rockyhatemark I F I when your little piece of heaven in the library is threatened, you take it personally aka your relationship with ryland has a rocky start

doctor visit pt2 I @/rockyhatemark I F + S I you find it harder and harder to ignore the cute scientist that always sits next to you during your meetings

my place is among the stars (w/you) pt2 I @heartburriedintauceti I A + F I In which the government (Eva Stratt) shows up at your door and gives you no choice but to join the Petrova Taskforce. The reason? Ryland Grace recommended you, your old friend (or whatever you were) from college. And for some reason, you said yes.

double vision I @fullof-ryland-grace I F I you find out your close friend and coteacher has a stuntman twin.

baby I @surturedberries I F I when ryland grace calls you "baby"

rockblock I @matt-murdockk I F I You and Ryland have a moment... almost.

the love thing I @redwinelewis I F I after watching notting hill, rocky has come up with a conclusion that you and ryland should "mate", since you both are single.

medical emergency I @appletreat I F I you accidentally hit your head and ryland needs to fix you up

the message and the messenger I @/appletreat I A I stratt comes to ryland with some videos from the hail mary mission

human connectivity I @/appletreat I F I you can’t fall asleep but it seems ryland can’t either

the marker dealer I @/appletreat I F I ryland needs the art teacher’s help with some illustrations

blurb I @/appletreat I H

mr and mrs. grace pt2 I @iamaya03 I F I you're the medic on the hail mary and come across a photo that must've slipped from your personal supplies which changes the entire dynamic between you and who you thought was your co-worker.

far vs near sighted I @gracerockyadastra I F I You and Ryland both wear glasses, but for drastically different reasons.

i almost lost you I @amessofstarsense I H/C

coma berenices I @romanticgumchewer I F I you cut grace's hair so he looks like himself again.

champagne supernova pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 pt6 I @effloradox I F + A

nightmare I @attemptedrandomwriting I C I Rocky is watching over Grace sleep while you work. Rocky comes running in, scared for Grace, and needs your help.

puppet show I @moonlight-in-the-sea I F I you and grace put on a puppet show for rocky at his request so he is able to understand human culture better. little do you know, the engineer is setting you both up.

oh, you’re not…! I @/moonlight-in-the-sea I F I your boyfriend has an identical twin, and while you can easily tell them apart by now, you've had your mix-up moments in the beginning.

save the date I @inksgoosiefolder I F + S I You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.

fertile land I @binchidavinci I H/C

good girl pt2 I @lemmesayimyourbiggestfan I F + S I in which Dr. Grace uses the wrong vocabulary, and the Hail Mary gets a lot hotter

pushing it down and praying I @rockylandphm I A I in which, you keep looking for your lost love in colt’s eyes, and colt keeps pretending it doesn't break his heart

both AO3 I anonymous I S I ryland walks in on you and colt in their apartment. things take a turn.

eridian logic! I @bibigo-lover I F I 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

love hypotheticals pt2 pt3 I @/bibigo-lover I A + F I 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.

well, this is awkward I @irlr0gue I F I You and Ryland have a small…incident, leading to a broken bed that a very curious Rocky has to come and fix.

to move slowly from side to side I @harbours-lighthouse I H/C

4th project crew pt2 I @justmine-lindstrm I A + F + S I After months of wandering the space to study Tau Ceti, Grace found out that there’s another crew on board. It was only revealed when Rocky corrected him on how many people the ship has. Grace got hope for him to recall his pieces of his memories back on Earth. You must be an answer for him. “Happy. Happy. Grace has woman now. statement.”

stress relief I @bbuttonnn I S I Ryland needs to relieve some stress while he’s on the ship and conveniently thinks about his work crush

co-worker!ryland grace I @forozren I F

clumsy I @hotdogcatalogue I F

jealous!ryland I @cloudytimelapse I F

overworked I @stargirl-meltdown I S I ryland grace may be able to carry the weight of the world, but not without breaking somewhere. Luckily, he has someone who knows exactly how to bring him back.

[multi-fandom-imagine]

🪱Worm Love 🪱 || James Bond ||

A/n: James Bond would in fact love you as a worm.

James Bond had faced armed terrorists, rogue agents, international assassins, and more near-death experiences than any sane person should survive.

None of them had prepared him for this conversation.

You were curled up beside him on the sofa, stealing half of his blanket while a movie played forgotten in the background. One moment everything had been peaceful.

Then you had spoken.

“James.”

“Hm?”

“Would you still love me if I was a worm?”

James slowly lowered his phone then turned to look at you. "…What?”

You blinked at him with complete sincerity. "If I was a worm.”

“A worm.”

“Yes.”

He stared.

You stared back.

Somewhere outside, a car passed.

James was beginning to suspect he preferred being shot at. “What kind of worm?” he finally asked.

Your face lit up immediately. “So you would?”

“No, love. I’m gathering intelligence.”

You gasped dramatically. "James Bond! Are you saying different worms get different levels of love?”

“Obviously.”

“Wow.”

“Earthworm?” he continued. “Reasonably useful. Helps the soil.”

You pointed at him triumphantly.b“So you would love me.”

James sighed. “You’re impossible.”

“You didn’t answer.”

He turned his phone off, placed it away and gave you the same look he reserved for particularly irritating villains.

“If you became a worm, I would locate the world’s leading scientists and determine how you became a worm.”

Your grin widened. “That’s not an answer.”

“I wasn’t finished.”

“Go on.”

“I would then spend an unreasonable amount of money attempting to turn you back into a human.”

You leaned closer. “But would you still love me?”

James looked at you for a long moment.The ridiculous thing was that you were genuinely waiting for an answer.

Not because you doubted him.Just because you enjoyed tormenting him.

“You know,” he said slowly, “most people’s partners ask normal questions.”

“That’s boring.”

“Normal couples discuss dinner.”

“We discussed dinner.”

“You asked if pigeons go to heaven during dinner.”

“That’s a valid question.”

James pinched the bridge of his nose.

You scooted closer until your shoulder bumped his.

“James.”

“What.”

“The worm thing.”

He let out a long breath. Then he reached over, wrapped an arm around your waist, and pulled you against his side.

“Yes.”

Your eyes brightened. “Yes?”

“Yes, I would still love you if you were a worm.”

You immediately cheered in victory. “I KNEW IT.”

“However,” James continued, “I would keep you in a very expensive terrarium.”

