[onsunnyside]

𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐒 & 𝐂𝐎.

𝐑𝐞𝐦𝐢𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 — Do not plagiarize, copy, repost/republish, adapt or translate any of my work on any social media platforms, apps, or third party sites. My blog is 18+, so minors DNI. I do not own any character of any franchise (Marvel, etc.). All my works are fiction and may be dark or have triggering content: read all warnings before proceeding.

𝐀𝐮𝐭𝐡𝐨𝐫'𝐬 𝐍𝐨𝐭𝐞: All my main characters are of legal age, fem!reader and their descriptions are vague to be inclusive to all! (unless specified). All dividers, visuals and moodboards are made by me unless stated otherwise—I make all my visuals, moodboards, and dividers specifically for my stories, masterlists and blog, please don’t steal them. No pictures and gifs belong to me.

I don’t do taglists anymore. ˚₊· ͟͟͞͞➳❥ 𝐅𝐨𝐥𝐥𝐨𝐰 & 𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐧 𝐨𝐧 𝐩𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲: @𝐨𝐧𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐧𝐲𝐬𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐥𝐢𝐛𝐫𝐚𝐫𝐲

☼ 𝐃𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐦𝐲 𝐊𝐨-𝐟𝐢 ☼

˗ˏˋ𝐌𝐚𝐢𝐧 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭ˎˊ˗ | @onsunnysidelibrary | 𝐀𝐎𝟑 | 𝐒𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐲'𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐚𝐲𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐬

【 fluff, smut, angst, dark, (c)ompleted, request 】

𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐬 & 𝐂𝐨. 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

「 𝐂𝐇𝐑𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐀𝐍𝐒 」

「 𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐕𝐄 𝐑𝐎𝐆𝐄𝐑𝐒 」 & 「 𝐒𝐓𝐔𝐂𝐊𝐘 𝐗 𝐑𝐄𝐀𝐃𝐄𝐑 」

「 𝐀𝐍𝐃𝐘 𝐁𝐀𝐑𝐁𝐄𝐑 」

「 𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐌 𝐃𝐑𝐘𝐒𝐃𝐀𝐋𝐄 」

「 𝐀𝐑𝐈 𝐋𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍𝐒𝐎𝐍 」

「 𝐉𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐉𝐄𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐍 」

「 𝐂𝐔𝐑𝐓𝐈𝐒 𝐄𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐄𝐓𝐓 」

「 𝐉𝐎𝐇𝐍𝐍𝐘 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐌 」

「 𝐂𝐎𝐋𝐈𝐍 𝐒𝐇𝐄𝐀 」

「 𝐉𝐀𝐊𝐄 𝐖𝐘𝐋𝐄𝐑 」

「 𝐅𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐊 𝐀𝐃𝐋𝐄𝐑 」

「 𝐁𝐑𝐘𝐂𝐄 𝐋𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐘 」

「 𝐃𝐄𝐍𝐍𝐈𝐒 𝐁𝐀𝐊𝐄𝐑 」

「 𝐌𝐑 𝐅𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐙𝐘 」

「 𝐃𝐄𝐕𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 」

「 𝐎𝐅𝐅𝐈𝐂𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐈𝐋𝐋 」

「 𝐋𝐋𝐎𝐘𝐃 𝐇𝐀𝐍𝐒𝐄𝐍 」

「 𝐉𝐀𝐌𝐄𝐒 𝐌𝐀𝐂𝐄 」

「 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐒𝐒𝐎𝐕𝐄𝐑𝐒 」

𝐁𝐮𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐮𝐦 𝐇𝐞𝐚𝐫𝐭; one shot ⤜ f, s

✧࿐ [major crossover, main pairing: brother’s best friends!Ari Levinson & Steve Rogers x bratty!reader, with: brother’s best friends!Curtis Everett, Jake Jensen, Ransom Drysdale]

𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲 (𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐛𝐨𝐱 𝐕𝐞𝐫𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧); collection ⤜ f, s

✧࿐ Icky college boys will never change—so sleep with their dads. [boyfriend’s dad!Andy Barber x reader, with: dilf!neighbour!Bucky Barnes, dilf!Ari Levinson, dilf lumberjack!Steve Rogers, age gap, cheating]

Set in the verse of: 𝐂𝐫𝐮𝐞𝐥; one shot ⤜ s, r (c)

𝐂𝐫𝐲𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲; one shot ⤜ s, r (c)

✧࿐ You have your first orgasm at the hands (and mouth) of your two best friends. Based on this ask. [college au, Curtis Everett x virgin!reader x Jake Jensen, innocent!reader, innocence/ruined kink, corruption kink]

𝐅𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐓𝐰𝐨; mini series ⤜ soft!d, f, s, a

✧࿐ When the innocent lamb is lost and alone, beasts are bound to come—only in your case, they’re disguised as virtuous, charming shepherds. [soft!dark Steve Rogers x naive!reader, soft!dark Ransom Drysdale x naive!reader, pining, possessive behaviour]

𝐅𝐫𝐚𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐧𝐚𝐥 𝐈𝐧𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐧𝐜𝐭𝐬; series ⤜ d, f, s,

✧࿐ Ari has spent too long protecting you from the big bad world and all the monsters who inhabit it—including himself—for you to belong to someone else. See the Rush Collection. [soft dark!stepbrother!Ari Levinson, frat boys!CEvans characters, innocent!reader, university au, stepcest, grey character undertones, fratboy!Ari, innocent/virgin!reader]

𝐇𝐨𝐥𝐲 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐢𝐥; series ⤜ f, s, a

✧࿐ They’re shaded and jaded, and you’re the answer to their prayers. [uni!camgirl!reader, friends-with-benefits, dad’s best friend and sugar daddy au ft. our favourite daddies]

𝐊𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐚; (HCV Alternative Version) collection ⤜ d, f, s, a

✧࿐ Draped in power, gold and glory—the alphas of Arcadia Phi set their sights on you, the new omega freshman. [dark A/B/O college AU, dark alpha!fratboy!cevans characters x omega!reader, HC Verse Alternative Version]

𝐊𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚; mini series ⤜ d, s

✧࿐ Don’t get sad, get even. [Major Crossover—Ghostface boyfriends!Ari Levinson, Steve Rogers, Curtis Everett, Ransom Drysdale x cheater!reader. Gangbang (DP), character wears a mask so the reader doesn’t know who they are, chase kink, jealousy]

𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐢𝐨𝐬; collection ⤜ f, s, r

✧࿐ From the ashes of the Golden Age of Porn rises the demand for productions of all kinds—and wickedly stellar and infamously gnarly Love Shack Studios are on the hunt for a new star. [major crossover, pornstar!Ari Levinson and pornstar!Curtis Everett x fluffer!reader (major crossover: pornstar!Steve Rogers, pornstar!Devin Peters, cameraman!Jake Jensen, CEO!Lloyd Hansen, casting director!Mr. Freezy, socialite!Ransom Drysdale)]

𝐏𝐮𝐭 𝐌𝐞 𝐢𝐧 𝐚 𝐌𝐨𝐯𝐢𝐞; one shot ⤜ s (c)

✧࿐ Every pet needs an owner and in your case, your daddy loves sharing you. [Ari Levinson x bunny hybrid!reader (to Major Crossover: Ari Levinson, Andy Barber, Lloyd Hansen and Steve Rogers x bunny hybrid!reader). Exhibitionism, boot riding, dom/sun undertones, dumbification]

𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩 𝐁𝐲 𝐒𝐭𝐞𝐩; one shot ⤜ s (c)

✧࿐ It’s the summer before your freshman college year, and your stepdad’s best friend has been teaching you about pleasure behind your stepdad’s back, or so you think. Based on this ask. [stepdad!Ari Levinson, stepdad’s best friend!Lloyd Hansen, stepcest, innocent!/inexperienced!reader]

𝐀𝐬 𝐏𝐥𝐞𝐚𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐭 𝐀𝐬 𝐏𝐨𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐛𝐥𝐞; headcanon-ish ⤜ s (c)

✧࿐ Based on an ask: "You walk into the office of your boss and see 4 handsome men staring at you and undressing you with their eyes. Your boss introduces them: Mr. Rogers, Mr. Barber, Mr. Evans & Mr. Levinson. You have to make their stay as pleasant as possible..."

𝐌𝐚𝐦𝐦𝐚 𝐌𝐢𝐚; series ⤜ f, s, a

𝐅𝐨𝐫 𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐝𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬: 𝐂𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬 𝐄𝐯𝐚𝐧𝐬 & 𝐂𝐨. 𝐁𝐥𝐮𝐫𝐛𝐬/𝐃𝐫𝐚𝐛𝐛𝐥𝐞𝐬 𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭

[zonkedorchid]

When someone asks what’s on my mind but I can’t say “that one scene from the mandalorian movie”

Brb going to go reread my fav fics with this in mind ✌️

[a-bad-dream]

show of faith.

part ii of test of faith

( + read on AO3 ) ✣ PAIRING: Father Jud Duplenticy x Art historian fem!reader (2nd person POV) ✣ THEMES AND WARNINGS: NSFW, Minors do not interact!!!! Religious themes, angst, grief/mourning, smut with so many feelings it's embarrassing, penetration (f receiving). ✣ NOTES: Wasn't planning on making a part 2 but as often with me, ideas came and aligned in a way that felt natural; I hope you enjoy this second part as much as I did writing it. ♡ ✣ SYNOPSIS: Your souls touched once. He's carried that memory ever since, unaware that you'd cross paths again in his hour of need.

You've always liked the smell of churches. The gilded mystery to it. Heady incense, mildewy stones, the cleanliness of beeswax candles.

You like this church in particular. With its towering spire, the florid shapes in the patterns rimming the choir, pure light beams falling off the window onto the altar cloth.

You like the wiry silhouette standing near that altar. His slightly tense shoulders, dark hair, darker clothes, a modest, shadowy smudge at the end of the nave.

The gentle hum of his voice flits to your ears.

Time has passed since you last heard the distinct click and clank of the entrance to Our Lady of Perpetual Grace. Funny how certain things never truly sink down into the swamps of memory, how they always sit like oil on water, awaiting to be scooped up again at the slightest stir.

You wish you could skulk in anonymity a little longer. Take in the sights of this place you've missed, simmer in the sun like a spoiled house cat, lulled by the murmurs of conversation between the priest and a couple of elderly parishioners.

What is this unnameable weight you feel, shifting and warping in your stomach? Are you nervous? Are you afraid? Is it a hint of enthusiastic thrill?

The congregants are taking leave of him. You try to ignore the thrum in your chest.

Take a breath.

Your voice bounces through the dusty gold beams, splitting in echoes around the sanctuary like images of a kaleidoscope. A little louder than you intended.

“Hello, Father.”

He recognizes your voice before anything else. You can tell from the way his back straightens, head slightly pivoting, unveiling the side of his cheekbone, and long lashes batting two three times as the sole indicator of surprise.

His gaze falls over you next, bathing you in a familiar sea—mixture of water and grass.

“Oh—” his breath hitches, imperceptibly, “—it's you.”

It's you. He says it as if the past year only lasted a few minutes, like you've only been gone for a short break outside, carrying back to him a whiff of birch trees and wet soil to resume a pending dialogue. Like you were always destined to land back onto the edge of his sleeve.

A strange, woolly silence falls through. The profound closeness, rekindled yet elusive, escapes like dry sand between your fingers.

You both speak up at the same time, voices overlapping and crashing back down in an awkward succession of “Please, you go first” and “Sorry, what were you saying?”.

There's another fragment of silence, dismissed by a clumsy laugh on both your parts. Eyes refusing to meet. His hands digging into his pockets, yours picking at your nails.

Eventually, he asks the great question: What are you doing here?

It's expected, yet you find yourself stammering around it. Offering a disjointed explanation despite it being summarized in nine easy words: Gothic Revival and Christian Buildings of the East Coast. It's a book. It comes out in eight months. It needs pictures. You timidly point over to the photographer the publishing house hired. He's traipsing near the walls, nose up in the air, seemingly disinterested in meeting the priest—or interacting with anything from Chimney Rock, for that matter. There's no friendship lost between the two of you, and you're glad to temporarily escape the aura of superiority he radiates to a point of suffocation.

Father Jud barely gazes in the direction of your unappreciative travel companion.

“You wrote a book?”

His warm stupefaction makes your heart weep.

He sounds impressed. He shouldn't be. Nonetheless, you can't remember the last time anyone was that enthused about your work.

“I only wrote the chapter on colored glass,” you try to temper his interest. “I say write, but frankly, it's mostly a fine arts book. The sort people like to buy for the pictures and display on their coffee tables, you know?”

“You never sent that paper you wrote last year, by the way.”

You had promised you would. You also remember distinctly where you made that promise—his head still lying on your chest, body tangled in your bedsheets.

A brutal gush of heat climbs up your spine.

You apologize, blaming your memory. But something in the way you say it makes him think it could've been deliberate. You're quick to change the subject, glad to redirect some of the attention towards him. What about him?

The anomaly would be easy to miss, with how snugly it hides beneath his features, waiting in the dimples of his smile. During those seconds of hesitation, while his eyes carelessly focus on a crack in the tile, you manage to catch it. He's exhausted. There's a grayness to him, a lack.

“Is everything alright?”

The answer lies, eloquent, in the small, fluttering moments of silence.

A click, a clank.

Father Jud's gaze is carried back to the narthex, his attention slipping off you like river water on a pebble. You look over your shoulder. Members of the congregation stepping in, one tall figure dressed in black; two small children with forlorn airs clutching her hand.

All residual color has left Father Jud's face. He apologizes to you, stumbling with his words. He has to take care of this. He hopes to catch you later.

There's an itch in your side, the understanding that something's going on that eludes you. But this realm isn't yours, this town isn't yours, you are but a migratory bird brought back by the whims of the winds. All you can do is witness.

You're silent as you leave. On your way down the nave, you gaze at the kids and their mother. Morosity weighs them down, a dark and heavy corvid perched onto their backs.

For the joyous and easygoing, it is simple to forget churches don't just gather elated, living crowds for weddings and baptisms. Seeping into the hardy walls, pain perfumes the transept too, persistent as mold. Churches were built for mourners too.

You feel eyes pet your spine as you walk away. It could be a mistake, a feeble impression induced by the sporadic rays of light.

You do not glance back to verify.

A funeral mass is held at the church the next day.

You hear about this when the photographer walks up to your table in the dining room of the inn you're staying at, all huffing and puffing, pulling you away from an excellent mystery novel you found at the tiny bookstore down the street. It was supposed to be the perfect hour for photography, according to him.

“Well, we're obviously not going to disturb them now,” you feel the need to issue the reminder.

The thwarted plan doesn't bother you as much as it does the photographer, who whines about it for what seems the better part of the afternoon. When he moves on to complaining about Chimney Rock next and the nothingness of tiny towns, you decide you've had your fair share of empty discourse for the day. Your spirit aches for more. Stimulation. Connection. All things you found here, once.

The evening douses the sky a pensive, grayish-blue when you reach the bar, the boisterous haven you crashed into for hours on end on your first stay around. You're hit with a warm draft of wheat and honey, tobacco, smoked wood. You've barely passed the threshold and the bartender already identifies you. Perhaps because you've spent more than one evening with Father Jud, casually requisitioning a piece of his bar. Nothing worse than patrons who talk and talk to the point of forgetting to drink—that's just no way to run a business.

“If you're looking for the priest, he left already,” he signals to you with fatigued resignation, his voice soaring above the hum of the crowd.

You're a little perplexed, glancing at him, ready to defend yourself, but he swipes his hand fretfully, almost ushering you back towards the exit. You don't know why, you let yourself through the doors again, ousted like a fruit fly, having all but forgotten the prospect of a drink and drowning in the clamor of patrons.

Ink drawn trees bend over the deserted road like claws. The grounds feel spongy and lethargic from the fresh hug of rain. Your feet carry you towards the church. You don't realize you're headed there until the outline of the spire traverses the night sky.

A muffled thump halts you. A soft echo, rippling through the dozy tall grass, perturbing the melodic stridulation of katydids. You can hear mild grunts as you get closer, a scraping, something thrown against a rough surface in a jagged rhythm. You emerge at the end of the path, under a canopy of trees.

You'd recognize his outline even with your eyes closed.

“Father?”

His arm finishes its movement, bending in a gracious curve, pushed into an arrow-straight line. There's another one of those dim hisses; the rock he throws ricochets off tree bark and vanishes under the spell of gravity, swallowed whole by grass. It's such a bizarre spectacle to stumble onto, you're unsure how to react.

He does this a couple more times, oblivious to your presence, before he abruptly bows forward like a broken stick, and you're rushing over, alarmed, thinking he just lost his balance. He's only sitting down, svelte silhouette clumsily set upon the sturdy ground, paying no heed to the muck on his clothes.

You crouch next to him, hiding your disconcertment as best you can.

“Did that tree do something to you?” you whisper.

He's not inebriated enough not to recognize you. Also not inebriated enough to escape the rush of shame once he does. Eyebrows pinched, his nose crumples into a grimace.

“There you are,” he sighs. As if you got lost, somehow, and he had been looking in the woods for you.

He presses both heels of his hands against his eyelids. A low grunt rises from the pits of his throat.

“That tree is huge.”

You'd chortle at the statement if you weren't so worried. You can smell malt on his breath.

The tree's gnarly trunk is fractured from deep gashes, bark split open, unveiling younger rings of wood, torn edges rimmed a queer color—vermilion red, harsh, metallic—like lipstick staining a vulgar and warped mouth.

A widow and two children in a church. A funeral. A lacerated tree. The story weaves itself into your mind, braiding the disjointed pieces together. Someone had an accident here. But a thread is still missing—where does a guilt-burdened priest fit into this sorrowful tapestry?

Your hand carefully reaches for his shoulder.

“Can you walk?”

It turns out he can. With a dollop of help. You pass an arm around his waist to help him up. He smells of the forest and chestnuts, body all warm from the liquor. How long has he been out here, macerating in peat-flavored night?