Your mouth dropped open. “A terrarium?”

“The finest terrarium money can buy.”

“James!”

“You’d have fresh soil.”

“James!”

“Climate control.”

“JAMES!”

He was trying and failing not to smile.

You crossed your arms dramatically. “I can’t believe you’d put me in a tank.”

“I can’t believe I’ve had this conversation.”

“You’d visit me though?”

“Every day.”

You softened immediately. “Really?”

“Really.”

You smiled.

James felt his chest tighten in that familiar way it always did when you looked at him like that.

Then you ruined the moment. “What if you were a worm..like I think we'd be a cute worm couple?”

James groaned. “Oh, for God’s sake.”

You were already laughing and despite every instinct telling him otherwise, James found himself laughing too. Because after all the danger, chaos, and madness that filled his life, sitting on a sofa arguing about hypothetical worms with the woman he loved was somehow one of the happiest moments he’d ever had.

[zhoudadudugongjin]

Look I love unconditional devotion love stories as much as the next person, but there's really something so deliciously raw about conditional devotion.

I have served you and I have loved you for decades, but I will not give up my principles for you. You cut out part of my heart and took it with you down that path that you insist on walking, but you walk it alone. Even when the bleeding, gaping hole you left in my chest kills me, I will not follow you.

[zhoudadudugongjin]

me everytime one of my seemingly non-specific homoerotic text posts breaks containment

[inthefallofasparrow]

[memewhore]

[youngalientype]

[multi-fandom-imagine]

Goodboy || James Bond ||

A/n: James is so adorable in this game.

The room still smelled faintly of expensive cologne, gunpowder lingering from earlier in the evening, and your perfume that soaked into the sheets. Rain tapped softly against the windows of the London flat while the city glowed gold beyond the curtains.

You were asleep beside him, tangled in silk sheets, your face half-buried into your pillow. One bare leg was thrown over James’s thigh, warm and soft, your breathing slow and deep. Completely unaware.

Which was unfortunate for him.

Because James Bond had just woken up to death staring him directly in the face.

Very large death.

Very furry death.

Atlas stood on the bed like some ancient guardian beast from mythology, towering over James with heavy paws planted beside his ribs, one paw digging into his side. The massive dog’s head hovered inches from Bond’s face, hot breath washing over his skin while thick drool dangled from his jaw.

James didn’t move, the dog didn’t move either. The only sound was the slow, low rumble vibrating in Atlas’s chest.

Bond had been shot at in Istanbul. Tortured in North Korea. Nearly blown apart in Venice.

None of those moments had prepared him for waking up naked with a military-trained attack dog contemplating murder above him.

Slowly, very slowly, James turned his head toward the nightstand where his watch rested.

Atlas’s eyes followed instantly, as if knowing what the man was trying to do.The dog lifted one enormous paw and smacked the watch clean off the table and it hit the floor with a loud clatter.

James blinked once.

Then Atlas placed that same paw directly over Bond’s wrist.

Possessive.

Warning, its claws digging into his wrist as the dog then lowered his giant head until his nose brushed the side of James’s neck, breathing heavily against his skin. James could practically hear the animal thinking.

Hurt my master and I’ll bury you in the garden.

For the first time in years, James Bond genuinely considered the possibility that this was how he died.

Not in an explosion.

Not in a firefight.

Not while saving the world.

No.

It's gonna wind up ending him being killed naked in bed by a jealous dog named Atlas.

His eyes flicked toward you desperately and of course you remained completely unconscious.

“Darling,” James said carefully, not moving anything except his mouth, “your dog appears to be assessing whether I’m edible.”

Atlas growled.

“Right. Fair enough.”

The dog’s nose grazed his throat again.

James froze so completely he could have passed for a corpse already.

Then your sleepy voice drifted through the room, a hum leaving your lips. “Hmmm...Atlas…”

Immediately the dog’s ears perked.

You didn’t even open your eyes. “Come here, baby…”

And just like that, the monstrous beast hopped off the bed with a happy huff.

The jingling of his collar echoed through the room as he trotted around the side of the bed, tail wagging.

James remained perfectly still for a full five seconds. Then he slowly sat up, staring at the dog in disbelief while Atlas shoved his massive head under your hand affectionately.

You cracked one eye open sleepily. Your hair was a mess, lips swollen from the night before, silk sheets barely covering your curvaceous body as you blinked at him innocently.

“What’s wrong?”

James stared at you in disbelief. “Your dog threatened my life.”

Atlas sneezed.

You frowned softly, still half asleep. “No he didn’t...he's a sweet heart.”

The dog immediately placed his chin on your stomach and stared directly at Bond.

James narrowed his eyes. “He absolutely did...he's absolutely isn't.”

Atlas gave one low warning grumble.

Bond pointed at him. “See? There it is again.”

You just laughed tiredly and pulled Atlas closer. “He’s protective.”

“Protective?” James repeated. “That animal looked at me like I was an intruder in his marriage.”

Atlas’s tail thumped proudly against the mattress.

James sighed deeply, rubbing a hand down his face. “Wonderful. I’m in a relationship with both of you now.” His back hit the matress.

[prokrastinartiya]

[bibigo-lover]

mayday.

summary: grace can't seem to get the hang of flying the hail mary—and you're definitely the problem (based on this textpost).

pairing: ryland grace x gn!reader

word count: 3.0k

tags: fluff and humor, lowkey workplace hazard (??), mutual attraction, pining, physical touch, awkward!grace, tired!grace, clueless!reader, idiots in love, confessions, making out, good luck quilt mentioned, rocky as wingman (also lowkey a bully lol), gn!reader

cross-posted to ao3

The Hail Mary endures a quick stop-and-go. Even in zero gravity, you can still feel the surge of movement. Your body jerks to the side and then floats still over the seat cushion. It takes just a second for Grace to correct course and stop the Hail Mary from doing a full couple miles in the wrong direction. From your position in the cockpit, seatbelt marking a large “X” over your chest, you can see Grace and Rocky’s immediate reactions. Grace has his eyes locked on the front-monitor in brooding silence; he clearly thinks that if he’s quiet enough, Rocky might cease to say anything at all. And, for a moment, Rocky is silent—letting himself drift mid-air, jagged appendages deathly still. Then, Rocky’s computerized voice rings out with a flat grimace. “Grace. Evasive maneuver unnecessary.”