“If we meet someone, I'll just tell them you had some bad fish.”

His cackle perturbs the remaining chirping creatures lurking in the dark. That sound surprises you enough that you find yourself mimicking him.

You both wobble along the path to the rectory. His legs are longer than yours, but in his state, he could easily crash onto the cobbles, make you tumble along with him.

“Keys,” you tell him once you reach the front door.

He goes through two pockets before he finds them, clammy hands slipping the jingling set into yours. The door glides open. A few last steps. You guide him to the sofa, in which he seems to sink rather than sit. While you remove the plump cushions to give him more space, his forehead nudges your shoulder. Body leaning into yours, limp and indolent. When he exhales, the warmth of his breath penetrates your clothing, tingling your skin. Your hand draws a circle on his back. A gentle stroke, between his shoulders, steady, patient.

“I'm going to make you lie down now,” you forewarn in a murmur.

His eyes flutter shut as soon as he's nestled against the matted upholstery. You gingerly arrange him into a safer position. Steering him onto his side, knees brought closer to his body. Removing his shoes. When you stand back up, his fingers grip your wrist. Thumb pad grazing your pulse. He mumbles something unintelligible. So you wait. A couple of heartbeats that stretch into a minute. His hand drops eventually. You carefully replace it to his side.

You've never been to the rectory before. There was no reason for it, your domain confined to the church alone. But the parlor is homey, the furniture simple—a tad worn out, yet inviting. A slightly collapsed armchair receives you. For what seems like a long time, you doze off gently, coddled by the cushions, the clicking song of insects gathered in pockets of darkness beyond the windows. Eyes floating back to Father Jud every so often, his chest rising gently as he breathes, lashes fluttering, chasing a dream. The glow of the sole lamp keeping you company reflects and divides on the windows turned into a gallery of mirrors, jet-black and hypnotic.

You don't realize your eyes have closed.

A tumbling sound jolts you up.

“Sorry—” you hear him whisper from somewhere behind you, a superfluous precaution since you're the only people here, “—didn't mean to wake you.”

A tartan plaid cloaks your knees. Your mouth feels like cotton. Outside the windows, pale blues are fading into apricot orange, tickling the tree line. The insects have stopped singing. A speck of cool light climbs up your arm.

You wonder what woke him up—anxiety or dawn.

When you ask what time it is, Father Jud replies, a little past six. Your eyes trail from the mug he brings you—that little tea pouch tainting the hot water amber—to him next, trying to read his features.

“About yesterday—” he nibbles on a fingernail, sitting back onto the sofa at arm's length, “—I owe you an apology.” His throat is dry, his voice slightly sibilant.

“You don't owe me anything. You don't even have to explain if you don't want to.”

He ruffles through his already disheveled hair. Not feeling like himself. He would like to curl up on the couch. Forget. Sleep a few hundred years more.

“Hey, take a breath.” You've caught that downcast shadow, trembling near his mouth. You're leaning into him. Hand jutting to meet his. “Listen, when things get a little too overwhelming, I like to go for a walk to ground myself. Let's try that. It's the perfect time for it.”

Your fingers press on his wrist, on that small bone that's shaped like a marble. They're cold, but he doesn't mind. They draw him to you, out of himself. A guiding touch.

“You'll notice most things are still sitting where they're supposed to be.” You're encouraging him now, your knees stretching as you gently pull him to his feet. “Everything's more palpable in the daylight.”

The sun is out now.

Shrouding leafy bosks in a tender, golden mist. You should rejoice in the return of light, but you've forgotten all about the colored glass, the conceited photographer, the book, the motives for your visit back.

Father Jud strides next to you. Took a few clunky minutes to adjust to each other's pace—when he isn't stupored and liquor-dazed, he can saunter pretty fast. His knuckles brush yours from time to time, swift, bashful, not volatile enough to seem entirely fortuitous. Dry brushwood cracks beneath your mirrored steps.

The tree rears at the end of the path. In the daylight, you both see it as it is. Gnarled, ancient, the stuff of stories, all knotted and owl-burrowed, with branches stretching like pianist fingers, playing a symphony of rustles. Slightly less monumental than the darkness painted it to be. Not at all the scythe of Death.

You're picking up a browning serrate leaf, letting it twist between your fingers, while Father Jud lingers a short moment, focused on that textured cut twisting across the trunk. When he pivots back to you, he searches for your gaze.

“I was helping this family—trying to help them.” His tone seems a little more poised. Less frost-thin, less on the verge of dissolving. But it's all in his eyes now, that glasslike sensitivity. “The parents were having some issues, so I've been counseling them these last months.” He rubs his nose, the freckles powdering his skin. They sit with such contrast upon his tired complexion, you can't help but wonder if they'll fly away if you blow on them, like achenes on a dandelion.

“The point is, they were going to be okay. They had a chance to make it work. He wasn't…”

He marks a pause, fingers tensing over his abdomen. Grappling with something intangible, yet cold, frighteningly foreign.

“This—wasn't supposed to happen to them. I struggle to make sense of it. I shouldn't, but I just can't help it.”

He confesses it to you. The crack in the belief, a startling paradox. It's the delirious twist of fate and the void of significance in such a tragedy. His faith stands enlightened on the matter, knowing the futility of running after some divine explanation—if there is one, it remains out of reach, etched on slates in a dialect that he'll never begin to comprehend. But his humanity, fragile, imperfect, and unshakeable keeps scrabbling through the wreckage like a dog, eager for shards that might be assembled to answer the great and doomed question. Why?

“He was on his way to the rectory when the crash happened.”

“I'm sorry. I really am.”

Our Lady of Perpetual Grace emerges before you. Ivy-tangled low wall and intricate frontispiece. You stop before the porch, that very same one under which you both sought escape from the deluge one afternoon, what seems like another lifetime ago.

“It's not your fault, you know?” you tell him. You wonder if anyone has.

“I know.”

His voice sounds hollow. You want to grab his shoulders, repeat it again and again, make it a litany, a canticle, if that's what it takes for him to believe it. You move like a falling acorn, swift, fast, leaving yourself no time to overthink it. Your arms carefully slide around him. He's a little bone-stiff; you pay it no heed. That's how they are, after all, those who haven't been spontaneously held in a long time. When his mind links with his body once more, understanding that it's you, pressing him against your heart, he crumples under your touch, melts into it. For as tall as he is, he suddenly feels minuscule, atom-wide, aching to drown into something greater, this corporeal burst of affection that he wasn't ready for. It's the modest, unsure realization that he craved this, needed this, ignorant to what starved extent until it was given to him.

You let him go a little sooner than he would've liked. You're all clumsy again, tripping two steps back, sniffing. You need to shower, need to change, wipe off the traces of a night spent in an armchair. You promise you'll bother him again soon.

“I'll hold you to that,” he retorts, gently solemn.

Your scent lingers on him long after you're gone.

Behind the altar, hoisted like a star upon the apse's sturdy wall, the Christ effigy is catching the first slivers of light. Its heart bursts into a fire, a transient scintillation, fragmented, condemned to exist for but a mere particle of a moment—one blink of the eye, and it'll be lost until the next day. Father Jud watches it as he does every day, his throat tight, motionless, like the slightest flinch could break the magic. It is gone now, that brief, shimmery interlude. But it will be back again tomorrow, and oddly, he finds comfort in the thought.

His shoulders are draped in the purple stole.

It's the afternoon, and the sun is playing hard to get once more. The curtain to the confessional is removed with a shrill rattle, announcing the penitent's walk out of the stuffy box, welcomed back amongst his peers, now forgiven and absolved.

The curtain stridently sings again a minute later. A blurry silhouette gesticulates behind the screen. Gray light yields to pensive, intimate darkness.

“It's odd, sitting in here.”

The fragrance of your freshly washed hair replaces the preceding congregant's heady cologne.

“—I feel like you can read my mind.”

“It's probably all for the better that I can't,” he smirks.

His palms lay flat onto his lap, awaiting your next stream of thoughts.

“Do people always know what to say when they come in here? Do they rehearse their text beforehand, or do they fumble a little?”

Your question makes him smile.

He can't breach the Seal of Confession, of course, but children and the young, they're oddly the ones who stammer the least when stuck in the stall beside him. They need some guidance, mostly to remain on one trajectory, but otherwise, words flow with such relief out of their mouths, one can only envy their candor. Their lack of filter gladdens him, especially when he's trusted with secrets such as admitting to putting a dead spider in the bed of a sibling or faking a grade to avoid being raked over the coals. He has to remind himself that this is important to those young souls, that all beings who step into the box are to be taken seriously, no matter the nature of what they confide. All equals.

“Depends. Some like the small talk beforehand. It puts them at ease. Someone once took ten full minutes to explain the steps of their anchovy and pear aspic recipe to me.”

“Or,” you scowl, “it was a confession of culinary sins.”

He stifles a small snicker.

“You're doing it now, too, you know,” bringing your attention to your own behavior. “Diversion.”

“I'm sorry. I've never sat in a confessional before. I'm not sure what to say.”

It isn't the mirage of salvation through spirituality that lured you in, but rather old-fashioned, incorrigible human curiosity. He recognizes it with ease, remembering vividly the feeling of being poked by your probing mind, of your indefatigable questioning.

“What constitutes a sin?” you ponder.

A maze-wide question that divides into countless, tortuous answers. He could offer the clean-cut version to you, what's been quoted in catechism over and over again. Or explain the intricacies observed by those who study the complicated field of hamartiology. He could remind you of the difference between mortal and venial sin. But none of those tangents he senses could bring you satisfaction.

“Back at the seminary, I found many in the clergy seem to believe that shame is a gift from God. That it helps recognize sin.”

The slight disdain in this muttered sentence makes you frown.

“You don't agree with them?”

“Not really. No. It's a reductive take. Victims feel shame; it doesn't mean they did anything wrong.”

“What about regret? Or guilt? Are those indicators of sin?”

He blinks, perplexed by your separation of the two words. From his side of the lace-thin motif of the partition, he considers you inquisitively.

“Do you find a difference between regret and guilt?”

“I think I do,” you retort, suddenly grave. “It's etymological.”

It's the first time someone uses the word etymological in his confessional.

“Guilt, you know what it means better than I do. It's, hum—”

“A betrayal of morals, of our own beliefs,” he helps complete when you stagger. “Provoked by acts we know to be wrong and hope to atone for.”

“Yes. On the other hand, I read "regret" comes from Old French, from the word, "regreter". It means to look back on, to long after.”

It's a word tainted with a certain flavor of sorrow, of melancholia. Regret, perhaps, would be a sin against man rather than God. The burden of life not lived.

“You don't find that same intent in guilt. The implication of a desire that hasn't been fulfilled. Of something that's been missed and remains missing.”

When the last word leaves your mouth, it dawns on him, slowly, then all at once, the weight of something, alive, vibrant, caught in between the both of you, in the stale air of the confessional. Something you haven't spoken of and that he's barely mentioned but which has remained attached to every move you've made towards each other. It was there when you helped him stagger back to the rectory at night, when he sheltered your legs with a plaid before dawn reached the sky, when he brought you chamomile tea after rousing you up, or when you urged him to come walk with you, holding him when it felt like he might disappear into the soil.

Every small gesture, like a thin root undulating from a greater stem, like powder off a comet, hiding something unavoidable, unmissable. He'll call it a tenderness, so as not to name it the other, greater, frighteningly, infinitely more complicated word. And it's been hunkering down a long time, obscured, not festering but blooming, because over a year ago he made a choice, knocking on your door, refusing regret, refusing to let whatever this was become something missed, a hole, a smothering of desire.

Was this born from sin?

Why doesn't he feel guilt if it is?

“So tell me,” you continue after a long lull, shattering his trail of feverish thought, “is confession just some mechanical listing of set rules you've transgressed? Regardless of whether or not you understand what you're supposed to feel sorry for?”

“No,” he articulates, once he finds the voice to do so. “That's not all that confession is.”

“Enlighten me then.”

He exhales longly. Grasping for the proper words to materialize his stance.

“Confession means something different to everyone. Because when you reveal what you believe to be a sin, you're also revealing a part of who you are to yourself. Saint Augustine wrote…”

“I don't care what Saint Augustine wrote,” cutting him off abruptly. “Tell me what you think.”

The more you prod him, he thinks, the more he irreparably likes you.

“Fine,” indulging you with a grin. “With free will comes responsibility over our sins. But taking responsibility, that's the real difficult part, isn't it?”

He rubs the knuckles of his left hand, pensive.

“It's more convenient to blame someone else for our wrongdoings. Confession isn't just repenting for offending God. It's a gift to ourselves as well. By speaking our sins, our mistakes out loud, we make them tangible. It's a chance to own up to what we've done. It makes bearing responsibility, if not easier, at least possible.”

He marks a pause.

“There you go, I think it's about courage. About not running away from things.”

His eyes travel to the wooden panel erected between you, trying to pierce through the cruciform-patterned openwork to seek your expression. He catches the glimmer in the depth of your pupils, shadowing his. Your hair, its fragrance, it's haunting him. He wants to reach through the fragile net of wood and touch you.

“Father?”

There's a tremor in your voice.

“Yes?”

“What comes next?”

It takes him a moment to realize you're talking about the sacrament.

“I give you your penance,” he replies, somewhat impersonally. “And you'll recite your Act of Contrition. Basically, say that you're sorry.”

“It's that easy then? A few words, some prayer, and you're forgiven?”

You seem disappointed.

“In the heart of Christ, yes. Why should repenting be difficult for it to count? You still have to live with yourself after; that's tough enough as it is.” His head tilts in your direction, his voice grows softer. “I think it's what matters most. To know you're loved, regardless of whether you deserve it or not. Isn't it what people need in order to do better?”

A silence settles in the booth. Ancient aromas of varnished wood linger around you. If you close your eyes and listen, you can hear his breathing, echoing yours.

Your voice pierces the holy silence. Landing you both back onto mortal soil.

“I think I forgot my phone at the rectory.”

You hear amusement in his voice.

“Well, you could've just led with that.”

You're foraging through the cushions of the sitting area. Nobody pays you any heed. As soon as you walked inside, a timid hand rapped on the door. Father Jud gestured briefly to you—“I'm doing this now,” he meant, and led the visitor into the adjacent office. The garbled hum of a conversation carries through on the other side.

By day, the building is traversed with the regular tapping of footsteps, disjointed fragments of voices, ruffles of all kinds of attires. Night truly throws a distorted spell, for under broad daylight, the rectory shakes off its garb of an empty, silent house, absorbing echoes carried from the village, laughter of children galloping near the flower beds, congregants cycling by and ringing their bells. You nearly don't recognize the room in which you spent queasy, somnolent, dream-stunned hours.

Searching the coffee table, you push aside varicolored origami stars pinched between pages of tattered magazines. The room carries remembrances of people's passage, so many inconsequential belongings abandoned in their trail: small matchboxes stamped with the emblem of the local pub, packets of caramel or gum, a key chain shaped like a snail, one lonely pastel blue pacifier. Scents, too, a disparate bouquet of them, embalming the upholstery, ranging from musky body spray to sickly sweet vanilla. You wonder who they are, what stories they hide, those peregrine beings, passing by the rectory like pilgrims, coming not for a glimpse of a holy relic or to bathe in a pool of sacred water. Even stumbling on his own questionings, his own uncertainties, Father Jud knows how to talk to them, listens to them. He's the anchor that holds them together despite his own fears. If confession takes courage, so does this.

One soul walks out, another comes in. Like in a confessional. The door handle clicks as the mechanism jumps open or shut. The ballet is almost dizzying.

When the last of them leaves, the ashen sky has melted into fuscous, indigo foam. And the house is falling asleep.

He's surprised to find you still sitting there, cozied on the sofa, one leg curled under yourself with an old edition of Country Living open on your lap. You notice his look, asking what his lips do not.

“Felt like a thief, leaving without saying goodbye.” Truth is, time flew by and you didn't notice.

Father Jud asks if you found your phone, and you flash him the culprit, its screen glumly showing off a red and exhausted battery icon. He crashes onto the armchair ahead of you, worn-out and lax-limbed. Despite the attitude, something seems lighter about him. He's exhausted, brain all chewed out by effort and speech, but relieved, compelled by something he hasn't felt for several days. His eyes fix on a dot of reflected light before they trail back to you. He asks if you're hungry, and you shake your head.

You're ready to take your leave—you should've left a while ago already—but his voice pulls you back.

“Thank you, for yesterday. And this morning.”

“Don't mention it. Grief isn't an easy thing to deal with.”

He snickers, a little painfully.

“Aren't you going to ask me why Christians grieve at all, if they believe in an afterlife?”

A year ago, perhaps, that would've been the sort of thing you would've pressed him on. You can see your silence perplexes him. After a moment, you flip the magazine shut and let it slide onto the table.

“It's in your book. "Jesus wept", right? If he grieved when Lazarus passed, I think it's not entirely unthinkable for Christians to experience grief too. Even if you believe in the afterlife, death is still a separation.”

He stays silent a while, slightly disarmed. There's a world in which that's the sort of answer he would've given you, had you asked the question.

“So you did read it?” he ponders, letting his chin rest on his hand. “The Bible I gave you?”

“Sure.” A shrug, looking to the side, suddenly a little coy. “I skimmed through it.”

You notice he's hiding a grin behind his palm.

“What?”

“Honestly, I was afraid you'd use it as a door wedge or something.”

“That's the long-term plan,” you tease. “But I also like to be informed in my skepticism.”

“What's your general verdict?”

He sees you catch yourself before a wave of corrosive, possibly cruel commentary teeters out. You lick your lips, picking the other path, the less predictable one. There's no point preaching to the choir—he's already aware of your cynicism regarding the Holy Scriptures.

“I won't be attending any catechism classes, that's for certain. But—” you pick the tip of your fingernails, gathering yourself. “—But some parts, I'll admit I enjoyed more than I expected.”

“Really?” He sounds attentive, if not bewildered.