So, Grace is having a hard time. Rocky isn’t making it any easier—but you’re starting to think that he isn’t really the problem. There must be some sort of reason to it. On the one hand, you know that he’s a scientist. Even if he can’t remember much about himself, there’s at least the fact that he’s never piloted an entire spaceship before. It isn’t like you’ve got much experience either, as far as you know—but you’ve clearly acclimated to the controls a bit easier than he has.

Grace hurries to defend himself. “That wasn’t an evasive maneuver. My hand slipped.” The rising intonation of his voice clearly flags his embarrassment. You’ve noticed now that he uses a different excuse every time this happens. Sometimes, there’s a smudge on the lens of his glasses. Other times, the controls are almost too sensitive… or too finicky, or not user-friendly, or impossible. More recently, Grace has cited Rocky’s coaching—backseat driving, he says—as the problem. Now, apparently, it’s butterfingers. Grace shrugs, “Need a glove or something. It’s like trying to grab a fish.”

Rocky taps three times in rapid succession on the glass of his casing—pointing to the control panel at Grace’s side. “No glove. Joystick shaped for human hand. Grace human. Grace bad,” he emphasizes with a waver. You’ve been thinking lately that Rocky secretly gets a kick out of it all, the coaching, the doling out directions, and the inevitable criticisms. It’s almost sadistic, the way that Rocky zaps Grace’s every mistake with some sort of obvious quip.

Grace can only let his head fall back against the headboard of the pilot’s seat; he groans impatiently, with a weathered mumble, “Oh my God…” From beside him, you can see his blonde hair sticking up in all directions. At first, you think it’s best to give him a moment of silence, maybe tilt your head to look up at the plethora of status lights above the three of you.

Then, finally, you decide to pipe up with a very kind, “You’re doing your best, Ry.” It should be a relatively pleasant exchange. Grace is on the verge of thanking you, turning in his seat with his lips curled into a soft smile. But, Rocky can’t help but angle himself toward you in his casing, arms flailing up in what looks like the mimicry of a shrug.

“Grace doing best, question?”

This steals Grace’s attention away instantly. His smile drops and, eyebrows furrowed, Grace grumbles, “Is that supposed to be rhetorical? What am I saying—of course it is.” Grace huffs, snatching his glasses off his face and folding them over the collar of his jumpsuit. “Now, he wants to be funny.” How they love to bicker. With Grace’s back to you, you can only imagine the pout on his face. He fiddles with his sleeves, trying to tighten them down lower on his wrists.

You rub your eyes tiredly. You’ve been sitting in zero grav for hours now, and you’d kill to feel the ground like normal—maybe have a cup of coffee in a mug and not a plastic-sealed pouch. It’s also clear that Grace isn’t getting any better, and Rocky isn’t getting any more patient. “I think it’d be pretty productive to take a break. Don’t you?”

Grace claps his hands together softly, “Break.” He’s just about to unbuckle himself out of the seat when Rocky taps a claw on the glass.

“Longer break means longer Earth, Erid sun dim. Grace need practice, or all die,” Rocky insists. You can see him stamp repetitiously on the xenonite glass a few times. Obviously, he’s being a little bit dramatic—but it still clearly gets under Grace’s skin, because he’s practically squirming in his seat.

“Okay, okay,” you decide, “Why don’t we switch for a bit? I can go over my part with you, and Grace can go strap down downstairs.” It might do you good to go over the post-handoff of controls, even if you’ve already got it all down. If it buys Grace a little bit of rest time, you’re willing to do it. 

But Rocky repeats, “Grace need practice,” this time with more intention. It’s absurd how well the computer modulates his voice so intuitively.

“He’s trying to say that I suck,” Grace affirms. He doesn’t seem to deny the accusation; if you aren’t mistaken, Grace is pretty embarrassed about this whole ordeal of not being able to fly well. You watch as he flattens the decals on his jumpsuit, patches and all, down with his palms.

“Rocky, play nice,” you scorn. Even underneath the glow of the screens, you can see Grace’s cheeks are tinted a light red. You hate to see him so stressed out about this stuff, but admittedly, it looks good on him. It’s probably a bad habit to even think that way about Grace—considering that it’s just the three of you on this ship and you have to sleep a few feet away from him every night. You should decidedly pour more effort into making him less anxious about the mission. So, you tell Grace, “You’ll get the hang of it.”

You reach a hand out to touch Grace, thinking that a soft squeeze of his bicep might send across your genuine feeling on the matter. You do believe in him. As soon as your fingers curl around his arm, brushing the rough fabric of his jumpsuit, Grace’s hand seems to pass over the armrest and, with a slip, collides straight into the joystick. The Mary jerks left in a longer stride across the black space; you’re realizing, as the force throttles your body yet again, that you’re very lucky to have this much open space. Meanwhile, Rocky is grabbing on to his own makeshift seatbelt, claws tight on the strap. “Brake. Brake. Brake. Brake. Brake.”

—

The same thing happens the next go-around two days later, when Grace is trying to train for sample extraction. You’re in your seat, and Rocky’s in his. Between the first practice run and now, the three of you worked handily to rig the collector into a dropping mechanism on the lower portion of the ship. It’s all been programmed up to drop at the click of a button. Rocky has Grace testing the mechanism in a one-to-one simulation.

Now, all three of you are playing pretend, as if you’ve already breached Adrian’s atmosphere and settled into a steady trajectory across the top. Grace is doing a decent job up to this point, having trained his muscle memory and studied the thick paper manual you’d found detailing all the console’s buttons and switches. He mutters under his breath, “Okay, okay. I got it.” It appears to be more self-reassurance than anything else. You’ve been on the ship long enough to know that Grace is a master at talking to himself.

Rocky is counting down from T-minus 10 seconds with a monotonous tone, keeping his attention closed on the texture monitor in front of him. “Ten, nine, eight, seven…” You have your eyes trained on Grace, who’s clearly trying to guide himself through a deep breath in and out. Grace flips up the metal casing on the drop button, sucks in a deep breath—“six, five, four, three…”—and slams it with his thumb. The collector discharges. On the monitors, both Grace’s and Rocky’s, you can see it free-float out of the containment chamber, right out of the open panels. At least, you know the release mechanism works well. But, Rocky is quick to note, “Grace release collector too early.”

Three seconds too early, you shake your head. Grace is already very aware of the mistake, searching for a half-excuse himself: “I was being punctual.”

“Need exact time. Count for reason,” Rocky grips and ungrips his left claw. Then, Rocky rotates to face you, stamping one claw on his seat. “Stare at Grace make Grace bad. Close eyes.” 

Your eyes widen, index finger poking into your own chest. “Me? Close my eyes?” You can’t imagine how that would make things run any more efficiently.

“Woah now,” Grace coughs out, hand running over the back of his head. As he brushes his palm down against his short blonde hair, he seems to tilt his chair away, clearly locked in on the monitor in front of him. He shoves his fingers against a few switches—completely meaningless motions. “What’re you trying to say, pal?”

“Need word,” Rocky deliberates slowly, “For when watching heightens nervous system.” Grace’s hand hovers over the monitor.

You click your fingers: “Performance anxiety.”

Grace twists his seat to face the both of you, palms open and waving in disagreement. “I don’t have performance anxiety.” But, his body says otherwise. He’s practically sweating through his tight white polo—glasses on the verge of fogging up. It’s difficult not to be giddy when he gets like this, all flustered and discombobulated. Grace is having a hard time keeping it together. He must recognize your overt fawning, because he puts up an index finger, lips parted, “Don’t.”

“…Sorry.” You scramble for the vocal software on Rocky’s computer, typing it out hastily: <performance anxiety>. You press your middle finger into the enter-key and Rocky chirps a few times. Too happily, he exclaims, “Is performance anxiety!” Rocky alternates his attention between the two of you, and Grace’s nose is scrunching softly. He’s distressed. Up to this point, you’d thought that Grace was just having a hard time acclimating to the controls. This definitely has to be it.

Grace says, rather grumpily, “For your information, I actually perform great under pressure usually. This is just an… extraneous circumstance.”

Rocky seems to shake his head, but makes a more urgent tap on the glass towards you. “Retrieve collector, question?” The collector’s still floating out there, and somebody needs to lock it back into the release mechanism. Rocky sees you best fit, apparently—no magic words there. Since Grace has been doing the heavy lifting with the captaining, you’re not very motivated to complain.

“When I get back, we can try to run it back,” you offer. You unbuckle your seatbelt swiftly, zero gravity making your legs sway upwards.

Rocky hums, “No, no. Collector requires extra yard and half chain according to visual on monitor. Extra links in lab. Make while Rocky Grace reset.”

“Uh… okay,” you snort. The addition of the chain makes you feel a little bit like you’re being sent on an errand. Then again, Rocky’s the expert fabricator, so you decide not to push it. As you start to make your exit out of the cockpit, Grace pulls his glasses off his face to buff the lens on his shirt. Softly, he tells you, “Just radio in if something happens with the rig or the collector. I can put a suit on to come help you.” He throws his glasses back on, and you give him a curt nod. Rocky waves you goodbye with his right claw as you pull yourself towards the corridor.

Once you make it out of the cockpit, in the joint between the airlock and the rest of the Mary, you can hear Grace and Rocky bickering again. Their muffled voices barrel out into the whole ship. First, Rocky, pointedly: “Need re-test.”

Then, Grace, who’s sure to have his arms crossed in a tight lock over his chest: “Re-test what?”

Rocky replies, “If three in cockpit, Grace rate of distraction high. Need to re-test with two.” And Grace can only groan in response.

—

A half hour later, with the collector safely retrieved, your two crewmates set the Hail Mary into centrifuge. You get to work as soon as your feet touch the ground. The chain situation is meticulous and boring and you find it best fit, after linking together that extra yard and a half, to stay bundled up in the patchwork quilt in the lab—coffee in hand. It feels like as soon as you’re able to enjoy being upright, though, the commotion moves to you.

With the rapid sound of thunking on metal, Rocky rolls past you and makes it straight for the crew quarters. You whip around to tell him, “I finished those extra links you asked for, Rock.” It passes through one metaphorical ear out the other.

“Rocky develop breeder tank design,” he relays to you with a general disregard, “Try help Grace. Is impossible.”

“It wouldn’t kill you to be a little more patient,” you shout down the corridor. He doesn’t respond. You can already hear Rocky clinking his daily ball into the larger compartment. With the patchwork quilt clung around your shoulders, you place your mug down on an empty counter and peek in on Grace.

At the other end of the corridor, he’s still getting out of the cockpit—straightening out his polo and stretching his arms. When he finds that you’re standing behind him, he gets slightly more animated. “Hey…” Grace seems to trace his gaze down the individual patches on the quilt hanging off your back. Then, he looks up at you, dark blue eyes peering over his lenses.

You give him a wide grin. “Did Rocky give you a good lecturing while I was out?”

“No,” Grace pauses, pushing the bridge of his glasses up. “Yes.” With a defeated shrug, he stuffs his hands into the pockets of his sweats. “He’s right, you know. I am… pretty bad at captaining the ship.” 

“You’re fine at captaining the ship—”

“—I’ve been getting distracted this whole time because you sit too close to me,” he blurts. You draw back a bit, tugging the quilt tighter over your shoulders.

“The cockpit isn’t that cramped, is it?” you laugh. It’s a little bit embarrassing how close together you three have to sit in there. The thought of Grace’s discomfort at the mere proximity makes you sheepish.

“No, I’m saying that when you’re near me, I get, you know…” Grace stammers, “Jittery. I get jittery.” He crosses his arms over his chest, Converse pointed towards your work boots.

“I hope it’s not that I’m putting too much pressure on you. I swear that’s the last thing I want.”

“That isn’t it.” Grace wrings his hands together and then drops them to his sides. “When I get in the cockpit, it feels, well, suffocatingly small, and Rocky’s talking, and you’re just watching, and you’re waiting for me to fly the thing. And I want to fly it well in front of you. For you,” Grace blinks. You’re not even sure he knows what he’s saying. “I’m trying to tell you that I am very attracted to you, and it’s cramping my motor skills.”

You can feel your eyes widen. You’re trying your best to settle with the fact: “You can’t fly ‘cause of me?” You can’t be hearing it right.

Grace struggles to give you a steady “…Yes.” He doesn’t know what to do with his hands, opting next to run his hand over the control panel above you both. He can barely look at you, eyes flashing up to faux-examine the thing.

 “I make you nervous. It’s performance anxiety for an audience of one,” you reiterate. “Are you sure?” It’s a little silly for you to ask, considering that he’s just laid it all out for you. It’s just… impossible. Grace drops his hand back down.