“Yeah, I pushed—no, suffered—through Proverbs and Ecclesiastes. I didn't expect what came after that.”

He nods gently, already knowing which part you're referring to.

“Song of Songs.”

“Yes, that's it. The poetry.” The manner in which your hands gesticulate along with your thoughts touches him. “It's lovely. Unexpected. I don't understand what it does there, how it's supposed to fit in everything else.”

He shifts in his seat.

“How does the first one start again?”

“I'm not sure.”

“You said it's like poetry. You don't remember even a little?”

You realize you're fidgeting. Your body betraying a sudden tension, a burst of restlessness. Rubbing your elbow, you pretend to think. You're not sure what convinces you to speak the words that marked your literary sensitivity. His eyes, perhaps. How full of expression they are, and rather enticing. You feel like how you did earlier in the confessional. As if somehow, he could reach into your thoughts.

“Your—”

Stop, swallow, start again. Not so fast.

They're just words. Only words.

“Your lips cover me with kisses;”

Around the lampshade, a moth flutters like a sleeper's runaway dream. You wish the dimness cloaking the room could hold you as well.

“…your love is better than wine.”

He's looking at you. Still looking at you. His irises probing your mouth, focused on each pause you take, every punctuation sign translated into a breath, your tongue curving as it composes the sound. His alertness wrapped around you, seizing your lungs like ocean water.

“There is a fragrance about you; the sound of your name recalls it. No woman could keep from loving you.”

You're looking elsewhere now, shifty eyes. Pretending to focus on memory, not on the intent behind the sentences. It's a failed experiment, the words slip out of your mouth like an accident, infused with unruly earnestness. You fear your heart drums louder than the cadence of your voice, fear it might pour out your mouth, naked and sluiced in truth.

“Take me with...”

A strident, mechanical melody pierces the air.

Relief and disappointment swallow you whole.

The landline shrieks, breaking whatever remained of the poem. Father Jud's hand overlays the handset, like he's trying to muffle its cries. Mouthing a contrite apology. He has to pick up. You're so quick on your feet, signing a goodnight to him before darting through the door. All he's left with is your imprint in the fabric where you sat and a wisp of your fragrance, timorously mingled with those still haunting the room.

It's a good thing the phone rang.

He tries to persuade himself of it the better part of the next day. Repeating it a few times, a carrousel of reason twirling in his brain, thinking if it keeps spinning, it'll eventually start sounding true.

In the quiet serenity of the sacristy, he plays and replays the scene. Your flushed face, speaking a poem that didn't belong to you, making it your own by some heedless spell, and all he could do, sitting there, was watch, weary, transfixed, as if he hadn't been the one distilling it out of you. Battling the irrepressible urge of undoing the gap separating him from you, make the unseen tangible, kiss you until your mouth becomes raw, swollen, your voice uttering to him a breathy “What comes next?”

There's the secret reminiscence of what happened once. The intensity of it, of a shared connection that almost seemed fictitious, imagined, as time ushered forward. There was the understood, hinted covenant that it was all a singular deviation, one that could never be repeated. But your voice oscillated in the nave once more, and he's struck with a vertigo he never wants to cure. He fails to perceive this unnamable pull as a slip, a misstep, refuses to call it a skip in wisdom, not when it falls with an inevitability as sincere and natural as the seasons changing. It's a sin to surrender to it. It's a greater sin to bludgeon it. A crime akin to plucking an angel off its feathers.

For two whole days, you throw yourself into your work. Hunting light like a deranged poacher, waiting for sunbeams to emerge from the mantle of plaster-white clouds, stalking the opportunity to immortalize those statufied ladies in the colored glass. It's an enraged pursuit. Almost like some invisible fingers casually rearrange those celestial objects for the sole purpose of slowing you down. On the evening of the second day, going through the raw images captured in the morning, the photographer lets out a half-satisfied huff. He beams at the prospect of heading back home soon. For the first time—could be stress, could be exhaustion—you find no solace in the accomplishment of your task.

There's no explanation as to why the mercurial weather only unveils its softness once shrouded by night. In the buzzing halo of streetlights, you stroll under the canopy of trees. Passing before the napping oak, you notice there's now a mesh wrapped around its trunk, shielding the spot abraded by the collision.

The windows of the rectory are all lit up, gushing warm, fuzzy light that infuses the grass. When you knock, you're met with no answer. You're quick to abandon the porch, diverting your footsteps, pursuing the sturdy lines of architecture that escort you to the back of the house. Father Jud sits in a garden chair, slightly slouching, interminable legs stretched before him.

“Did you put that net up, around the tree?” you ask him, skipping the greetings.

He blenches, shoulders jumping to his ears. Relaxing once he notices it's just you.

“I figured that oak's already been through enough,” he admits. “Cutting it down seemed a little cruel.”

You set yourself onto the neighboring chair, crossing your legs.

Father Jud's wool sweater, a dark shade of pine green, seems directly dyed with the secretive pigments from the garden. With the exception of liturgical vestments, he's so seldom clad in anything other than black or midnight blue, the sight is novel enough that you consider him a little longer than adequate.

“How's the photo session going?” he inquires. You offer a lukewarm response, too drained to get into the details of your sun-chasing, profoundly uninterested in boring him with any of it anyway.

A comfortable silence enmists you both. The night is crisp with a timbery smokiness, laden with the richness of geraniums and tender leaves.

“You didn't finish that verse the other day,” he reminds you—like you needed reminding— “from the Song of Songs.”

You rub your lips together, pinky scraping a particle of chipped paint in the armrest.

“I don't think I remember anymore.”

It's not even a lie. Seems like your memory has evicted most remaining traces of the poem.

He clears his throat, an imperceptible line drawn between his brows, concentration. It surprises you when he picks up where you halted.

“There is a fragrance about you; the sound of your name recalls it. No woman could keep from loving you.”

Your head pivots back to him. The angle of his smile slots deep in his cheek.

“Take me with you, and we'll run away; be my king and take me to your room.”

You want to run your finger on that curved shadow.

“We will be happy together, drink deep, and lose ourselves in love.”

He recounts a few more sentences.

“…Why should I look for you among the flocks of the other sheperds?”

His voice wavers, eventually, dimples accentuating before he capitulates.

“Ah,” he sighs. “I don't think I remember the rest either.”

Wrapped in stillness, you gaze back at the skewed shadows of the bushes, where insects croon and whisper. Your arms clasp around you, suddenly chilled.

“You're cold,” he frowns.

“Not that much.”

“It's warmer inside.”

“I should head back to the inn, actually.”

“It's a long walk.” A beat. “You can stay here.”

You swallow.

“Are you sure?”

“I'd like you to.”

Need you to.

A few more seconds flutter by. Neither of you dares to move.

You're the first, mustering enough courage to stand up. Floating closer to him, offering an open palm. He looks up to you—those sea green puddles, you could drown in them. Seizing your hand, he leads you to the house, through the parlor, switching off the lights, all of them. Accustomed to the altered geography of the rectory in darkness, his fingers warm yours, pulling you close so you won't trip on the stairs. In his trail lingers the fragrance of cotton, well known and soothing.

His room is chocolate-box-sized, verging on claustrophobic. A miracle he can even fit in there. You absorb what modestly fills it, loitering like a visitor in a museum, peeking towards the nightstand, the clothing rack displaying various tones and hues of dark, the few shabby shelves, quickly deciphering book titles. When you turn to look at him, you notice he's watching you.

“Will you come closer?” he whispers.

A quiet intimacy washes over the both of you. It's so easy with him. Like it's something you've done countless times before, barely needing to think about it. While he helps undress you, you stifle a long yawn in the crook of your elbow, making him laugh.

“Why are there love poems in the Bible?” you mutter, standing before him in just the shirt he loaned you and your underwear. Rubbing your eyelid with a closed fist.

He cajoles you towards the bed. You cling to his tee-shirt, repressing a satisfied sigh when your body sinks into the mattress.

“It's a metaphor,” he explains in a whisper. The blanket topped with a quilt drapes your legs, climbing up to your shoulders, shielding you both under its weight. “About the relationship between God and His believers.”

Shifting, stirring, fitting yourselves around each other in a rustle of sheets, encased in the narrowness of his bed. Legs tangled, your nose brushes the nook of his neck. The murmur of his voice keeps cradling you.

You vanish into slumber before you even realize it.

Hours later, you jolt up, disoriented, eyes wide in the dark. A cluster of seconds pass by before you remember where you are.

Father Jud's watch is perched on the nightstand. He grunts when you accidentally elbow him while trying to reach it. Emerging from deep sleep, he grumbles. There's the click of the bedside lamp.

“What's wrong?”

“I'm just—I got scared I might've overslept.”

He observes the window, having developed an acute talent at guessing the time by assessing the level of contrast on the glass. He can tell dawn is still far away.

“It's probably around four. Math isn't my strong suit,” he jests in a croaky voice, “but I'm pretty sure that leaves you a few more hours.”

Your head rolls on the pillow.

“I don't want people seeing me slip out the back door like a criminal.”

He pushes himself up on his forearm, brows furrowed.

“I keep procrastinating on hiring someone to help with administration. Nobody comes up here until eight,” he leisurely assures in a half-voice.

His thumb mindlessly caresses the curve of your lower lip. You offer his fingertip a gentle peck once it reaches your Cupid's bow. In the velvet dark, his eyes glimmer like obsidian.

He kisses your collarbone in response.

Something stills in you. Your fingers clasp his shoulder.

“What are you thinking?” he wonders.

Need to pause and breathe before you answer.

“I think—”

A slight twist, under your breastbone. Tension wrenching your lungs.

“I think, unless you're very sure about what you'd like to happen in the next few minutes, that you'd better let me leave.”

He does not flinch. Simply returning your gaze. There's no point in pretending there's nothing here.

“Is this a sin?” you utter.

He doesn't reply.

“Does it feel like one?” you ask again. This one, at least, he knows the answer to.

He shakes his head.

Your breathing syncs.

He kisses your mouth. Tender, languid.

'Your love is better than wine,' said the book. You feel vertiginous.

His knee prompts yours, teasing your legs open. His hair is coarse under your fingers.

You gesture vaguely to the stack of your clothing in the corner of the room. In your jean pocket, there's your card holder, and in your card holder, there's a…

“A—?” he slyly taunts when you let your sentence linger.

He has the restraint not to ask where you've acquired the habit of carrying a wrapped condom. Why it happens to be his size. There's not much air left for questions anyway: you're all open mouths, fumbling hands, occupied with tearing remaining items of clothing off yourselves with hasty, imprecise gestures. As he peels his shirt off, he hits his head on the slanted joists above the bed, and you both burst into giggles like children, shared mirth breaking lingering vapors of uncertainty and fear, feeling gawky and elated.

The plastic wrapper tears. You watch him with bated breath while he gingerly unfolds the latex upon himself.

“You need to pinch the—”

“Yes,” he scoffs, amused, “I know that.”

His nails graze your parted thighs next.

Your heartbeats stack when he lies on top of you, his chest brushing your nipples. His fingers dawdle in that puddle of warmth between your legs. Remembering where to touch, stealing soft moans out of you.

Your hips call for him. For the last distance to be breached.

He holds himself, takes his time. Plays with you a while.

Dip.

Sink.

Splits you open. There's a sharp sting that quickly recedes and you softly whimper, swallowing down the drips of blasphemy that almost slip from your mouth. His knuckles turn white, crumpling the pillow next to your cheek.

He searches your features.

“Does it hurt?”

No, you mouth, your vocal cords frozen.

Your legs wrap around his waist, coaxing him closer. The stretch numbs your mind. Want him to move, need him to.

“Wait,” he restrains you, nose nuzzling yours, “wait for me.”

One hand stoutly holding your waist.

Spearing bliss into you, delicate, callous, ravaging. The bed shivers. Headboard rattles the wall. Your back curves on the mattress. You're not sure your own skin belongs to you anymore, where it ends, where his own begins.

It's just so good.

Pleasure swells where your bodies join. Flesh meeting in rousing strokes.

He stills his rhythm, panting, his forehead bumping yours. You almost choke from the loss of friction, pathetically reduced to an unbearable need. Muscles gripping desperately.

Sweat flavors his kiss, sea-salt tang when he bites your lower lip.

You try to wait for him to gather himself, grasping his bicep. Fighting impatience and the crimson-lit brazier he's set in your core.

“Please,” you sob.

He listens now—how could he not?

You're grabbing full sheaves of his hair, your other hand clutching the back of his shoulder.

Monsoon-wet mist swirls around you both, emanating from the variables of movement. Droplets of arousal and sweat dewing the clean sheets. You'd forget your own name if he weren't singing it in your ear. Calls you good, calls you sweet. Fingers intertwined like ivy tendrils, inseparable.

He shatters you. Builds you a storm. Carves a tragedy down to your bones.

Gifting you something tumultuous, something reckless, that nibbles your thighs, creeps up your navel, steals you away. You come undone in a sob, mouth latched onto his neck, glossing up the dark ink splayed on his skin. Pulsating hard around him. Can barely hold his gaze, how instinct pushes your eyelids shut like the wings of a crazed butterfly, white waves of merciless exaltation undulating through you.

Your bleary vision steadies on his features. His puffed lips, the rosy hues of his cheekbones. You've never seen him like this before, flushed and glowing, lax with pure abandon, all of it your doing.

“You're so beautiful,” you push a murmur onto his tongue, like sacramental bread.

His muscles twitch. You kiss him while he comes, swallowing his moans, taking them all for you; his delicate breakage made your secret, his confession for you to hold and keep. Delighting in his tremors, his somersaulting heartbeat. The deep sighs that break from him, mind alleviated and alarmingly light.

You both lie in silence afterward. Dozing in and out of sleep. Hands roaming on skin from time to time, as if checking for the other's presence. By the time his watch reaches six on the dial, you're reaching down, plucking your clothes off the floor. His lips mark your waist as you slide your jeans up your legs. Your thumb grazes the dark stubble on his cheeks.

You barely speak a word to each other as you tear yourself away from the bed. Your hands are the last things touching when you do, the last part that is let go.

Three days float through before the skies are dusted clean, a meticulous zephyr sweeping all celestial detritus and frayed clouds. Birch trees bend and curve like harps under the implacable gust of wind. Their branches rub, susurrating a discordant melody.

You find Father Jud sitting on the stone bench behind the church. The scene strikes you like an old photograph. How many times have you lingered here, speaking with him, on that very bench?

You wait for the chatter of leaves to subdue before clearing your throat. Letting him know it's you, just you. He's all dressed in black again, the white seal of the clerical collar clutching his throat, a porcelain lock. He scoots over so you can sit.

“Are you almost finished?” he inquires.

The chanting trees are close to swallowing your voice.

“There's one left, the wedding at Cana. It's giving us a bit of a hard time. We'll get it today.”

To any prying, outsider eye inquisitively lurking in, you'd just look like two normal people meditatively staring at bustling foliage. You're both decent and collected now, but it persists still, this thing interweaving you underneath it all, in some raw, membranous, organic way, something you can't properly define or analyze, only observe. You know he feels it too.

“I need to talk to you.”

Nothing great ever came from such words. Your body responds with apprehensive stiffness, closing like a disturbed anemone. Nails digging into the palm of your hands, anxious to hear the rest. His eyes meet yours.

“I've been selfish.”

The declaration puzzles you.

“Selfish?” you stutter, trying to understand. “Towards God?”

“No. Well,” he corrects, “a little, certainly. But, mostly, towards you.”

He chews on his lips, downcast eyes set on a fissure in the sturdy granite.

“You know this—” he tries to dig out the right word, but he's failed at catching it these last days; there's no reason for him to succeed now, “—you know this can't ever become anything else. Anything more.”

“I know,” you patiently remind him. “I'm pretty sure I told you I do.”

He has God, a parish, people to guide, to help, to teach and to learn from. A fervent, sublime purpose, one that you understand, despite marching on your own, entirely opposed path. You know. You've made your peace with everything it implies, as painful as it is.

He leans in, closer.

“I care about you.”

He says it as a substitute for something else, but in his mouth, in this moment, the words ring with more vulnerable significance. Like he's been holding onto it for a while, this living thing, with wings and a heart, now fluttering freely amongst larks and sparrows.

“I want you to go bump into life,” he continues. “Collide with it. Let it hurt; let it bring you joy. Make yourself dizzy on it. Write more books, meet someone, fall in love. I want all this for you, more than anything else.”

His palm flattens on the lichen-specked bench between you, fingers nudging yours.

“Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“I think I do.”

His hand covers yours. You need to ask the question.

“Do you regret it?”

He's quick to reply.

“No. Not even a little.”

He lingers on it a moment. Giving you a bashful grin, all dimple-kissed, the sort you'll carry with you the rest of your life.

“I'll love better now. After knowing you.”

By Friday, you are gone.

Father Jud knows this—he finds a note in your hand, stashed beneath a flowerpot near the front porch of the rectory. In a bumpy handwriting, it reads a modest farewell.

“Don't be a stranger; remember to write.”

Along with the note is a pen. He fiddles with it a moment, struck with recognition. It's the ballpoint pen he let you borrow over a year ago, when you first shared a talk in the church's sacristy.

The wind arises, tousling his hair.

Today, he'll visit the widow of a dearly departed parishioner. He'll get started on the project of building a wooden swing set to distract the children from trampling the flower beds. He'll lead a prayer group, listen to penitents in the confessional booth, practice his Sunday homily. At some point, between those tasks, he'll let his mind wander to you—just a few, indulgent, vaporous minutes.

He could never be a lover. Not in the way you'd deserve. But he could be a few other things. Challenger, teacher, student, confidant, pen pal, friend.

Yes, that will have to do, won't it?

Maybe a friend.

[cillianmurphysteacup]

Why!? Why would you write this piece of art 😭😭😭

[ladybirdswritings]

HER ⌖ BEN POINDEXTER

⊹ synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dex’s bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.

⊹ warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.