He looks like he’s about to melt into the floor. And still, he rasps, “I think I have about thirty failed test runs and one very upset alien to corroborate my claim.” He’s being serious. One close inspection of Grace and he seems to be blushing from his cheeks to the tips of his ears. The small grin on his face matches your own, but it’s riddled with a hint of unease. He’s dying for you to give him a straight answer.

You have to give him a little bit of slack. “Would it make you fly better if I told you I’m very attracted to you, too?”

Grace tilts his head, brows furrowed. “I think it might make it worse, actually—” The quilt drops off your shoulders and crumples soft on the ground as you launch up to kiss Grace. “Oh.” His surprise doesn’t get far, because you’re running your hands over Grace’s chest, throwing them up into his hair. Grace lets out a contented hum against your lips, his palms only lightly grazing over your jaw. It’s with an accidental bit of force that you guide Grace over and push him up against the side-wall of the corridors, your work boots tucked in between his Converse. You’re maybe too excited to kiss him, hands anchoring on his hips, then toying with the hem of his polo. He’s blushing—you can feel the heat coming off of him—and you’re not much better.

It’s all very heated until Rocky’s voice rings out from the crew quarters: “Crew take Rocky advice. Reject null.” Privacy at a minimum, you remember. You pull away, taking a look over Grace’s face. He’s heaving by this point, with you nearly kissing him to death. His hands finally lay strong on your hips, back still flush to the corridor wall.

You take a few steps back into the middle of the corridor, dragging Grace along with you. With a bit more air, he lets out a shuddered breath. You murmur, “I can think of a few good motivators for you to fly better.” There isn’t any bit of goodwill behind it, just utter anticipation; you’re too eager to get to be with Grace like this.

“Rocky is going to be very disappointed when he finds out you're going to be deeply, deeply unhelpful.”

[bibigo-lover]

eridian logic!

summary: 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 (based on this textpost // @viviennejinx!)

pairing: ryland grace x gn!reader

word count: 4.3k

tags: fluff and humor, not actually unrequited love, mutual pining, bad flirting, basically teasing to death, flustered!grace, developing relationship, platonic!rocky x reader, first kisses, gn!reader

cross-posted to ao3

Grace is off in the crew quarters trying to take a nap. He’s been all tuckered out, you think, since Rocky decided to start co-habitating with the two of you on the Mary. Though it’s probably the most efficient way to work altogether—instead of moving to and from the midpoint of your ship and Rocky’s—it’s clearly driving Grace crazy. Boundaries, he keeps telling Rocky, There’s a delicate line that’s being crossed. More than crossed. Hopped and skipped. And still, Rocky’s insistent on moving in. You don’t have any major objections, considering that Rocky is a positive change to your usual routine.

It isn’t the most convenient arrangement in the world, but Rocky is having you lug xenonite boxes and panes of glass into the Hail Mary from the connector tunnel. You have to wait a half an hour each for the materials to cool down before you can pick them up, so there’s a whole lot of get-to-know you time. After the first batch of belongings, Rocky is sure to ask you about the basics—what Earth is like, what humans are like, and your expertise on the project. The second batch is exponentially more personal. Rocky asks about how you came to be on the ship, where on Earth you belong to, and if you miss your loved ones.

And, on the third and last batch, you and Rocky are sitting in the connector tunnel on a pile of empty storage crates, effectively repurposed into seating. It’ll be a short break, now, for you to catch your breath. You’re trying to get a good stretch out of your arms and legs as you sit on the slanted crate. You’re certainly expecting to be sore after all the strenuous labor of carrying Rocky’s things. Meanwhile, Rocky is rolling back and forth, back and forth—still testing out the mobility on his new xenonite ball. He seems pleased with the development. Or, bored. You can never tell what he’s thinking when he gets all roll-y. It only becomes apparent here when he decides to ask you: “Is Grace mate, question?”

“Wow. Presumptuous,” you punch out. It’s a nice shock to your senses, the forwardness of Rocky’s inquiry. It’s not like you haven’t thought about it, but obviously, it seems that Rocky’s confident that he’s got it all figured out. “Where are you getting that from?”

“Grace make all effort to do bad science jokes. Is baaad.” Rocky says. “But laugh like Grace mate.”

“That could just be me being polite,” you test. “It’s really important for morale, you know, laughing.”

Rocky pauses for a moment, stilled in his xenonite casing. Then, he tries again: “Is it same for heart rate too, question?” He chirps in a repetitive manner, something akin to a chuckle. There’s not much you can do to disprove the physiological facts. Rocky’s as clever as you’d expect—and it isn’t like you’re trying to conceal the nature of your relationship with Grace.

What you’ve got with him is neither here nor there. It’s perfectly middle-ground, and really, you're satisfied with it. Grace is a decent roommate; he’s observant—knows what ticks you off, what pleases you, avoids the former and tries for the latter. You can already tell that he’s a little bit sweet on you, just by the way that he looks at you with soft blue eyes—corners of his eyes crinkling as he busies his hands with whatever prop he decides to pick up. Glass beakers, microscopes, xenonite models, you name it. It’s always the same.

And you’re always staring at him with your chin propped up on your palm, at once amused and enamored. You’d known you would feel a certain way about Grace ever since you’d both woken up on the Hail Mary. You’re attracted to him, of course, but there’s also something else. Even without a whole memory, your mind lingers on him longer than need be. It’s something like love, if not exactly that. “Well, we haven’t talked about it, but we’re as good as mates,” you decide to tell Rocky.

“Is unclear,” he mumbles. Aloud, it does sound like very strange terms to be referring to the current circumstances. A very human arrangement, you think. Rocky concurs with a stamp of his arm down on the plated floor.

“We live together, we eat together. I can tell I want to kiss him and he wants to kiss me,” you list off, counting on one hand. “We cohabitate in the same space like two mates would, but we haven’t had the opportunity to… have it out. It’s mission-first thinking.”

Rocky begins to roll towards a batch of glass propped up on the wall, a wordless sign for you to pick it up for him. Break’s over. Begrudgingly, you follow along, lifting the trapezoidal glass pane up with both arms. As you swing it into a more secure grip, he seems to speak more softly. “More Eridian than human.”

“Who? Me?” you say half-heartedly, still very focused toward your grip on the xenonite glass. It’s more difficult for you than it is for Rocky to carry the whole thing through the hatch door of the Hail Mary. Still, it sounds like a high compliment.

“Yes. Is Eridian thinking to view Grace in definite terms. Grace as mate, inevitable. Is beautiful!” Rocky raises a claw up, wiggling his little rugged fingers in a gentle sweep across the empty space in front of him. It’s reassuring, certainly, that Rocky views you in high regard. Even though you’re breaking a sweat trying to carry this weighted pane for your new shipmate, you still make a concerted effort to give him a wide grin.

“Thanks, Rocky.”

—

There’s a good mood going between you and Rocky after all the talking. Grace picks up on it quickly after his long nap, when he sees the both of you huddled in the lab working on one of the larger dry-erase boards. There’s a bunch of calculations scrawled neatly in black across the whole white surface, alongside a larger diagram of the ship’s engines. While he’s been sleeping, it’s clear the two of you have been wading through the more complex engineering issues. Hearing Grace’s footsteps approach, you turn to face him over your shoulder with a grin, “Morning.”

Grace looks straight out of bed, with his punny tee and his sweatpants—blonde hair sticking up in random directions. He seems to be stretching his back out as you greet him, eyelids heavy. “It seems like someone ignored the memo to pack light,” Grace grumbles, nudging his mug towards the corridor behind him. The stack of xenonite crates and glass you two amassed is generous, to say the least.

“Hey, I’m just the mover,” you hum, “You’re gonna have to take it up with the big guy.” You jut your index finger out towards Rocky, who’s tapping one side claw against the glass.

He merely buzzes, “Rocky need equipment to save Earth Erid stars. Don’t mind.” He rolls closer to the center of the room to get a better scan of the corridor, before returning to your side at the white board. “Same volume of mess as before Rocky arrival.” Rude. When you look back over at Grace, he doesn’t seem to have any major objections. It is true; the two of you were maybe a little bit slobbish before Rocky came along.

The three of you seem to fall back into routine easily. Grace is still trying to wake himself up with generous gulps of black coffee. You and Rocky continue on with your calculations and diagram. You’re trying your best to stay focused on the work—but the two of you have been working on these problems for the past hour and now, Grace is in front of you with his entirely sleep-ridden appearance. He just looks… perfect. And, out of the blue, Rocky shoots out an abrupt: “Why choose Grace for mate, question?” There’s a clatter to your left. Grace’s grip loosens on the handle of his mug, a sizable drop of coffee splashing onto the steel counter beside you both. He decides, at once, to place the mug down and away from himself, before wiping the mess up with the sleeve of his navy-blue hoodie.

Grace sputters, “What? Mate—we're not—that would require at least kind of—" He’s speaking so intermittently that he can barely get a full sentence out. You raise a brow just watching Grace mesh his hands together, fingers interlocking and coming apart. He’s not making it any better for himself.

The wide-eyed look that you give Rocky isn’t nearly as mortified as Grace’s. While it’s accompanied by shock, you’re very intrigued by the nature of Rocky’s question. You have no idea what he’s shooting for, but it’s clearly working. Grace is talking to himself, dazed as he fixates on soaking the coffee up with his sleeve. Rocky stays silent in his xenonite casing. He’s anticipating an answer out of you, and so you’re going to have to give it to him. With a rather astute tone, analytical in nature, you offer up, “Well, he’s passionate. That’s a plus.”

Grace’s brows furrow together. “Sorry?” He’s floored. You can’t possibly be talking about him, but Rocky’s asking and you’re answering. It’s really not adding up. Grace is looking at you over the frame of his glasses, eyes squinted in perplexity.

“The molecular biology, the teaching,” you note, “Gold stars all around.”

“Dedication valuable for Earth mate selection,” Rocky nods along. It isn’t anything he doesn’t already know. While Grace has been asleep and the two of you have gotten to talking, Rocky knows practically all the minute details of why you’ve “chosen” Grace. The point of hashing it out in front of him now is unclear—aside from the potential entertainment value. That makes sense.

“Okay. He learned humor while I was napping. I’m not offended at all.” Though he tries to laugh it off, Grace doesn’t sound at all sure of himself. He’s very close to pacing back and forth, not sure whether he should try to change out of his now coffee-soaked hoodie or question the two of you further. When you and Rocky turn straight back to work unaffected, you at the front of the board and him tracing his claw across the glass with a sort of contemplative silence, Grace is shell-shocked. He’s muttering under his breath, “I don’t think I get the joke.” Both of your backs are turned to Grace; he can’t see the growing smirk that’s cropping up on your face.

It’s a quick pivot back to work. “I have a feeling that we should make a few minor adjustments to the rear fuselage. There’s going to be a lot of strain on engines when we get to Tau Ceti-E.” You click your tongue, circling the lower right quadrant of the diagram in a red dry-erase ink. Once your little annotation is completed, you tuck the marker in your back pocket.

“Agree, agree, agree,” Rocky tips his body towards the white board. His texture monitor is showing a complex, grayscale copy of the board to a T. It’s as if neither of you have tried to tease Grace to death just seconds prior. He’s glued to the ground with a weary kind of expression on his face. Grace is frowning, truly and deeply, with his palm squeezing the back of his neck. You could almost feel bad if you weren’t so pleased to see Grace like this; rarely is he speechless.

A few minutes pass. Then, Rocky approaches the same question from a different vantage point. “Grace attractive by human standard, question?”

“Well, he's handsome by my standard, and I’m pretty sure a lot of humans would agree,” you admit. “He is a bit dorky, but I like ‘em that way. That’s preference, though. Not all humans are into dorky.”

Rocky returns your statement with a rushed out, “Yes, yes, yes—preference. Understand.”

“Okay. Hello?” Grace speaks outward towards the lab. His voice carries throughout the hull of the ship, and the two of you are still non-reactive. “We’re doing it again. I am in the room.” His old teacher’s voice is coming out again—one hand shot up in the air, trying to flag your attention.

You look at him over your shoulder with a soft “What was that, Ry?” You’re very pleased to see that his cheeks are glowing red underneath the white-gold frames of his glasses. You drag your gaze up and down his raised arm, with a particularly sharp grin hanging off your face. So toned. “Didn’t hear you,” you tilt your head. Grace lowers his arm slowly, turning back around to pick up his mug.