⊹ next chap | lmk if you’d like to be tagged | ♫

it’s silly how random life is. when you were younger you used to think it was all one big game. like, god or whoever the fuck was looking down at you and changing the colors in the sky was manning some big joystick 24/7.

it made sense then. but now?

the blood spilling from your stomach onto the scuffed, dilapidated floors of your unfurnished hell’s kitchen apartment was as red as the tomato sauce still boiling in the pot you’d been stirring four seconds prior.

glug. glug. glug.

your free time was sacred. and that tomato sauce was supposed to go over frozen gnocchi, devoured on the couch with NCIS on and a seltzer sweating in your hand. you never found it realistic; the way actors bled on screen. too much, too dramatic.

but now, here, with your own trembling hands pressed against your midsection, you realized something.

you had been so terribly wrong.

droplets became spills. and as it always did, the sight of blood made your head swim. the copper smell hit the back of your throat and your knees buckled before you could stabilize yourself on the newly red countertop. your head met the floor with a crack that you felt more than heard.

three versions of your ceiling swam above you. all of them blurry.

and a ways away, in a place you couldn’t see, the man responsible was still squinting through his scope. still trained on the peephole of what was supposed to be karen’s door.

but you were not karen.

oh no no no.

at surface level, similar enough. a pretty blonde thing, wide-eyed. and now, gorgeously complemented by the crimson blooming across that frilly white top of yours. he stayed a beat longer than necessary, watching the spiderweb of red spread against the fabric.

his work. tidy, even when it was wrong.

then his stomach growled.

fries, he thought. and a banana milkshake. definitely a banana milkshake.

he was already turning on his heel when he heard it. faint. muffled by the door between you.

“father forgive them…” a wet, rattling inhale. ”…for they know not what they do.”

ben stopped.

were you… praying? for him?

a long pause settled behind his mask. his head tilted a fraction, the way it did when something didn’t compute. he’d just put a bullet in you. and you were down there, trembling on the other side of that door, bleeding out, spending what might be your last breaths on forgiveness.

he didn’t deserve that. he knew it plainly, the same way he knew he was hungry, the same way he knew the door in front of him was unlocked when it shouldn’t have been. facts. simple ones.

his hand closed around the knob anyway.

the click of the latch was barely a sound. the draft from the hallway kissed your face before you registered the shape crouching over you. masked, still, radiating something you couldn’t name but recognized in your gut as wrong.

“door’s unlocked.” his voice was even, almost conversational. almost amused. “that’s not very smart.”

you blinked up at him. or tried to. the tears were making it difficult.

he reached down with ease and tucked a dirty blonde ringlet away from your clammy face. clinical. unhurried. like he had all the time in the world and you weren’t actively dying beneath him.

“hello.” voice soft.

a beat.

“you’re not karen page…”

[cillianmurphysteacup]

[ladybirdswritings]

HER ⌖ BEN POINDEXTER

⊹ synopsis | being the little sister to karen page has its downsides. when dex’s bullet finds the wrong girl, so does his obsession. STEAMY. slow burn. dark romance. obsession. dom!dex & page!reader.

⊹ warnings | this is DARK. stockholm syndrome, obsession, stalking, mentions of mental illness / addiction, harm, religion, age-gap romance, etc. read at your own discretion.

⊹ next chap | lmk if you’d like to be tagged | ♫

if your pain had a color, you’d label it black. so vast and endless you felt consumed by it.

you couldn’t take a full breath. your heart stuttered when your eyes found your ceiling.

your ugly, rotting ceiling.

you had never been more grateful to see it.

tears stung and your hands trembled as you tucked your chin to your chest. your white top had been pulled to your ribs. the source of the blossoming ache was bandaged.

“what the fu—ah.”

okay. no talking.

“hmm.” you let your head fall back against the olive threads of your couch, eyes squeezing shut. something tickled at your temples. trembling fingertips found gauze wrapped around your throbbing head.

get up, y/n.

one leg first, then the other. you screamed as your stomach bent, teeth sinking into your shoulder, tears soaking through the fabric. you fell to your knees, palms catching the edge of the coffee table.

you and karen had a rule. some juvenile thing she only agreed to because you wouldn’t shut up about it.

whatever you’re avoiding, you have to do it by three.

both you and god knew this would be the worst countdown of your entire life.

“o-ne.”

still at one.

a shaky breath.

“two.”

fuck fuck fuck just—

“thre—ah—” the meat stitched behind the bandage folded and stretched against its hold and you bit down on everything that wanted to come out of your mouth. you hummed the law and order theme instead, digging your nails into your hips, teeth into the chapped pillow of your lower lip.

and then, slowly, you began to limp.

to where, you didn’t know.

once you reached the middle of your small studio you turned in a slow circle.

empty. no one. no sign of anything.

okay. you were going crazy. that was the only explanation. maybe the knife slipped when you were dicing tomatoes for your sa—

your sauce.

your head snapped to the stove.

four limps and you arrived.

more jarring than the pain in your midsection, the burner was off. and the pot? clean as a whistle. no sauce dribbling down the sides the way you’d last seen it, furious and bubbling and indifferent to what was happening to you on the floor.

you don’t know how long you stood there clutching the white countertop and staring down at the cold, undisturbed surface of it.

long enough that it was the vibration of your phone against the counter that pulled you out. the instrumental of a stevie nicks track hummed against the tile. karen’s face smiled up at you from the screen; cancun, four summers ago, her steel blue eyes doing that thing they did where they made everything feel temporarily safe.

against every better instinct, you picked up.

“h-hello?”

“y/n.” the relief in karen’s voice was immediate and slightly terrifying. “oh thank christ. please tell me you’re alright.”

a blink.

a glance down at your stomach.

a glance back at the pot.

“i’m… fine?” you sounded unsure because you were.

“good. good.” a pause, the particular kind that meant she was choosing her words carefully. “there was — it’s complicated. fisk sent someone to your address. a hit. but i guess they never showed up, so—”

“the mayor sent someone to—”

silence on the line. a flurry of hushed voices disagreeing just beyond the receiver. you swayed on your feet, lips parted, waiting.

“the most important thing is that you’re alright,” karen said finally, and the firmness in her voice meant the conversation was over before it started. “i’ll come by later. i love you.”

“yeah, i—”

you stilled.

because your eyes had drifted back to the island, and there, sitting upright, perfectly centered, clean as the pot and the stitching and every other impossible thing in this apartment… was a bullet.

the bullet.

weathered bronze. cold between your fingertips when you lifted it.

not a drop of blood on it. not a trace of copper, not a single thing to suggest where it had just been.

buried in your stomach…

and it all came back at once. the sauce. the floor. the ceiling doing that horrible swimming thing. the blood soaking through white cotton and the man crouched over you; masked, still, something behind his eyes that wasn’t quite human and wasn’t quite not.

you’re not karen page.

your would-be assassin.

who was either dead in a ditch somewhere or the very same man who had stitched your wound, cleaned the pot, turned off the burner, and placed this bullet here. upright, deliberate, like punctuation at the end of a sentence.

with trembling fingers you peeled back the edge of the bandage. expert stitching. clean edges. no blood smeared on the surrounding skin.

he left it here on purpose. you were certain of that the way you were certain of the moon.

chills moved slow and deliberate up your spine.

“hello?” karen’s voice cut through the static of your thoughts like a lone lantern in the night sky. you flinched.

you stood there for a long moment, thumb pressed against the cool face of the bullet, swallowing back everything rising in your throat.

“i love you too, karen…”

𖦏₊ ⊹

he should have left. practicality or whatever. his banana milkshake was sweating into banana slush at some shitty diner down the road, karen page was still breathing, and fisk would want his head on a silver platter for the miss.

that last part was the lesser of the pressing issues, as it turned out.

untied knots made him itch. hornets buzzing behind his eyes, loud and insistent.

it had to be perfect, there were three leads to follow, karen page was still breathing— and yet here he stood. perfect view from the balcony. shadow swallowed by a fern and the sheer frilly curtains his new little star had hung.

oh, look at her.

the sound she made when she cried out created an ache he hadn’t felt in a long time. not since julie. hot, insistent, spreading through his bloodstream before throbbing at his crotch. he tightened his grip on the rails. her pain was all his doing. the way she moved, like a legless fawn, so very oblivious of her audience.

he’d done that to her.

something about that sat in his chest and purred.

he needed to see more of it.

she’d been asleep two hours by the time he moved. he took the time to tidy the pigsty she called a home. there wasn’t much to see in such a small place, but her bedroom became his favorite very quickly. scattered perfume bottles and paint, and that haunting painting of lilies above her bed. signed page. she was a painter.

he’d learned many superficial things in his short time there.

he’d hovered longer than was necessary. he’d done his good deed, balanced the scale for her prayer. but something…

he catalogued the way her lips parted in sleep, the faint flutter of her lashes, the slow rise and fall of her chest beneath that ruined white top.

such a nice top…

she was young, early 20s at most. far younger than he was. he studied the bandaging he’d done himself, neat and precise, sitting just below the swell of her very pretty—

no.

the little gray bottle on her nightstand was labeled suboxone. recovering addict. rosary under the pillow, afraid or hypocrite. he filed it away with everything else. surface things weren’t enough. he wanted her thoughts. her reactions. wanted to peel back every careful layer and see what was underneath.

what would she do when she finally put it together?

oh, that maniac kept me alive. what is he gonna do next?

the corner of his mouth twitched.

awful things.

it took an agonizing while. his knuckles had gone white around the balcony rail by the time she finally saw it; the bullet. and something in him pulled taut like a wire about to snap. watching her turn it over in her fingers, slow, edging him. watching her eyes swell with fear.

he hummed low, squinting in the scope of his gun as she murmured something tearfully to the phone.

the hornets buzzed so loud his fingers twitched toward the sliding door.

what would she do?

thank him for his goodness? get on her knees and —

“no.”

forced through gritted teeth. one leg over the railing, then the other, quick and controlled.

no. no no no. not this time.

she was good. he had a sense of it after her little prayer. and he was doing good under the fisk administration. that’s what he breathed into his chest like scripture on the way down. concrete. order. something to obey.

because if he spent another moment on that balcony, so close to her.

there would be no good left in him.

🏷️’s @avocad0ess @s0lagusz @zoegrimess @isabellaswayer-blog @obsessedwithfakeguys @agent616-declassified @urm0msoldcar @mewmew222 @marquiserose @tvdumarvelhpsimp @kplatzman @ashes96 @urmotheris @bkell2929 @gutlesscatherine @bellispunk @madglyphrefuge​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​ @lil-barbie @memeorydotcom @ohyesdexy @hu41 @artistadistrada2002 @velocityjoker @charliewalkersgf @sa1ky @freyademartel @jordynnicole2018-blog @iwachansupremacy @zhonglisss @myseasonisfall @fandomsarelife-jas @3y3-scr3am @marveljedimaniac @kimmyl213 @the-doctor-9-10 @fresh-blue-hell @xlzxra @bbabycass @athenabarnes @stop-stealing-the-good-usernames @kkkeeeiiirrraaa @groovycass @sonofuoriditesta​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

[cillianmurphysteacup]

Exactly what I was looking for 🤭🤭

[redwinelewis]

MY MAN ON WILLPOWER | R. GRACE

type one shot (no part 2 requests please!)

pairing ryland grace x pilot!reader

summary you and ryland got hit by some kind of dust

word count 8K

content 18+. smut. sex pollen. fuck or die. masturbation (m). penis in vagina sex. riding. humour (i tried). crack. ryland's glasses stay ON during sex.

a/n officially the longest fucking thing i have ever written. i'm not truly satisfied with this but it's whatever. i hope u guys enjoy it. english is not my first language

masterlist | read on ao3

you and ryland have been staring at yet another mysterious gift sent by rocky like it was a trunk shot from pulp fiction.

you know, the one where— okay so nevermind. that's not important.

what's important was what rocky had sent, which was another cylinder.

you glanced at ryland. ryland glanced at you. then you both glanced at the cylinder.

it sat in the center of the lab table, perfectly still, perfectly silent, and deeply, profoundly suspicious.

“so,” you said, arms crossed. “before you do anything impulsive and deeply stupid, let’s review our options.”

ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”

“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”

he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.

“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”

“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”

you sighed.

“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.

ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.

“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”

you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”

“so.... none of it?”

“exactly.”

pause.

just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.

“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”

“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”

you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”

he ignored you.

of course he ignored you.

the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.

for a second, nothing happened.

you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.

“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”

poof!

a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.

“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”

“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”

“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”

the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.

you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.

“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”

he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”

“define normal.”

“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”

you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”

“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”

you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”

“fair.”

then there was a beat.

“so.... that’s it?” you asked.

he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.

“that’s it.” he confirmed.

“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”

“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”

“great,” you muttered.

“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”

only for a while.

only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.

you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.

it should have been reassuring.

it wasn’t.

because about an hour in, you noticed something off.

not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.

you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.

“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”

ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”

“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”

“maybe you’re just stressed.”

you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”

you tried to ignore it.

it didn’t work.

because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.

you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.

“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.

except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.

this, whatever this was however, was far from it.

“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.

“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.

he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.

“....ryland?”

he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.

“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.

you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”

“fine. totally fine.”

“you don’t look fine.”

he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”

“you’re flushed.”

“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”

“....that’s not a thing.”

“it is now.”

you crossed your arms, studying him.

“you’re acting weird.”

ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.

“nothing. nothing. um—”

you frowned. “are you okay?”

“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.

“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.

by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.

“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.

ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.

he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.

your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.

you didn’t know why but it just happened.

you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.

you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—

you flinched.

jesus, what the fuck?

since when the fuck did you notice that?

nope. absolutely not.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.

it didn't.

you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.

that was a mistake.

because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.

your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.

you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.

and yet—

“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.

“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.

“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.

he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”

“it’s nothing.”

ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.

“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.

you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”

“you absolutely were.”

“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.

he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”

you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”

you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.

and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.

“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”

“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.

“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.

he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”

“obviously.”

“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.

he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.

“ryland.”

“....also very aware of you,” he finished.

pause.

“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”

“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”

you crossed your arms. “why?”

“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”

“i’m always here!”

“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”

you stared at him.

“more noticeable.” you repeated.

he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”

“it sounded very weird.”

“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”

“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”

“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.

you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.

then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.

“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”

“all of the above, probably.”

you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—

“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.

he went still. “what?”

you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”

“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”

you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”

“i don’t have a better word!”

“well, find one!”

“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”

you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”

“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”

“yep.”

“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”

“yep.”

“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”

he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”

you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”

“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.

“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”

you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.

you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.

“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”

“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”

“we observe.”

“we hypothesize.”

“we do not panic.”

“we are absolutely not panicking.”

you were both very clearly panicking.

“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”

“no judgment,” you agreed.

“elevated body temperature.” he started.

“check.”

“heightened sensory awareness.”

“check.”

“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”

you folded your arms tighter. “check.”

“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.

“check.”

he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”

“attraction?” you said bluntly.

he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”

the word hung there, heavy but accurate.

you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.

not just the symptoms.

the pattern.

your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.

you frowned, thinking harder.

“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”

“toxins,” he said automatically.

“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.

“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”

“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”

“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”

“so it’s not attacking us.”

“it’s affecting us.”

you both went quiet again, thinking.

he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”

he stopped.

you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.

his entire posture went rigid.

“....no,” he said.

your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.

he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.

“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”

“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”

he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”

“okay....?”

“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”

“ryland.”

he stopped and looked at you.

you held his gaze.

“say it.”

he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.

“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”

your chest tightened.

“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”

your breath caught.

he exhaled, defeated.

“....pollen,” he finished.

silence.

thick.

absolute.

you stared at him.

he stared back.

“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”

“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”

“so it’s not pollen.”

“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.

you both paused.

“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.

“yeah.”

another silence. longer this time.

he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”

he stopped himself.

you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”

he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.

you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.

to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.

you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.

“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.

he nodded, equally quiet.

“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”

“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”

“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”

you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”

“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.

“oh, jesus.”

another pause.

longer this time.

he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”

“wait it out,” you repeated.

“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”

“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.

“not even in a funny anecdote way.”

“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”

he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”

you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.

really looked.

the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—

“ryland,” you said slowly.

“yeah.” he did not look at you.

“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”

he let out a short, strained laugh.

“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”

your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”

his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.

“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”

pause.

you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.

the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.

you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.

“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”

you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”

he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”

“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.

“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.

you both paused.

“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.

“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”

another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.

another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.

you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.

it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.

and yet.

both of you looked away at the same time.

he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”

you perked up. “yeah?”

“isolation.”

silence.

“what?” your voice came out small.

“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”

you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”

“i’m not kidding.”

“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”

“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”

you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”

“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”

“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.

he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”

you stared at him. really stared this time.

“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”

“yes.”

“yao and ilyukhina are—”

“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.

“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”

“we’ll adjust.”

“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”

his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”

“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”

“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.

you took a step closer without thinking.

his entire body reacted.

it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.

that alone made your point for you.

you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”

he didn’t answer.

you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”

“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.

“or it could be days,” you said quietly.

he didn’t argue.

“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.

“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.

you stilled. “what alternative?”

he didn’t say anything.

which, unfortunately, was an answer.

you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”

“we really don’t,” he said quickly.

“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”

he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”

“ryland—”

“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”

you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”

“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”

“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”

“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.

“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”

“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”

“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”

he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.

“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”

“we might not have a choice,” you said.

“we always have a choice.”

“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”

he flinched. barely, but enough.

“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”

your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.

“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”

“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”

“you don’t believe that.”

he didn’t answer.

you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.

“look at me,” you said.

he did.

“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”

his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”

“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”

“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”

“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.

“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”

you followed without realizing.

“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”

“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.

the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.

you frowned slightly. “what?”

he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”

“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”

“is it?” he asked quietly.

that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.

“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”

you stared at him.

he looked away again, jaw tight.

“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”

“it is for me,” he said.

there was a beat.

“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”

“i know,” he said. “i know that.”

“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”

“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”

pause.

you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”

“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”

you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.

“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”

“at what cost?”

a beat.

he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.

his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.

“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”

you didn’t answer right away.

he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”

there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.

“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”

you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.

“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”

“maybe not,” he admitted.

“then—”

“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.

you blinked. “ryland—”

“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”

“even if it makes things harder?”

“yeah,” he said. “even then.”

you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.

“you’re really that set on this,” you said.

“yeah,” he said quietly.

another pause.

“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”

he nodded once.

“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”

“we reassess,” he said immediately.

neither of you moved.

just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.

like it could disappear in a second.

like he might cross it.

like you might let him.

his jaw tightened.

his shoulders went rigid again.

and for a split second, he looked like he might—

but then he turned away.

“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”

you swallowed. “okay.”

“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”

“right.”

—

you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.

you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.

“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”

another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.

your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.

ryland’s voice.

ryland’s face.

ryland's arms.

ryland's hair.

just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.

you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.

with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.

“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”

you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.

“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”

you closed your eyes and tried to focus.

in.

out.

in—

“mhmmph—”

pause.

you blinked an eye open.

what—

“mhmphhh— fuckk—”

—the hell was that?

you tilted your head slightly, listening.

at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.

but then—

“oh, please— please—”

it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.

and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.

you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall

unmistakenably ryland.

he was in the room next to yours.

awake.

and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.

he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.

heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.

is he—

no.

no way.

no fucking way.

another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.

you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.

dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.

option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.

option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.

you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.

“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”

you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.

“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”

you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.

you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.

your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.

“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”

a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.

you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”

a beat.

“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.

before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.

no turning back now.

inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.

ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.

you didn’t give him time to speak.

you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.

he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.

for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.

then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.

the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.

after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.

“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”

“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.

you blinked. “what?”

“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”

you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”

“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”

“current events,” you repeated.

“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”

“and that data is?”

“i need you.”

a beat.

“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.

“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”

you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”

“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.

you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”

“yeah?” he laughed too.

“yeah.”

“can i kiss you again then?”

you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”

this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.

you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.

slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.

his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.

naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.

you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”

“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.

“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.

you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.

only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.

then you started to move.

slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.

gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.

“ryland— fuck, just like that—”

“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”

it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.

“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”

you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.

for a long moment, neither of you said anything.

you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.

ryland was staring at the ceiling.

very intently.

like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.

“....so,” you said eventually.

“so,” he echoed.

another pause.

you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”

he didn’t look at you.

“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”

you snorted. “wow. rude.”

“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”

“mostly,” you repeated.

“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”

you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”

“for the record, i did not consent to that.”

fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”

“unfortunately, yes.”

“and then to me.”

he hesitated.

“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”

you stared at him for a second.

then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”

“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”

“i could tell.”

another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.

“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”

he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”

“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”

“you did not hear everything.”

“ryland.”

he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”

“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”

“please, just kill me already.”

“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”

“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.

“just making sure.”

he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”

“oh, constantly.”

“i walked into that one.”

“you really did.”

another quiet moment passed.

you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.

“....hey,” he said after a while.

“yeah?”

there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”

it caught you off guard.

not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.

you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”

he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.

“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”

you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”

he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”

another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.

eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.

you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.

he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.

“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”

your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.

“…me neither,” you murmured.

that was the last coherent thing either of you said.

because a few minutes later, the exhaustion finally won.

[cillianmurphysteacup]

Teaaaaaaa

[scarletmika]

Fly Me To The Moon : ̗̀➛ Ryland Grace x Reader

Pairing: Teacher!Ryland Grace x Teacher!Reader

Summary: 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.

Warnings: pre-Project Hail Mary and should not include spoilers but caution anyways just in case, pre-movie storyline, tooth-rotting fluff, idiots in love, workplace romance, friends to lovers, slightly suggestive-ish comments but no smut, female reader but no characteristics described, definitely some incorrect science information but I am not a scientist so apologies, I am also not a teacher so I am sorry for any inaccuracies there lol, lightly edited so apologies for any mistakes

Word Count: 14,596 words

Requests are open! : ̗̀➛ Find my masterlist here

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:* ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧･ﾟ: ✧

“Can anyone tell me why it was that Penelope asked her suitors to string Odysseus’s bow?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Your eyes shut for half a second, a tiny sigh escaping through your lips. Reopening your eyes, not a single one of your students had dared to raise their hands. No one except for Olivia, your star student, who waved her hand repeatedly in the air from the back of the classroom. A single glance to the clock told you all you needed to know.

11:55. These kids were already in lunch mode, and there was zero way you were getting them to listen to you.

With a sigh and a wave of your hand, you gave Olivia the okay to answer the question. She happily took your permission and ran with it, always the first to answer any questions you posed in class. If only the rest of these damn middle schoolers were as eager as she was.

“Penelope didn’t want to marry anyone else, so she gave them an impossible task,”

“Why does she always know everything?”

Marcus thought his comment was whispered just low enough that you wouldn’t hear him in the first row, but he was never quite that lucky. He quickly shut his mouth and looked anywhere but in your direction the second he caught sight of the disapproving look you were casting directly at him.

“You are exactly right, Olivia. Thank you for answering my question,” there were a few chuckles in the room at the obvious sarcasm laced through your words, as you hopped up onto your desk to relax and get a better look around the room full of kids. “Penelope knew the only person that could string her husband’s bow, was her husband himself. She needed to buy time, especially when these suitors only really wanted to be the ones to inherit Ithaca-”

There was a loud knocking on the door to your classroom that had been left open for the last 20 minutes of class, interrupting your words. You weren’t surprised in the slightest to meet the eyes of none other than Ryland Grace, the science teacher.

“Uh- sorry! Didn’t mean to interrupt important book talk stuff. Super important, you uh-you never know when Shakespeare will come up at your future desk job,” the cringe that Ryland physically did at his own comment was easy to see, even from across the room. He gave you a sheepish smile, his glasses barely hanging onto his face from their unconventional spot hanging off of one of his ears. The blonde held up the brown bag in his hand, and you could practically smell the food that rested inside. “I’m early, I’m sorry. Didn’t think you’d want to have a cold burger for lunch.”

“I told you!” Marcus still didn’t understand the concept of a whisper, leaning over to his best friend Jason at the desk beside him, slapping him on the arm. “They’re totally dating!”

“As if Mr. Grace could pull her,”

There was a chorus of snickers and laughter through the class, any semblance of order you might’ve had descending into chaos as every single one of your loveable, little shits just kept casting looks between you and Ryland, who still stood awkwardly in your classroom doorway with reddened cheeks.

Your face was surely no better, you were sure you could feel the heat that was emanating off of your skin, as you ran a hand down the burning skin of your face and wondered why you chose to teach these little menaces for the rest of your life. The world decided to be kind to the pair of you though, for once, letting the lunch bell save you from any further embarrassment from a group of 13 year olds.

“Please come to class prepared to actually answer questions tomorrow!” you called out over the hustle and bustle of the class as they grabbed their things, eager to scurry off to their lunch hour and finally eat. “Your unit test is at the end of next week, and I would prefer not to fail all of you.”

They weren’t listening, but by this point in the day you were hungry and didn’t have the energy to try and argue with them.

Any of that tiredness they brought to your bones? It disappeared the second you watched the way they all interacted with Ryland on their way out the door.

Big smiles, every single one of them excited to see the school’s favorite science teacher lingering in the doorway to their English class. You could just barely hear the tail end of one of Ryland’s terrible science puns, something about a hungry planet needing a ‘light snack’ that got a groan out of Marcus. All it did was bring a soft smile to your face, though, one that somehow softened even more at the quick, secret handshake Olivia shared with him before she was out the door.

Then, it was just the two of you, smiling like idiots as you locked eyes across the room again. And god, did you want that fluttering group of butterflies in your stomach to calm down for just a moment.

Having a crush on Dr. Ryland Grace, the former molecular biologist turned San Francisco middle school science teacher, was inevitable from the moment you turned up at the school for your first day over a year ago. Incredibly smart, amazing with kids, and so incredibly handsome you thought your heart stopped beating the first time you saw him–hell, Mrs. Doyle, the math teacher for over 5 years, said there were at least 4 other young teachers that absolutely had crushes on this man. You were far from the first.

He broke that perfect vision of himself you were building in your head within 5 minutes of meeting, tripping over his own two feet and knocking the stack of papers a mile high from the Principal’s hands, but you had only found it even more endearing.

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” he apologized again, long legs striding across the room and reaching your desk in a matter of seconds. “I had a free period before this, a-and you mentioned this morning you forgot lunch so I grabbed some for both of us-”

“Sal’s?” you questioned, pointing to the bag of foot now sitting on your desk with the familiar logo. “They’re, like, 10 blocks away. Why’d you go that far?”

“Because I know they’re your favorite,”

The flare of heat in your cheeks was instant. Ryland Grace, who rode a damn bike to the school every day, used his free period to ride 10 blocks away and pick you up lunch from your favorite spot, all because you mentioned offhandedly at 7 a.m. about forgetting your lunch for the day.

Well, he certainly didn’t do that for the four fresh out of college teachers that had crushes on him. You’d mentally consider that a hefty win in your book.

“How sweet of you to remember,” Ryland simply waved you off, head turned away as he passed your wrapped burger into your hands, taking up space on your desk chair while you stayed comfortable on top of your desk. “You even remembered tomatoes this time!”

“I forgot them one time and I never hear the end of it,” laughter was shared between you both for a moment as Grace took a bite of his own burger. “I caught the tail end of that discussion. Olivia answering all your questions like a champ?”

“Isn’t she always,” you shot back with another laugh, turning slightly on your desk to better face him. “I swear she’s the only one that I can ever get to answer any of my questions. She might be the only one that does any of my assigned readings.”

“To be fair, can you blame her?” Ryland’s words were muffled slightly by the food in his mouth. You couldn’t even contain the slight smile that grew as he managed to just barely catch the ketchup dripping off his burger before it could smear itself on the stack of papers that needed graded at your desk. “Shakespeare was just…so interesting. Couldn’t get enough of his stuff. Don’t know why your kids don’t want to read it.”

There was silence for a moment, your eyebrow quirked in his direction. The blonde stopped mid bite of his burger, looking back at you quizzically, trying to figure out what he had said wrong.

“You know we’re currently learning The Odyssey, right?”

“Yes?”

“I’ll let you think about that for a second,”

He did, just slowly blinking in your direction. He glanced at the chalkboard behind you, covering in little notes you’d made throughout the class discussion, before they flickered to the copy of the book that sat on your desk. That was finally when you saw the light bulb flicker on above his head, Ryland’s eyes shutting as he let out a loud sigh.

“...that wasn’t written by Shakespeare, was it?”

The laughter that bubbled out of you practically had you throwing your head backward.

“No, but I’m sure Homer won’t be too offended,” feet landing on the ground as you hopped off your desk, you gave Ryland’s shoulder a quick squeeze as you moved past him. “The attempt was cute, though, it was a good try.”

Cute. Why in the world did you let that one slip? You were practically cursing yourself in your head for that one, taking another bite of your burger as you worked to erase the whiteboard to prepare it for your next class. You didn’t dare steal a glance over at Ryland, in fear that your little slip-up was going to ruin everything.

There was only quiet for a moment before the single moment of awkwardness was gone.

“I promise you I know Homer wrote that. I swear!”

The desperation to believe him drew another laugh out of you. Sparing a glance in his direction, Ryland was giving you his best, exaggerated puppy dog eyes, begging you to believe him, as a smile just barely squeaked its way onto his lips.

“Right, of course you did. My mistake. Whatever you say, Ryland-”

“I mean it!” It was his turn to laugh this time, a sound that had those butterflies rattling around once more. “I was just…distracted.”

“Uh-huh, distracted,” as if you were preparing to scold one of your students, you turned to face him fully with a hand on your hip, eyebrow raised expectantly. “By what, exactly?”

If a human being could buffer, Ryland Grace always seemed to be constantly buffering. Your eyebrow remained raised, waiting for him to piece together his response. All he could do was open and close his mouth like a fish, before looking away and taking another bite of his food.

“Nevermind that, just finish your food before it gets cold. I did bike, like, three miles to get that thing,”

With a roll of your eyes that held zero malice what-so-ever, you made sure the blonde could see your next bite of your food, a satisfied smile on his face.

“Back to the previous topic,” you steered the conversation in another direction, wiping off the last bits of chalk on the board and writing down your next period at the top so that you could start the discussion on the reading over again. “I don’t understand why it’s so hard to get some of these kids to just read the content. They all pay attention in your class!”

“I heard Jason make a comment yesterday during class that Marcus has a crush on Olivia. Maybe they’re too distracted to read,”

You shot him a skeptical look.

“Marcus, crushing on Olivia? He was just making fun of her before you came in the room,”

Ryland averted his eyes, suddenly very interested in his ID badge hanging around his neck from his school issues lanyard.

“W-well, maybe he just doesn’t…know how to express his feelings,” he spared a glance up at you, seeing you were still watching, as he tripped over his words again. “It can be hard for boys–and men–of all ages, to…tell someone how they feel.”

“Well, I don’t know where he’s learning from, but making fun of the girl you like isn’t the right way to go about things,” you shot back.

“Then teach them!” Ryland sounded absolutely ecstatic, that light bulb over his head going off again as he looked like he’d come up with the world’s greatest idea. “Classic literature, there’s plenty of great love stories in there. Get his interest by teaching them about that, so he can learn from them.”

“Alright, give me an example then, Mr. Suddenly an Expert in Classic Literature,”

“Romeo and Juliet,” he said like it was the easiest thing in the world, balling up the remnants of his finished food and tossing it in the bag it came in. “Greatest love story ever told, so great Taylor Swift wrote a song about them.”

“Except they don’t run off and get married and live happily ever after, Ryland. Romeo thinks she is dead and kills himself with poison, and when Juliet realizes he’s dead she stabs herself,”

Ryland’s excitement fell slightly, his mouth forming a little ‘o’ shape.

“...oh,”

“Don’t think that’s what I want to teach young, impressionable pre-teens about love-”

“Daisy and Gatsby, then! He loved her so much he stood on that dock staring at the-the bright yellow light of a stoplight for her,”

“It was a green light and it was the dock light, first of all. I’m not even sure how you could be that off. Secondly, Gatsby is murdered at the end of the book and Daisy doesn’t even attend the funeral, she and Tom move away and pretend it never happened,”

Ryland’s eyes are shut at this point, his fingers massaging his temples and those glasses just barely hanging on from their place around his neck.

“...does anyone not die in these old books?”

The sound of your laughter permeates the room and you sweep over, collecting his trash and combining it with yours. You never even spared him a glance, though you could feel his eyes on you, as you swept the trash away with you to the other side of the room, his voice echoing across to you.

“I’m going to get lucky on one of these guesses!”

What Ryland Grace was really lucky about was how adorable you found him, and how head over heels you were for him, because his lack of literary knowledge was astounding.

❤︎

“I’m sorry, you’re trying to tell me that aren’t currently fucking the eye candy that is the science teacher in room 305?”

“Evelyn!”

Evelyn Doyle was in her late thirties, married since she was 18, and already had three kids with her high school sweetheart. Since you had transferred into Grover Cleveland Middle, you’d become fast friends and she had become a great mentor.

She had, sadly, caught onto your pathetic crush on Ryland Grace before you had even fully realized it, and was now ‘vicariously living through you’ as she always said.

“There’s not a single child left in this entire school right now,” she shot back, gesturing around her empty classroom, as she finished cleaning up anything her students had left around at the end of the day. You rolled your eyes at her excuse, perched on the edge of her desk. “Please, I’m tenured, what are they going to do?”

“I’m more so yelling at you for butting into my love life, once again,” was your reply through laughter. “Ryland and I are good friends, that’s it.”

It was her turn to laugh, finishing up her cleanup around the room before she joined you at her desk, packing her things away into her shoulder bag.

“Oh please, you keep denying that little crush of yours-”

“I never said I was denying that,” you cut her off. “Lord, you realized I liked him before I even did. But he and I aren’t anything besides friends. I’m not lying.”

Your pleas fell on deaf ears, like they typically did when you were around Evelyn. She simply waved your statement off, tossing her bag over her shoulder as you followed her out of her room and down through the quiet of the school hallway. The quietest the hallway ever was, in the hours right after students were sent home for the day. You’d rather be anywhere else, preferably at home, but these mandatory once-a-month staff meetings were unavoidable.

“Whether you’re telling me the truth or not, you have to understand why everyone thinks so–teachers AND students. I think even some parents think so!” The only response she got was an eyeroll, her shoulder bumping into your’s playfully. “He brings you lunch at least once a week, meaning he rides that dingy bike to get whatever you’re craving that day.”

“It’s usually just something random-”

“Constantly in your classroom, or vice versa,” she cut you off, and you quickly realized you weren’t getting a single word into this conversation. “I’m pretty sure Principal Marshall has considered, somehow, moving your classroom closer to his just so he’ll stop being late to classes because he’s busy talking to you.”

Okay…yeah, you didn’t have a retort for that one. Your classroom was on the opposite end of the school building from Ryland’s own, and yet every time he had even a split second he was somehow always leaning in your doorway. Even if it only resulted in a conversation that lasted all of a minute.

Many times those ended with your students having to remind him that the bell rang and he definitely had students in his own class unattended, waiting on their teacher. More than once he’d slipped as he tried to sprint back to his classroom from yours. It didn’t matter how short those little conversations were, though, because every second around him was precious to you.

“Awe, look at you blushing about it-”

You slapped Evelyn’s hand away, throwing her a look of disdain that didn’t really hold any true malice to it.

“Look, all I’m saying is the ball is in his court,” was the response you finally settled on as Evelyn propped the door of the small auditorium open for you to enter. “Ryland is nothing but friendly to me, so if he’s interested then he’s got to show me.”