“Ha-ha,” Grace punches out. He’s trying to seem unbothered by this whole situation, but it really is bothering him. No matter how hard he’s trying to maintain his composure, Grace is flushed. You can practically see the steam rising off the top of his head. It’s an illogical conversation playing out in front of him and the effort’s no use. You and Rocky are absolutely impossible. “I’m going to go for a metaphorical breath of fresh air. I will… see you both shortly.” Grace is too nervous to push it any further, and it seems like he’s leaving you both to do a cool-off lap around the ship.

You can hear him talking to himself as he leaves the lab, as if possessed by his own confusion. “Handsome…? Is it April Fool’s? Mary, can you pull up a UTC calendar for me, please? What month is it back home?” Louder, the ship’s computer rings out a staticky, “The month is: June.” Grace’s muffled groan rings out towards the two of you..

You turn towards Rocky with a slow shake of your head. “You’re really mean. Did you know that?” you ask Rocky. He pushes closer to you. Like you’re any better.

“Grace not know you are mates when obvious. Grace fault,” Rocky says, with both claws pointed in the air. You think it’s supposed to be a sort of shrug.

—

After Grace’s little cooldown period, he’s back on his feet and wanting to teach you how to sample astrophage. Even though you’ll both be out there at the same time, spacewalking side by side, he wants you to be prepared. It’s best that you both know how to handle the equipment. You’re not completely convinced that he’s over your little bit with Rocky earlier, but he seems altogether unoffended enough to talk to you. While you and Grace are running through the sampler together, Rocky’s not far away. He sits in the corridor, sifting through his things—no doubt listening to the two of you working together.

Grace's fingers trace over the orange lining of the box before he slides it towards you. “You’re going to have this whole sampler rig attached to your suit. It’s supposed to be portable, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle for us to bring it out and set it up on the topside of the deck,” he explains. You’re nodding along; something tells you that you’ve heard this entire lecture before—that Grace is using the words that he might’ve before your launch—but it’s altogether pointless to point it out now.

You’re watching as his hands surround either side of the sampler; he pulls out, simultaneously, two metal grated plates. “Okay. These plates are supposed to intake the astrophage going towards Tau Ceti-E.” Grace closes the one set and opens another. “And these are supposed to grab the astrophage that’s leaving. We’ll grab input first. Then, output.”

Mindlessly, Grace grabs the off-white masking tape off the counter beside you, nearly brushing your waist; he tries to ignore the minimal contact, pressing the bar of tape onto the first set of plates. Then, the second. Grace discards the roll on the counter, before picking the dry-erase marker out of your pocket and presses it into the palm of your dominant hand. Grace flinches as his fingertips graze the surface of your palm. He’s still trying to keep a fair distance after your little debacle with Rocky earlier, but he just can’t help it.

“You want me to label it?” you laugh.

“It’s lab standard,” he insists. “If we mix them up, we’ll have to sample all over again—and that would mean we’d have to clean the plates. And if we do that poorly…” Grace makes a big show of making a miniature explosion with his hands. It’s difficult not to scoff at him. You know it’s lab standard, but he could easily label them himself. The apprehension worn on your face makes Grace sigh. You’re able to read him too easily, and he surrenders over, “And I like your handwriting more than I like mine.”

There—the root of the issue. You shake your head, “You’re a teacher, Grace. Legibility is, like, a job requirement.”

“If that were true, the staff at Grover Cleveland Middle would’ve been chopped in half,” he chuckles. As far as you’ve seen, his handwriting isn’t bad at all. To each their own, you suppose. You lean down to write on the open panels of the sampler, Grace watching carefully over your shoulder.

“See? This is part of the mating ritual, too, Rock.” It barely comes out as a whisper as you’re writing down “a1. input” and “a2. output” neatly across the tape for either panel. It’s sarcasm really, but you realize much too late that Rocky might not interpret it as such. Grace, somehow, is much more occupied at watching over your labeling technique; he murmurs back a distracted “Hm?” before furrowing his brows. He stands straight up, eyebrows furrowed. It might have taken a second to register, but Grace is fully aware of what you’ve said—

And suddenly, Rocky is practically shouting down the corridor with a hurried, “wait, wait wait!” You can hear the successive rapid thunks of him sliding into his xenonite ball, sealing it, and rolling back towards the both of you. The Eridian practically comes barreling in through the doorway, running into the white metal shelves of the Hail Mary with a childlike ardor. “Is initiating kiss, question?”

“Again?” Grace groans, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. When he lowers his hand, you can see the blush spreading across his face, from the tips of his ears to his cheeks. “Okay. That’s it,” Grace huffs. “This has to end now. No more bits.”

“Graaace. Do not be mad,” Rocky whines in a low tone, “Is only kiss. Partial threshold for human relations.” Grace is tugging his hoodie off in a desperate attempt to keep a regular temperature. There’s a shelf hook close enough for him to toss up the garment haphazardly. Once it’s out of the way, he turns toward Rocky.

“You didn’t even know that word an hour ago.” Grace’s voice raises in tone and volume all at once, crackling with embarrassment. It’s unintentionally accusatory. Grace certainly didn’t code in <kiss>, and it’s not like Rocky can type into his own vocabulary bank. And Grace can’t seem to figure out why you’d code it aside from entertainment value.

“Kiss not bad word, Grace. Is normal,” Rocky explains calmly. “Now, do kiss. Please.” The begging tone that Rocky dishes out to Grace only makes him more and more impatient. Meanwhile, you’re simply watching the two of them bicker with one another—not interested in the slightest to stop the argument. Shamefully, you do want Grace to be pushed to his limit. And this happens much quicker than you would anticipate. Right about now, Grace has his hands locked together and resting just over his head. His face is still flushed, and he’s got his glasses hanging off his face.

Grace is trying to stay as calm as he can and failing. Every time the word is used, he’s getting deeply distracted by the thought of your lips on his. He can’t help the way his mind drifts to that very, very vivid fantasy of your hands balancing flat on his chest. Finally, he breathes out a heavy and burdened sigh: “No more kiss talk. We aren’t together, end of story.”

“I mean, we kind of are,” you say to Grace, who turns sharply mid-speaking to tilt his head at you.

“What?” he stammers softly. You’re not helping his case, especially with that tone.

Hands held behind your back, you repeat for Grace, “We are.” It's a matter of fact. Any semblance of sternness Grace was attempting prior crumbles at the drop of a dime. He’s pointing at you with his index finger, then at himself, then you again. “No, we’re not.”