“You’re acting as if you’ve made your own feelings clear, honey,”

“No, but I clearly don’t do a good enough job of hiding them,”

Speak of the devil: there he was. Ryland’s head shot up the moment the pair of you walked into the auditorium. Those damn glasses hanging down from one side of his face, framing his stubbled jawline perfectly. A smile lighting up his face the second those blue eyes found yours, gesturing to the empty seat beside him.

A packed auditorium, as you and Evelyn were the last ones there. Every seat up practically filled, and yet Ryland Grace sat among a crowd of people, eyes trained on you and a single seat saved for you amidst it all.

All you could feel was the heat in your cheeks, and the touch of Evelyn patting your back as she laughed, voice low but loud enough to hear as she shifted past you to find a seat of her own.

“Doesn’t have interest in you my ass,”

Her words swam through your head with every apology you muttered to the other teachers as you snuck past them in the cramped rows, happily taking the empty seat beside Ryland.

“You didn’t have to save me a seat, you know,” your voice held a hint of teasing to it, but it was soft. Filled with an adoration that you knew you were terrible at hiding. Luckily, Ryland was terrible at picking up on it.

“Wanted to sit next to you,” he whispered back as Principal Marshall began to drone on about updates neither of you particularly cared about. He leaned in close, a hint of his breath wafting over the shell of your ear as he spoke. “You make these slightly less boring.”

Close proximity to this man was your worst nightmare, and the cramped auditorium wasn’t helping. That single touch of his breath against your skin was enough to send a simultaneous shiver down your spine and another round of heat to your cheeks. His suit jacket covered arm rested on the shared armrest between your seats, the edge of his bicep ghosting against the bare skin of your arm with every little shift he made, tapping incessantly against the armrest.

The slight action made you smile. He never could sit still in these meetings, always hated them.

“Did anything fun happen in class today?” you kept your voice low, eyes trained on the principal, as your head tilted slightly over to Ryland so he could better hear you.

“Uh, if you count Madison telling me that she thinks the sun orbits the earth, then sure,” you had to stifle your laugh at that, casting Ryland a side glance as he grinned at you, doing a terrible job of whispering back at you as usual.

“How could she possibly think that?”

“You’d be surprised,” Ryland leaned just a tad bit closer, the side of his arm pushed up fully against your own. You could almost hear the smile in his voice without even having to look over at him. “The National Science Foundation estimates that 26% of Americans still think the sun orbits the earth.”

“Jesus, that many?”

“Well, 100% of them are stupid, so,”

Nasty looks from other faculty were shot your way that second you choked on your own breath, slapping a hand over your mouth in an attempt to stop yourself from breaking out into uncontrollable laughter. You gave them the most sympathetic look you possibly could, learning how to breathe normally again before mouthing sorry at them all.

Ryland didn’t care in the slightest for the warning look you shot him, a bright smile on his face as his eyes seemed to trail over every inch of your face.

“If you keep doing this in every faculty meeting, they’re going to separate us, Ry,”

“I met Madison’s parents for the first time last month for parent-teacher conferences,” he continued, ignoring your plea. Instead, he leaned in even closer, eyes locked on yours, and god it was impossible to look away. “They are, 100%, undeniably, part of the Flat Earth Truthers Club.”

You shook your head, a smile creeping back up on your lips. Ryland’s gaze could still be felt on the side of your face as you turned back to face the front, eyes focused back on the principal again in an attempt to pay attention to the meeting.

“Flat earthers are ridiculous. They’re just scared of science,”

“Well, you know what they say…the only thing they have to fear is sphere itself,”

There simply wasn’t enough time to clap your hand over your mouth and conceal your laughter, a split second of it breaking through the quiet of the auditorium. And Ryland? His smile was somehow even brighter than it was before, still locked onto your face, never having strayed once.

“Dr. Grace, is there something you feel needs to be shared with the rest of your fellow faculty?”

Principal Marshall’s voice was enough to knock Ryland out of whatever trance he seemed to have put himself in. Eyes wide as if he’d just seen a ghost, hands barely able to catch his glasses as they almost fell right off of his ear where they dangled, a burst of red spread through his cheeks instantly as his deer-like eyes locked onto the unamused principal.

“I-I uh, no. No, nothing, Principal Marshall,” he scratched at the back of his head, ruffling up his already messy hair, a nervous tick you’d picked up since the moment you’d met him. You simply buried your head in your head, eyes trained on your shoes and Ryland out of the corner of your gaze, terrified to look up at your fellow faculty that you’d already apologized to once. “Just getting super jazzed about faculty updates. Hard to keep it in here. I’m like a mushroom, getting all…hyphae…”

A collective groan sounded through the auditorium at the terrible biology pun that rolled off of him with ease. All you could do was smile into the palm of your hand.

“Please just…pay attention to the meeting, Dr. Grace, before I separate you and your other half,”

Other half. That’s not how she meant it, but it was impossible not to let your mind wander to the idea.

Early mornings. Coffee, the smell of eggs and toast burning in the kitchen. Ryland and his hair that was surely even more unkempt that early in the day. The guarantee that he definitely had about 120 science puns ready to go at any moment.

Late nights. Curled up on a couch. A movie, a shared blanket, warm in the embrace of his arms. The quiet of just being with someone that made you happy in ways you’d never felt before. The promise of another day with them on the horizon.

It was becoming increasingly harder not to think about Ryland Grace like that every day, of what a life with the awkward, endearing science teacher could be.

And as Principal Marshall continued her meeting, and your eyes met the blue ones that were already looking at you: soft, kind, a hint of something you couldn’t understand in them, you could only dream he thought the same thoughts when he looked at you.

❤︎

“Alright, who can tell me the day of the first human space flight?”

Not a single middle schooler, packed into the building’s planetarium, raised their hands at first. Many of them started whispering to each other, confused looks on their faces, but Ryland just waited with a smile on his face. A brave soldier from Mr. Harkin’s class, Damien, finally raised his hand.

“Uh, Mr. Grace? Wouldn’t that…be today?”

“Excatly!” Grace’s clap echoed through the room as he pointed toward the young kid sitting in the front row of seats. “International Day of Human Space Flight, commemorating the first human space flight by Yuri Gagarin. It was a trick question, and you passed my tiny friend.”

Were you excited about losing a chunk of your day to escorting your class to the planetarium, along with other classes in the building, for a special science presentation? Absolutely not, especially not with how terribly your class did on their last The Odyssey assignment.

When you found out that Ryland was giving the presentation during your allotted time? Suddenly, The Odyssey meant nothing to you. Not when you could watch Ryland teach, something he did so effortlessly.

The way he captured every single child’s attention with ease. That glowing smile on his face every time they answered a question right, and simply the way he seemed to love what he taught. You were captivated every time you got the chance to see him teaching the thing he loved so much.

“Yuri Gagarin was a Soviet cosmonaut who became the first person in space in 1961 aboard the Vostok 1,” the planetarium was lit up with the night sky, little stars reflecting down. You could almost see them in the students eyes, in their bright smiles as they looked up into the vastness of space. Your eyes trailed to Ryland, already looking at you with a soft smile of his own, before he cleared his throat and moved throughout the room, focusing back on the kids. “Over the course of 89 minutes, his ship traveled to a maximum altitude of 187 miles, as it orbited the Earth.”

“Wait, so we weren’t the first people in space?” one of your students, Lydia, called out. Ryland laughed, pointing over at her.

“No, we kind of sucked,” you rolled your eyes with a grin at Ryland’s statement, though it drew a laugh from all of the kids. “No, America had actually scheduled its first space flight for May 1961, so this was a huge blow to us. It really heated up the space race.”

“He really is good with them, isn’t he?”

Glancing over, Mr. Harkin had saddled up beside you on the edge of the room, head tilted toward you and voice low so as to not disrupt the lesson the kids were being taught. Your gaze drifted back to Ryland as he continued his lesson, eliciting more laughter from the kids. It only brought another soft smile to rest on your lips.

“He is, in a way that I just don’t understand,”

Those blue eyes you’d become so fond of met yours for a moment across the room, face illuminated by the light projecting onto the planetarium’s dome walls. The little grin he wore seemed to drop just slightly, gaze still locked on you but flickering every moment over to Mr. Harkin as he spoke to the students. Harkin’s elbow dug lightly into your side.

“Careful, you’re giving him major ‘heart eyes’ across the room right now,”

You did your best to conceal your laughter, shooting Harkin a look, Ryland’s gaze still felt on the side of your face even as you looked away.

“Why do I feel like I’m about to find out that every teacher in this school has a secret betting ring going on when it comes to Ryland and I?”

“I mean, it’s not a secret. Principal Marshall runs the damn thing,”

“Mr. Grace?” one of the youngest girls in the grade, Aurora, called out, raising her hand up to get Ryland’s attention. “My mom told me the other day that there’s 8 planets in our solar system. What happened to Pluto?”

Ryland went to answer when Mr. Harkin beside you laughed, capturing the attention of everyone in the room, as he shook his head at his young student.

“No, honey, scientists a couple years ago decided that Pluto wasn’t a planet anymore,”

Your eyes flickered to Ryland, who was already staring at Harkin from across the room as he tossed his little crochet earth back and forth in his hand. His response was a bit of a forced laugh.

“Well, your teacher isn’t wrong. Scientists classified Pluto as a dwarf planet a couple years ago,” he explained to the kids, eyes trained on the little crochet sphere in his hands. “But there’s 8 other very important, even closer planets that we should focus on. I mean, who really cares about a tiny, slow planet that takes 248 years to orbit the sun–honestly, he should just accept that he’s slowly falling into obscurity and stop trying to steal the spotlight.”

The room got quiet. Your eyebrow raised slightly, head tilted, as everyone just seemed to stare at Ryland, who had yet to look up.

“Uh, Mr. Grace?” some student in the back called out. “Why did you call Pluto ‘he’? Are the planets boys and girls like us, too?”

Ryland’s head shot up, as if he suddenly remembered he was in a room full of students. His eyes shot to you, his mouth opening, then closing, before he quickly looked away.

“I–well…planets don’t really…I’m not trying to misgender the planets, you know? That’s not for me to decide, that’s for them to–you know what, does anyone else have any other questions that aren’t related to Pluto?”

You really didn’t want to laugh at Ryland, but only he would be able to accidentally turn a lesson about space and planets into almost a lesson on bodily autonomy. He caught your eye, his widening just slightly and you could almost see his cry for help written across his face, but it only made your laughter worse.

It was little Madison that raised her hand next, speaking before she’d even been called upon.

“Are you sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe?”

Ryland hung his head in shame, the shaking of his head evident from across the room as a few of the kids around laughed at the young girl’s comment. You were quick to shoot them a warning look, not keen to hand out any detentions today.

By the time your gaze turned back to Ryland, he was already looking at you. His gaze flickered to Harkin, then back to you, and it was like a light bulb had just flickered on the way his eyes lit up.

“Yes, Madison, I’m sure the Earth isn’t the center of the universe. And I can show you,” his long legs crossed the room in seconds, his body sliding between you and Mr. Harkin as his hands landed on your shoulders with a tiny little squeeze that sent your heart leaping through your chest. “But to do that, I’m going to need this volunteer that I’m not quite giving a choice.”

“It’s not volunteering if you didn’t ask, Ry!”

You exasperatedly tried to whisper to Ryland as he steered you across the room to stand before all the kids. He only shook his head as a bunch of your own students started cheering for you around the room, only worsening the red that coated your cheeks the second his hands had landed on your body.

“I need you for this,” he shot back hastily, positioning you in the middle of the room, standing in front of you. His body blocked the students from your vision, blue eyes boring down into yours, hands gently squeezing at your upper arms as you begged the blush in your skin to not be too obvious. “You trust me?”

A ridiculous question, because the only answer was yes. You gave him a nod, and Ryland’s smile only widened as he turned back to the kids in the room.

“Alright, kids. Your gorgeous teacher here is the Sun,”

Little oohs and awes sounded from the kids around the room at Ryland’s little slip in of the word ‘gorgeous.’ There was a sting in your bottom lip as you bit into it with your teeth, trying to contain your own smile. Marcus spoke up from across the room without raising his hand, as usual.

“Then what’s Mr. Harkin?”

“Oh, he’s Pluto,” Ryland shot back immediately, nodding his head. “Suits him.”

Laughter rang through the room, the young boys as rambunctious as ever. Ryland met your astonished look with a tiny wink of his own, one that forced a small laugh to tumble from your lips. Then, he began to slowly spin, walking around you in a circle.

“And I am the Earth,” he called out to the kids, and you could only hope he didn’t trip over his own two shoelaces. “The Sun holds 99.8% of the mass in our solar system, which means it’s packing some massive gravity.”

Ryland stopped spinning himself, still moving around you in a circle. He held his hand out toward you, and you slipped yours into it without hesitation, spinning in that circle slowly with him.

“Because the Sun holds such intense gravity, it’s actually pulling Earth into it. But, Earth has such high forward velocity that it actually keeps us moving sideways. Put these two together, and it keeps Earth moving in an almost perfect circle around the sun. Can anyone tell me another fun fact about our movement around the sun?”

The words went in one of your ears and straight out the other. There was no paying attention, not when Ryland’s hand held your own. Soft skin, just slightly rough around the edges, and those blue eyes were so soft, locked onto you as if there was nowhere else he wanted to look.

“Our speed changes!” Olivia called out from somewhere in the back, but you didn’t even try to look and find her. “When we’re closer to the sun in our orbit we move faster, and the further away we are, the slower we move.”

“Very good, Olivia!” Ryland called out, sparing just a quick glance over to the kids in the room as his hand held yours tighter, still spinning slowly together. “Madison, we also know this works because there’s other sun-like stars out there that are also orbited by planets. Like Tau Ceti, which has four Earth-like planets orbiting it.”

“Is the sun important for other things, besides just being the center?”

Ryland’s eyes flickered to you, and you watched as he paused. The slight hesitation on his face, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple for a moment, before those blue eyes locked onto yours and refused to look away.

“I-It is…for a lot of reasons. The Sun is the Earth’s entire reason for existing. The Sun gives the Earth life. The Sun is the reason the world is beautiful,”

Your breath hitched, eyes still trained on Ryland. There was something in his words, something in that earnest, raw look that he had written across his features as he looked at you that added a weight to his words. A weight that sent a tiny chill across your skin, raising the hair on your arms.

“Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing,”

There was quiet across the room. Then, a couple snickers, followed by Olivia’s smug little voice.

“The Sun sounds beautiful the way you talk about it,”

“She is,” his voice was lower, softer than it was before. Until, he seemed to realize what he said, the red on both of your faces spreading further than before as his eyes shot wide. “THE SUN I mean! I-I’m talking about the sun, obviously, b-because this is a science presentation!”

Laughter rang through the room, little chants of your names mashed together coming from some of the kids as the bell rang and saved either of you from further embarrassment.

Ryland, being Ryland, chose that moment to finally trip over his own two feet. You pulled on his hand as hard as you could, saving him from plummeting to the ground as he instead just landed on his one knee.

“Make good choices,” Ryland commented lowly as some of the kids walked past the two of you, still snickering and giggling to themselves. You let go of his hands finally, simply resting it on his shoulder with a gentle squeeze. “Don’t uh, I don’t know, blow up the world during lunch or anything. Or pop those chip bags and give kids heart attacks, whatever you kids do these days.”

You laughed, stepping around Ryland as your kids lined up outside of the room, waiting for you. He shot you a sheepish smile from the floor, and your skin still burned with heat at the memory of his words as you looked at him.

“Every time I think you’re doing well with those kids, they manage to knock you down a peg,”

“Yeah, well, what’s new?”

When you met your class outside, you didn’t let them get a word in before you warned them not to say anything. You could still hear little comments talking about ‘shipping’ their English and Science teachers the entire way back to your classroom.

❤︎

Ryland Grace didn’t understand how he had ended up here.

Well, he did. Calling the leading scholar in his field a “staggering waste of carbon” at a UNESCO conference in Denmark was an easy way to get blacklisted from the field he’d studied in for many years in college. It was an easy explanation for how he ended up teaching middle school science at Grover Cleveland Middle in San Francisco.

Not that he had a problem with teaching! He actually loved it. Loved his kids, loved talking about science. He loved teaching the future little scientists of the world about why every facet of science was awesome. The pay wasn’t great, though.

Especially when it was the reason he rode a bike to school daily.

And there was currently the equivalent of a monsoon raining down from the sky onto the pavement, the reason he’d been standing at the front doors for the last 20 minutes hoping that the rain would simply let up. The heavens didn’t take pity on him, though, and it only rained harder and harder. His rain coat and bike were not meant to withstand heavy rain and damaging winds to this extent. 

Best cast scenario? It takes him a little longer to get home on his usual 20 minute bike ride than normal. Worst case? He crashes and dies, dead in a ditch covered in mud.

“Ryland, please tell me you aren’t thinking of riding your bike home in this?”

Then there was you. You were probably the single greatest reason why he loved teaching at Grover Cleveland Middle. If he ever had the unfortunate chance to meet that scientist from the conference again, he’d thank him this time for being a staggering waste of carbon, because it led him down a path to you.

“I can’t be that bad,” he tried to joke, waving you off as a crack of thunder seemed to shake the entire building, and his fake confidence faltered for a second. He glanced back at you, coat wrapped around your bag instead of yourself in order to keep its contents dry. “Just, you know…the slight threat of bodily harm.”

He really wished the path that led to you was less bumpy and full of himself looking like an idiot, but at this rate he’d take what he could get from the universe.

“Yeah, absolutely not,” was your immediate reply, head shaking as she fished your car keys out of the bag still covered with your coat. “I’m giving you a ride home, can’t risk the best science teacher’s life over a dumb storm.”

Ryland immediately shook his head, turning to face you beside him. He was not letting you risk your own life in the storm for him. If it really came down to it, he’d sleep at his desk. There was a change of clothes he kept in the bottom drawer, it wasn’t the first time he’d had to do it.

“I can’t let you-”

“This isn’t up for discussion,” Ryland snapped his mouth shut as you cut in once again, dangling your car keys up in front of him with a little shake. “I…care about you, okay? I want to know you are home safe.”

There was no stopping the immediate heat that filled Ryland’s cheeks, and he knew it. There was red blooming across your own, but Ryland shook all wishful thinking from his mind. The AC unit in this school was unreliable, you were definitely just flushed from the heat. No other reason.

Ryland decided he wasn’t going to put up a fight at this point, but he wasn’t going to let you do this without anything in return. He shrugged the yellow raincoat hanging over his own shoulders off as he kicked the glass door in front of him open, the muffle sounds of the torrential downpour now louder as droplets of water splashed into the front door. He held the jacket out, hanging it above your head to protect you from the rain.

“At least let me save you from getting drenched,”

“You’re going to look like a dog that just had a bath by the time we reach my car,” Ryland only smiled at your joke, and the little giggle that fell through your lips. The close proximity didn’t help as he held the jacket up around you.

“Actually, it’s not windy today,” he shot back with a grin, nodding out the propped open door into the rain. “That means if we run, I’ll be drier than if we walked, because the rain that’s hitting us from above is proportional to time. Though, the rain hitting us from the front is proportional to distance, and when running-”

“Ryland Grace, you are adorable when you get all science-nerd, but if we’re going to run…we should run,”

Ryland was thankful that you couldn’t see the renewed heat flooding his cheeks, as you were both too busy sprinting through the torrential downpour to the staff parking lot.

Being a gentleman (who was head over heels in love with you and too terrified to say a damn thing) was thrown out the window with how fast you were booking it to your car, the idea of shielding you from the rain with his jacket abandoned after just a moment booking it across the lot. He could feel the coolness of the water settling against his skin as it soaked through every layer of clothing he had, every few seconds having to furiously wipe at his glasses in hopes of seeing through them.

None of it really mattered in the end, not when he heard your laugh. The little shrieks of laughter as a particularly big drop happened to fall right in your eyes. Or the laughter as Ryland managed–in his signature fashion–to slip on the final step into the parking lot, and you had to double back in laughter to help haul him to his feet.

He’s spring clumsily through the rain a thousand more times if he got to see you smile like that. And that is why his kids always told him that he was definitely ‘whipped’ for you. Whatever that meant.

The second you had both jumped into your respective seats of your vehicle, doors slamming shut, there was only a moment of silence between the both of you. Ryland felt like his chest was going to explode, remembering why he always hated gym class, his heavy breathing mixed with yours as you both caught your breath, before you locked eyes over the center console.

Then the laughter resumed.

He held his hand to his stomach, feeling an ache settling in as he couldn’t stop his own laughter. Your’s grew slightly louder in his ear as you leaned over, trying to help him wipe at his glasses that were still covered.

“I was right, you look like a wet dog,”

Ryland’s only response was to shake his soaking wet hair like one, a simple reaction that earned yet another shriek of laughter from you and a light slap to his shoulder. You muttered something unintelligible under your breath, but Ryland found himself unable to tear his gaze away from your lips as you started the car and began to pull out of the staff lot. How soft they looked, the way the little beads of water running down your cheeks fell over them.

Whipped. He still didn’t get it, but he agreed wholeheartedly with his kids at this point.

There was no driving fast in this rain, especially when the windshield wipers were moving at their highest programmed speed and it still wasn’t enough. It was quiet in the car for just a moment as you pulled out of the parking lot, but Ryland broke it the second your phone had connected to the car’s bluetooth, music filling the space between him and you.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars.

“Frank Sinatra,” Ryland couldn’t help the growing smile on his lips as the familiar song flooded through the car speakers. He kept his eyes trained on the side of your face, watching the little smile grow on your own lips, eyes focused on the road conditions in front of you. “Old books and old music. Didn’t know you had such an old soul.”

“You calling me old, Ryland?”

“N-no!” Ryland immediately back track, hands flying up and shaking back and forth as his eyes went wide. “I might say some stupid stuff some–okay, most of the time–but I know better than to comment on a woman’s age.”

“I’m just teasing you,” he could thankfully hear the sincerity mixed in with the teasing lit to your voice. “But yes, I do enjoy some old music. Always been a big fan of Sinatra, especially this one.”

“It’s a nice song…just not scientifically accurate,” he caught the side eye that you threw his way for just a moment, another crack of thunder banging across the sky and almost shaking the car. Ryland couldn’t help but jump slightly. “Jupiter only has a 3.13° tilt to its axis, so it doesn’t experience seasons like we do. Mar’s would, though, because its axis is tilted at 25°, only 1.5° more than our own tilt…”

Ryland trailed off as the car rolled to a stop at a red light, and he caught you fully facing him this time with a bemused expression written across your face. His smile dropped just slightly as he let out a sheepish laugh, adjusting his glasses as they slid back down the wet bridge of his nose.

“...I went full science-nerd again, didn’t I?”

Your laughter drowned out the rain beating against the roof of the car as your attention returned to the road once more.

“You always do, but I happen to enjoy it very much,”

If only teaching paid more, because the commute to Ryland’s apartment was a lot shorter than his bike ride home every day from work. 

Parked in an open space across the road from the dimly lit apartment building, Ryland Grace hesitated with his hand on the handle of the door. His eyes swept out over the area around the vehicle, still being hounded with rain. The top of his road looked like the beginning of a river, the way the water was rushing down the small incline to pool at the bottom.

“Thanks…for this,” he gestured toward the weather right outside the card.

You moved to respond to him, when the weather alert on your phone propped up on your dashboard sounded out. Ryland could just barely make out the headline: FLASH FLOOD WARNING.

The roads were far too dangerous, and Ryland already knew from various conversations that you lived on the opposite end of town from him.

He…could ask you to stay for the night. Just for safety reasons, obviously! He was quickly trying to work through the pros and cons list in his head.

Pros: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be safe and not driving in this storm.

Cons: his only friend that just so happened to be the woman he’s been head over heels in love with for the last year would be inside his tiny little apartment that looked like it had been hit by a separate hurricane than the one it felt like they were currently suffering through.

“I should probably get home-”

“Stay,” Ryland cut in, quickly continuing his words after his vague statement. “I-It’s just, the roads are bad, and you live on the other side of town. This storm is just going to get worse, and I-I’d hate to know something happened to you.”

You hesitated, he could tell, shaking your head.

“Ryland, I couldn’t ask you to let me stay,”

He hesitated himself for a moment, every feeling he’d kept bottled up for a year now threatening to escape past his lips. Instead, he settled on echoing your own words.

“I…I care about you. I want to know you’re safe,”

Moments later, he had his rain coat draped over your head as he rushed you inside his apartment to shelter from the storm.

Ryland’s hands shook the entire time as he put his key into his front door’s lock. The last time he had guests over…was never. His apartment was built and designed for him and his brain, scattered with notes and books and piles of arts and crafts that he worked on in order to decorate his classroom. It was not meant for visitors, especially not ones as pretty as you.

“Don’t, uh, mind the mess,” he mumbled, holding the door open and motioning after you, allowing you to take a step inside his apartment as he let out the small breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

Chucking off his sneakers, little puddles of water forming below them on the ground, his jacket found its way into a pile with them. Ryland wiped his hands nervously against the thighs of his jeans, the action doing nothing against the soaking went material, as he watched you take in his apartment.

The apartment that looked like it had been ransacked, at least partially. Stacks of books relating to a thousand different topics were stacked on the ground by the tv stand, on top of the coffee table along with the coffee cup he’d abandoned there early in the morning in a haste to get to the school, and and by his desk that had a stack of papers scattered around it after her strewn them about in order to find one specific slip of paper at 11 p.m.

It was a mess, and Ryland regretted everything.

“It’s not messy, it’s homey,” your reply sent a burst of heat through his skin as you turned to him with a bright smile, leaving your own bag and coat by his pile of wet items before gesturing to your own soaking wet clothing. “Do you maybe have something a little less…wet?”

He scurried away into his bedroom, trying to ignore that little section of his brain that took your comment in a MUCH different way.

His bedroom was worse. Ryland wasn’t letting you sleep on the couch, but he surely wasn’t letting you see his room in a state like this.

Clothing was thrown across the room and Ryland quickly ran about, shoving piles of clothing away into corners where he was certain you wouldn’t be able to see any of it. Throwing it into his closet and slamming the door before it could fall out, pushing it down in his laundry basket, kicking it under his bed so it was out of sight and out of mind, whatever he could think of.

“Great idea, Ryland,” he muttered to himself, pulling on a dry pair of sweatpants and a tshirt for himself, trying to shake the remaining water out of his hair as he rummaged for something you could wear. “Almost get the woman you’re in love with killed by letting her drive you home in a monsoon. Invite her to stay the night in your apartment that makes you look like an even bigger loser than you are. Amazing idea. A doctorate in molecular biology and this is the best you can do.”

You were waiting by the couch in his living room, just glancing around at everything with a smile, when he reappeared. Sheepishly, he handed the folded clothing over to you, hand running through his soaking wet hair as he pointed down the hall.

“You can take my bed for the night. Uh, just leave your clothes in the bathroom, I can throw them in the dryer in a bit. I can scrounge up something to eat in the meantime,”

“Thanks, Ry,” your hand reached out, squeezing his upper arm lightly, and he felt the heat in his skin instantly bloom under your touch. “For all of this.”

If it wasn’t for the giant crack of thunder that flickered the lights of the building for a moment and made Ryland jump out of his skin, he would’ve forgotten how to breathe again.

He rummaged through every part of his kitchen, desperately trying to find something that he could make the two of you to eat that also wouldn’t make him seem pathetic. All he could come up with…was a loaf of bread, a jar of peanut butter, and a jar of jelly.

Yesterday. He’d stayed late after the end of the day to help in tutoring. He forgot to go grocery shopping. Ryland let out a sigh at his realization, back to his fridge door and head banging back against the stainless steel, hand running down his face and dragging against his skin as his glasses were knocked off, hanging off of one ear.

“Great,” he muttered into his palm. “Just absolutely freaking great, Ryland.”

Ryland Grace desperately wished he had the guts, the bravery, to just simply tell you how he felt.

From the moment he met you, when you had arrived for your first day at Grover Cleveland Middle, he was a goner. It had been a long time since he’d had a partner, his last one certain that he was too busy with his head in the clouds to pay attention to her, and she wasn’t wrong. But from the moment he looked at you, waving and smiling as you introduced yourself to all of the teachers that had gathered to welcome you, you were suddenly the only thing his brain wanted to focus on.

He had been so focused on you, too busy admiring every inch of you in silence, that in his typical clumsy fashion he tripped over his own two feet and knocked Principal Marshall’s papers out of her hand, spreading them five feet across the floor. But you’d joined him on the ground, laughing lightly to yourself, as you helped him clean up the papers, and Ryland knew he was a goner for you.

It only continued every single day, getting worse, and you somehow became his friend. His only friend, if he was being quite frank. So he tried to hide the way he really felt, too scared to mess anything up. He’d rather have you in his life in any way he could, then mess this up and lose you forever.

Keeping those feelings in was getting increasingly harder in the last few months. Which explained why he’d traveled cross town just to get lunch from your favorite place, or compare you to the sun and basically called you his entire reasoning for living in front of a bunch of children-

Either Ryland was going to blurt it out at some point, or he was taking these feelings to the grave with him.

“Peanut butter and jelly? Sounds like we’re eating like royalty tonight,”

He shouldn’t have looked over at you. He really, really shouldn’t have. Leaning against the opposite wall of the kitchen, hair still damp and dripping onto the cheesy “I had potential” shirt he’d been gifted by one of his students the following year. Sweatpants that were bunched up around your ankles so that you didn’t trip over the length, waist tied in as tightly as possible so they didn’t just slide right off your hips.

Ryland Grace had never thought it possible that you could look more gorgeous than you did every day, but he stood corrected. He felt more in love than he ever had just looking at you right in this moment.

“Sorry, I don’t exactly…live a life of luxury,” Ryland awkwardly laughed as he spoke, pulling out two sad paper plates from the cabinet next to him and flashing them in your direction, shaking them lightly in the air. “Hope this doesn’t ruin my perfectly curated image.”

His eyes followed you as you brushed past him, humming to yourself with a little grin. You fumbled through every drawer in the kitchen, looking for something, when Ryland quickly popped open the one right next to him, showcasing his small selection of utensils. You flashed another heart-stopping grin at him before digging out two knives from the drawer.

“That image cracked a long time ago, Ry. Like that time you let Marcus perform some chemical reaction and got the fire department called to the school,”

The tall blonde groaned to himself, rubbing at his temple as you pushed past him to throw some of the bread down onto the plates and crack open the jars of peanut butter and jelly set out.

“That was one time!” he tried to defend himself, saddling up beside you as you passed him one of the knives. He almost completely missed the opening of the peanut butter jar, eyes too transfixed on the sight of you in his clothing. It was still up in the air if his heart was actually working correctly yet. “I learned my lesson very quickly not to let him handle any more chemicals.”

“Don’t worry. I made the mistake of doing popcorn reading when we were working on The Outsiders. Marcus seemed to end up with every single instance of profanity in the book, which he would yell at the top of his lungs,”

Ryland snapped his fingers, glancing down at you at his side with a teasing smile.

“You know what? That explains that really loud ‘HELL’ I heard across the school a couple months ago. I was so sure that it was going to shatter the windows of my classroom,”

“Oh, shut up! It wasn’t that bad!”

Your laughter permeated the air, elbow digging into his side as you spoke. And when your eyes locked with his, and Ryland got the perfect look at every square inch of your face, he could see it so clearly in his head.

Mornings just like this, where you’d both struggle to get out of the warmth of the blankets. The way he would surely annoy you with his very disorganized morning routine, but he’d make up for it with coffee already set out for you, just as you liked it. The lingering moments by the door, too wrapped up in each other because you didn’t want to leave the peace of this space, even though you were going to the same place.

Late nights, curled together on the couch with some movie playing on TV that neither of you were particularly paying attention to. Whispered words, laughter shared. Kisses that lingered, hands that trailed-

Thunder broke Ryland from his spell, thoughts gone in a flash. He was back in his dingy kitchen, with you just inches away, staring up at him as the picture of true beauty.

“T-This is nice,” he cleared his throat, turning back to his sandwich as he spread his toppings along the bread, heat blooming across his cheeks again. It always did around you. “Making dinner with someone…no matter how sad the dinner is. I haven’t done this in awhile.”

“Right,” your voice responded after a momentary pause. “Sarah, wasn’t it? You were dating her when we first met. What, uh…what ever happened to her?”

“Oh, we broke up a long time ago,” Ryland waved the comment off, shaking his head. “She just, uh, thought my head was too far in the clouds. Didn’t think I wanted to be down here on Earth. She wasn’t wrong. It was for the best, though. She hated…all of this. The rundown apartment, the lack of a car, my love of science. She just never understood it. I was just…too much for her. But she’s with Mark now, so I’m sure she’s happy.”

Ryland chose not to mention that his last relationship had been dead long before it officially ended, the pair not having seen each other in well over a month by that point. If his math was right, which it usually was, Sarah had started dating Mark before she’d even broken it off with him.

He also failed to mention the relief he felt inside when she had called it off, knowing his heart had belonged to you the moment your eyes had locked with his.

Fingertips just barely ghosted over Ryland’s cheek, and he froze in place. Eyes trained on the plate in front of him, he could feel the way your hand curled around his cheek. The way your thumb glossed over his skin, back and forth, and the way your other fingers barely grazed over the shell of his ear. He couldn’t help the way he instantly leaned into the touch, a touch he hadn’t felt in so long.

Ryland turned his head, still resting in the palm of your own, to look you in the eyes. You gave him the softest smile, hand trailing across his cheek and ghosting over his jawline. His eyes watched it move, the way your fingers gently curled around the frame of his glasses dangling precariously from his face, and placed them gingerly back where they belonged, resting on the bridge of his nose.

His breath caught, your body so close to his, as your hand trailed back down and rested on his chest for just a moment, your own gaze flickering to its resting spot while his gaze stayed on your face.

“You are never, and will never be, too much, Ryland. Not for the right person. They’ll love every part of you. The clumsy parts, the nerdy parts, every part that makes you…you,”

The Sun. That’s what you were to Ryland Grace. He meant every word he had said in that planetarium that day, driven by the rare jealousy of seeing Harkin that close to you. 

The Sun was the reason Earth had life. Without the Sun…the Earth would be nothing.

Without you…well, Ryland Grace had accepted long ago that he didn’t understand what it was like to truly live until he’d met you.

Your eyes flickered for just a second, and Ryland took in an audible breath, swearing they settled on his lips for just a second. The apartment was quiet, except for the hum of the fridge and the pattering of the rain against the living room windows.

The moment shattered with yet another terribly timed clap of thunder, your body jolting away from his, focus turned back to the counter in front of you, face hidden from his wide eyes.

“Y-you know…I can’t tell you the last time I had a peanut butter and jelly sandwich,”

Ryland shook his head, smiling slightly to himself at the little stutter in your own words, turning back to finishing his own food as well. But the moment still lingered in his head, the heat that bloomed from where your skin touched him still lingering.

“Since peanut butter is banned in school for allergies, probably awhile,”

“I almost forgot that rule a couple weeks ago and almost packed peanut butter crackers,” you joked back, before Ryland heard you snap your fingers. “Oh! Speaking of work, did you put yourself down to volunteer for the school dance next week?”

Sandwiches finished off, Ryland packed the ingredients away and stashed them back in their appropriate spots, laughing awkwardly to himself.

“Hah, uh, no I didn’t. I chaperoned last year and kind of left covered in punch, became the kids’ favorite ‘meme’ for a week afterward since one of them got a picture of it,”

He turned back to you. Leaning against the island counter, holding your sad little sandwich in your hands, face still lit up red as you smiled toward him.