You grab for Grace’s wrist, just over the red-band of his wristwatch. “Okay. Come on, we’re going up to screens.” Grace, still stunned, lets you drag him out of the lab and towards the corridor. As you look over your shoulder, you can see that Rocky is shooting you a strong thumbs-down.

—

The empty, numbered panels of the projection deck flicker to life into the backdrop of the river Seine. You’ve asked Mary to put on music—really, anything would do—and she decides to ring out some folk-rock song that you’ve never heard before. Something older, not too much ruckus when played loud. It’s a decent way to guarantee yourself a bit of privacy with your new, sound-attuned roommate. You’ll be lucky if Rocky can’t hear the two of you finally having this talk. Over the sound of the soft strumming guitars, you stretch your shoulders back. “I might have had a bit too fun teasing you. Sorry.”

“Well, I thought you were just… doing a bit. Like, ha-ha, ‘Ryland Grace dies alone in space,’” Grace mumbles. “Is it still a bit? You’re sending a whole lot of signals, and I don’t think I’m receiving—” Grace seems to quiet down as soon as you plant your hand down on his chest. He’s tracing his eyes from your hand, down your arm, and straight up to your face with his lips parted. “Or, I am receiving. A little bit.”

“Okay,” you decide, “You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? I have. We’ve been living together for the equivalent of… what, a few months now? I’m comfortable with you, and you’re comfortable with me. It’s been like that ever since we got sent up. Maybe even before. I don’t remember. But we like each other.” Your fingers are dancing soft on his chest, and his breath is hitching.

“We?” Grace echoes. “I was under the impression that you were, you know, kind of uninterested in me. Besides, you know, as a co-habitant. Mission-wise, it’s crucial for us to get along.” He’s clueless, clearly, because it hasn’t been like that at all—for you, at least.

You’re trying to stir up another line of reasoning for him. You have to meet Grace at his level.  “There’s the, uh, Einstein quote. I know you know it, just… let me think.” You massage your temples with your fingers, trying to wrack your brain for it. It’s perfect. What is it, again?

It’s easy for Grace—the middle-school science teacher that he is—to pick up what you’re putting down. "When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, you think it's only a minute. But when you sit on a hot stove for a minute, you think it's two hours. That's relativity,” Grace nods, “But that’s a very crude explanation of the concept, and I don’t really—”

You shush him with a shake of your head. “Right. Eridians don’t have a conception of relativity. It isn’t necessary for them, because things are just… what they are. They’re literal and exact, and there isn’t any dancing around the facts.” you explain to Grace hurriedly. “So… you’re my boyfriend. You’ve been my boyfriend.”

It takes a moment for him to process your argument. It’s very… forward. He seems to look past you towards one of the panel-screens. The projected river is still glittering behind you, and you’re not going anywhere. Mary even put in the effort of mixing this ambient watery sound—boats and people, back on Earth whenever ago—with the music track. Somehow, your traveling abode in space has made the absolute perfect atmosphere for this. You and Grace.

“Well, that’s just…” Grace nods slowly, “peachy.” He drops his head down in absolute disappointment of his own incapability to speak. What is he saying?

“Peachy?” you repeat quietly. You’re astounded that that’s the choice of word he’s selected for this entire ordeal. It’s so like him. You can feel yourself shuddering out a breath. Your cheeks are already sore enough as is—and you don’t think you can take another hard laugh.

“Don’t,” Grace says, “I have had a long and emotionally tumultuous couple of hours.”

“Are you mad about the teasing?” you ask, stepping closer to Grace. He’s barely paying attention, eyes glazed-over in a dazed fashion. He’s having trouble focusing on your words. Too occupied with you.

“No. Never,” he murmurs, eyebrows knitted together. You’re reaching for Grace next, hands swinging around his neck in an effort to pull him in. He’s fumbling with his hands, unsure exactly where to place them. They’re steady only when they find grounding on your midsection. You give him one peck on the lips. Then, another. He leans into the contact, the rims of your glasses brushing against the surface of your cheeks. It’s casual, comfortable—as if it’s not the first time. You’re his, and he’s yours. It’s effortless. Grace seems to finally ease up.

There’s a few loud thuds down the hall—presumably, your Eridian counterpart. The folk-rock is no use. Rocky has obviously been listening through the entirety of your back-and-forth. “Finally, Grace act like real mate. Congratulate, congratulate, congratulate.” His voice rings out loudly towards the projection deck. Grace is muttering under his breath again, something about those boundaries. At least now, you’re both on the same page.

[rockymatebadashell-statement]

there's been a dreadful LACK of ryland grace x male!reader or gn!reader on here, and I'm gonna try become the change I want to see in the world. If I started to post anything I write, would people be interested in reading it?

[s4turn3st]

The sluttiest he has ever looked

[s4turn3st]

Working with Ryland wasn’t much of a problem. In fact, it was the opposite.

He was so likable it was hard to get upset at the guy if he made a mistake, even if he could get a bit bratty, none of it came from the heart and he’d spit out a small apology later.

However, only one thing comes to mind.

He had no concept of personal space.

He constantly complains about Rocky invading your shared living space in the Hail Mary, but he doesn’t even realize they are so much more similar than he thinks.

If you’re looking through the microscope, he’s hovering behind you, heat radiating off his body as he leans over your shoulder, as if he was able to see what you were seeing.

If you’re trying to show him something, he’s rolling his stool over next to yours and practically leaning against you to see what you are showing him.

More than once, he’s helped put things away or grab things off high shelves, reaching over you and practically trapping you under his arms.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, or even how he’s affecting you at all.

Over time it keeps evolving as you two get closer to one another.

A hand on the small of your back as he moves past you.

Putting his hands on your waist as he peers over your shoulder.

Wrapping his arm around your shoulder nonchalantly while you both watch some movie in the ‘don’t go crazy’ room.

Putting a hand on your thigh while you sit near him.

He just wants to be all up in your space and you’re not too mad about that anymore. He’s warm, comforting, something to ground you in these stressful moments in space.

[vacuously-true]

Hey tumblr friends, in case I haven't told you lately, I have no idea what the FUCK half of you are on about and I WISH I didn't know what the rest of you are on about. Great work. Keep it up.

[nudityandnerdery]

[southfarthing]