“I think so far it's me, Doyle, and Harki, plus Principal Marshal and I think Katie and Dawson from the front office. We could really use another teacher,” he swore the fluttering of your lashes was on purpose just to kill him and his resolve. “Sign-up? For me?”

Well, there was no universe in existence where Ryland said no to a request like that.

Rejoining you at the counter, he held his own sandwich in his hand, reaching out and tapping it against yours as if you were sharing a toast.

“For you? Totally,”

Even as you both took a bite of your sandwiches, eyes still locked together, Ryland felt as if something had shifted in the air. Your eyes were still as kind, your smile still bright, but it felt like there was a new weight to your gaze as you looked at him.

And he swore–and hoped–for just a split second, that your eyes had just flickered down to his lips again.

❤︎

The student council had outdone themselves with this end of the year dance.

As you stepped through the main doors of Grover Cleveland Middle’s building, the smile on your face grew immediately at the sight before you. The walls were lined with little fairy lights, little styrofoam planets hanging down from the ceiling at various lengths, glow in the dark stars right around them and glowing. Silver streamers hung around the fairy lights, with the check in desk decorated with tons and foam and lights behind them to look like twinkling lights in the clouds.

“A space theme?” you called out as the two kids in front of you ducked away from the registration desk. Evelyn Doyle finally looked up from the sign-in sheet, grin growing as she took in the sight of you and rounded the desk. “I hadn’t heard anything from the student council on the theme, but they did well.”

“Nevermind the theme, you’re finally here!” you laughed as you threw her arms around you, reciprocating the hug, before her hands landed on your shoulders in order to get a good look at you, eyes trailing you up and down. “And look at this dress, oh my god!”

The deep yellow dress fell right around your knees, the fabric light and airy as it swooshed through the air with every move you made. Buttons lined the front down to the tie around your waist, leaving just enough room for the little gold necklace resting against your collarbone. You thanked yourself for choosing a short sleeve option, already feeling the heat in the building from how many kids were all packed in and dancing together.

“Thank you,” was the sheepish reply you gave your friend as she let you go. “I’m sorry I’m late, I caught one of my student’s parents in the parking lot and they turned it into a mini parent-teacher conference, sadly.”

“Not a problem,” she waved the comment off, gesturing toward the doors of the gym just off to the left of you both. “Just get on in there, have some fun, and keep those slow dancers at least 12 inches apart at all times.”

If the hallways were gorgeous, the inside of the gym shone even brighter. Bathed in blue and purple, even more little lights twinkled around the room, hung off the walls, the ceilings, and on every surface they could possibly find. Moon and star decals, made by the art students, hung off the walls and from the ceiling, almost glowing under the lights.

Your eyes trailed over all of your children, scattered throughout the room, already having been dancing for at least thirty minutes. The smile on your face grew as you watched each one of them, gathered with their friends as they danced together in groups, or even stood off to the sides and just observed from beyond the dimly lit dance floor.

Mr. Harkin had been stationed at the punch table, and you could hear him from across the room warning these middle schoolers not to try and spike the punch. You could only giggle to yourself, shaking your head at his antics, before your eyes swept over the crowd once more-

The music seemed to stop in your ears, breath hitching, the second you laid eyes on him across the room. Ryland Grace.

He wasn’t in anything fancy. A nice pair of jeans, the worn pair of black dress shoes you’d seen by his apartment door that night. A dark green shirt was tucked into his jeans, adorned with a worn, navy blue suit jacket overtop, and those same glasses almost falling off the bridge of his nose as he spoke animatedly to Olivia.

Ryland looked good. Too good, in your eyes.

For just a second, he looked up, and his eyes happened to meet yours across the room. You thought for sure you’d forgotten how to breathe.

Whatever had happened that night, in the silence of his apartment with only the beating of the rain against the windows and the roof as a witness, had shifted something. From the moment your fingertips had ghosted along his skin, your hand had rested against his chest, and you’d been close enough to see the specs that danced in those ocean blue eyes of his up close, nothing had been the same.

Like the little bubble you had been existing in with your harbored crushed had finally popped. Like a toe had dipped just slightly over a line, and there was no going back from then on.

You always blushed around your friend, every time he’d manage to fumble his way through a comment that borderlined on a kind-of-not-just-friendly compliment. But since that day just a week or so ago, every time he has been within a few feet of you, your face lit up like a hot summer’s day.

Moments where he’d find a second to linger in your classroom door, held a new weight to them. Sharing lunch together, fingers just barely brushing for a second as you both reached for your food, to moments when you’d simply be walking together down hallways, back of hands brushing along each other’s but no one making any moves to stop it from happening.

Something was different, and you weren’t sure you wanted to go back to how things were before. Not after touching his skin, or existing in his orbit like that. Not when you’d seen the side of him beyond these school walls.

You were in love with Ryland Grace. You had been for a long time. And, finally, you were done trying to pretend that there wasn’t at least a small chance that he felt the same.

“I need your help,”

The heated staring contest between you two was broken by the sound to your right. You turned, just to see Marcus standing directly beside you and reaching up to pull on the sleeve of your dress. His hands wrung together, foot tapping incessantly on the ground, and you immediately knelt down in front of him to get a better look at his face that he was trying to hide from you.

“Marcus? Honey, what’s wrong?” you asked gently, hands coming to rest on his arms as you tried to get him to look at you.

“I…I like Olivia,”

Oh. It was one of those problems. The anxiety you felt in that moment finally washed away, an easy smile falling to your lips as you took a quick glance over in Ryland and Olivia’s direction, the former’s eyes still locked onto you from across the room.

“I did hear a rumor about that. Olivia is a great girl,”

“She is,” he said quickly, finally looking at you. His nerves were basically written across his face. “I-I’ve been really mean to her. I didn’t mean to be.”

“I know, honey. Sometimes feelings can be confusing,” you stood up, hands on your hips as you looked down at him with a smile. “Do you want to dance with her?”

“I do,”

You held your hand out toward him with a smile.

“Then why don’t we start by going and apologizing to her?”

With Marcus’s hand in yours, you confidently led him across the room, eyes locked back onto Ryland’s as you approached. He stood with Olivia at his side, who was talking his ear off, a dopey looking grin on his face as he nodded to whatever she said as he continued to watch as you approached him.

“Dr. Grace, I’m sorry to interrupt you and Olivia,” you announced yourself to the pair with a grin of your own, hands on Marcus’s shoulders and you lightly pushed him forward. “But Olivia, there’s something that Marcus here wants to say to you.”

The young boy shuffled awkwardly forward, hands wringing together again as he stood in front of his crush.

“I, uh, I wanted to say I was sorry. For being really mean to you. I didn’t mean it,”

Olivia’s eyes went wide, as she too shuffled uncomfortably for a second. Ryland saddled up to your side, the pair of you sharing a glance as you watched the interaction happen right before your eyes. His hand graced over yours lightly, and it took everything in you not to reach out and lock your fingers with his.

“Oh! It’s, um, it’s okay. Thank you,”

“Say, Marcus?” Ryland called out to them both, catching the boy’s eye and gesturing toward Olivia with a wink. “What do you think of Olivia’s dress?”

“I…I think she looks really beautiful,”

That comment finally seemed to catch Olivia off guard, her eyes wide in shock as she giggled nervously.

“Oh! I…thank you, Marcus. You look really nice too,”

“Thank you,” his posture seemed to straighten out at Olivia’s reaction, like seeing her accept his compliment gave him the confidence he needed. “Do you want to dance with me?”

Olivia shot you and Ryland a look, and you both immediately gave her a thumbs up. Then, your happy eyes could only watch the two pre-teens awkwardly shuffle away together to the dance floor, not daring to meet the eyes of the other.

“Look at us, playing matchmaker for middle schoolers,”

“I think they did that for themselves, we just helped,” you laughed, turning your head. The laughter died on your lips the second your eyes met with Ryland’s, voice low and breathy as you whispered to him through your smile. “Hi.”

“Hi,” he whispered back just as breathily. His hand came up to the back of his head, running through his hair for a moment, and you could see the red and pink hues that lit up his cheeks. “I got worried when I didn’t see you. I was ready to call you.”

“You could’ve,”

“I’ll remember for next time,” he shot back, hands finding their way to rest in the front pockets of his jeans. His eyes moved back over the crowd, finding your two young students once more. “I’m proud of him for that. That…must have taken a lot of guts to do.”

You followed his gaze, landing on the pair as they danced together, laughing and talking like old friends.

“Like you said before, it can be hard for boys to express their feelings. All he needed was to pull up his big boy pants and ask her,”

Ryland laughed beside you.

“Yeah…I should probably follow in his footsteps,”

You glanced back to him, seeing him already watching you. A single eyebrow raised toward him quizzically, even though your heart felt like it was ready to beat directly out of your chest.

Ryland’s mouth opened, then closed, then opened again, as if he were trying to force out words that he couldn’t quite seem to get right. You didn’t even realize you were holding your breath, hoping inside that whatever he wanted to say would address the weight that seemed to be hanging between your gazes.

“Stay here,”

There wasn’t even time for you to respond before the tall blonde rushed away, almost tripping as he dashed over to the DJ booth across the way from the makeshift dance floor. He whispered something to the DJ, and you could see the thumbs up he got in return, before he rushed back over to you, panting slightly.

“Ryland?” you questioned softly, the man who held your entire heart without knowing it standing just a foot in front of you with a nervous grin on his face. “What did you just do?”

As if on cue, the song changed, and familiar lyrics floated through the room, bouncing off the walls.

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars. Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars

“I’m pulling up my big boy pants,” he responded with a nervous laugh, his hand outstretched toward you. “And asking you to dance with me.”

Nothing else existed the second that you slid your hand into Ryland Grace’s without hesitation, letting him pull you in. You weren’t in the school, not in a room decorated for a middle school dance, and certainly not surrounded by middle schoolers and a bunch of faculty that had placed bets on you both.

It was just you and Ryland Grace. That’s all you wanted it to be.

Your arms found a place to rest around his shoulders, fingertips just barely brushing past the strands of hair that tickled the back of his neck. There was a fluttering in your chest the second that his hands made their way to your waist, curling around the divet just above your hip bone, pulling you into him just by another inch.

In other words, hold my hand. In other words, darling, kiss me. Fill my life with song, and let me sing for ever more.

"I didn't tell you yet…,” his voice was soft, words whispered just between the two of you in a crowded room. “But you look beautiful,"

"You don't have to flatter me, Ryland,"

"No, really, you look-"

"Like a banana in this yellow dress?"

He paused. His tongue poked out, running along his bottom lip, and you could see the nervous bob of his Adam’s apple before he spoke again.

"...like the sun,"

You are all I long for, all I worship and adore.

Oh. That fluttering in your chest was back, and suddenly, you weren’t at a middle school dance anymore. You were back in that planetarium, spinning in circles. And this time, there were no doubts in your mind. You were the Sun, and he was the Earth. And what was the Earth, without its Sun?

"Ryland-"

"I wasn't lying,"

You cocked your head.

"...about what?"

"That I knew Homer wrote The Odyssey,"

That drew a short laugh from you, but you could still see the nerves that were laced through Ryland’s smile.

"Right, you were just distracted,"

"I was. By you. I'm always distracted by you,"

In other words, please be true. In other words, I love you.

You took a deep breath. He’d crossed the line for you, thrown himself onto the other side, and was waiting for you with open arms. It was just a leap of faith.

“I’m always distracted by you, too. Since the day we met,”

The song faded away, melting into the next. There could’ve been eyes on you both, either from students or from faculty, but nothing would break either of your gazes away from the other.

Ryland took a quick look around the room, before his hands took hold of your own, bringing them down between you both. He gave you a grin, one filled with more happiness than you had ever seen–and you knew your own matched his perfectly–before he tugged you toward the doors of the gym.

“Come with me,”

“Ry, we’re supposed to be chaperoning!”

“I don’t see Principal Marshall anywhere. What’s the worst she could do, fire us?”

“Quite literally, yes!” you shot back with a laugh.

Ryland only shrugged his shoulders, tugging you again, and you didn’t even try to fight back. Your feet simply moved with him.

“Worth it,”

Hands clasped together, fingers intertwined, your laughter echoed off the walls of the empty hallways as Ryland Grace ran you down them, a destination clear in his mind. Every few seconds he’d look back, just smiling at you as his eyes trailed over every single inch of you, before you’d yell at him to look at his own feet before you’d both be sprawled across the linoleum floors.

The door to his classroom was open as you flew inside, hand slipping from his as you caught yourself on the projector cart sitting in the middle of the room. Spinning on your heel, you caught his eye just as he shut the classroom door behind him, and the silence enveloped you both once more. Finally alone, no prying eyes to watch.

The momentarily confidence that seemed to seize hold of Ryland dissipated in that moment. He wiped his hands against the front of his jeans, chuckling awkwardly as he took a few steps toward you.

“What was your plan here, Dr. Grace?” you teased, taking a couple steps toward him as well, too high on the feeling of everything you’d just finally realized. High on the feeling of finally not denying what your heart knew long ago: you and Ryland Grace were never just friends.

“I’m not going to lie,” he shot back, coming to a stop just in front of you, barely an inch or two separating you. “I hadn’t thought this far ahead.”

“Then stop thinking,”

No one had leaned in first. It had been both of you, as if drawn together like two magnets, as your lips finally found one another's.

Goosebumps rose across your skin as Ryland Grace’s mouth moved against yours with an ease that shouldn’t exist between two people that have never kissed before. It was like a perfect dance between two partners that knew each other better than anything.

Your lips never left his, moving against his as if you couldn’t believe you had deprived yourself of this for so long, as your hands wound around his shoulders. Fingers curled into his hair, finally carding themselves through the blonde strands that felt so soft between your fingers.

The slightest little moan, enough to send heat coursing through your body the second you heard it, slipping from Ryland’s mouth into your own. His hands grasped at your hips, winding around your back to press into your lower back and tug you as close as humanly possible, as if he was a starved man that craved to touch you in any way that he could.

His lips were soft, a feeling that you knew you were going to crave for the rest of your life now that you’d had a single taste of them. You pressed further into him, a small mewl tumbling from your own lips and swallowed by his mouth as you pressed every inch of yourself into him, desperate to hang onto the moment in case the world would be cruel and wake you from this dream moments later.

The need to breathe was what finally separated you, but not far. Ryland’s forehead pressed to yours, his breath fanning out across your skin. His hands still gripped at your hips, holding him to you, as yours stayed carded through his hair, nails gently scraping at his scalp as you chest heaved as it tried to level your breathing back to normal.

“If I haven’t made it clear already, you’re my best friend,” his words were breathy, accented by the way he was still trying to catch his breath. But his smile was bright, his eyes almost shining, as he looked down at you. “And I’m completely in love with you. Literally, since the moment we met.”

You laughed, trapped in this little bubble with him, as your hands slid from his hair to instead cup his cheeks. The tip of your nose just barely brushed against his, and he bumped his right back against yours without hesitation.

“I’m completely in love with you too, Ryland Grace. Since the moment you tripped over your own two feet,”

The sound of your laughter filled the empty, dark science classroom again as Ryland’s hands came to scoop you up around your thighs, spinning you in relentless circles. All you could do was hang onto his broad shoulders and smile, his lips peppering a thousand kisses to every inch of skin he could possibly reach.

The Earth needed the Sun, like how Ryland said he needed you. The person that makes it all worth it, that makes the days brighter, that makes this short little life worth it.

The Sun needed the Earth too.

[cillianmurphysteacup]

Omgggg im blushing wthhhhh🤭🤭🤭

[stevenrogered]

WILSON BETHEL as BENJAMIN POINDEXTER DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN | 2x07, "The Hateful Darkness"

[lightgamble]

DAREDEVIL: BORN AGAIN | 2.06 / DAREDEVIL 3.06 & 3.10

Hello, Karen.

[sentrysvoid]

Daredevil: Born Again Requiem | 2.06

[shimmering-iris]

BORN AGAIN SPOILERS!!!

AHHH RUFF RUFF RAHHHF

Sorry that won't happen again.

It will happen again.

[musingsofheaven]

thank god im alive to see this

[eddielove]

Can’t take this anymore I need to fuck him

[cillianmurphysteacup]

[a-bad-dream]

test of faith.

( + read on AO3 ) ✣ PAIRING: Father Jud Duplenticy x Art historian fem!reader (2nd person POV) ✣ THEMES AND WARNINGS: NSFW, Minors do not interact!!!! Religious themes, slow burn and mutual pining, angst, irresponsible sex (idk how else to call what happens here), fingering, hand job, oral (f and m receiving), grinding, (this is actually softer than the warnings imply). ✣ NOTES: Yeah when I saw that sweet priest on my screen, I just had to drop everything and write this; hope you enjoy! :) ✣ SYNOPSIS: God might be the flawed invention of an anguished humanity, but the moments you share with the priest who keeps challenging you feel like a touch of grace.

“Finding out their homily is boring is possibly a clergyman's second worst fear.”

The nave was silent before those words—caught in the digestive inertia that often follows the hours after Mass—its regular tiles aligned between vast swathes of light, splashing through colored glass.

You look up from your notepad, blinking, lugged from thoughts of a whole other nature.

“Pardon?”

The first thing you notice are his eyes. A vivid, water-branded shade, like a stream running through woods or algae disturbing the low tide, bluish, not quite green, welcoming as a bed of moss.

“I know,” he continues, in this affable, lightly mischievous tone, “paying attention during Mass can prove itself a challenge.”

It's how he says it, utterly divorced of the solemnity that shells others like him, not austere, not scolding, but like he's young enough to remember the occasional Sunday mornings: being pried out of bed, rammed into uncomfortably dapper clothing, just to fall asleep again on shellacked pews before the first psalms are even read.

“You probably aren't the only daydreamer—but it's unusual, to see one honest enough not to pretend.”

From his pulpit, overlooking the assembly, it was difficult to miss. Yours were the only eyes straying away from the altar, from the crucifix, from him. Oblivious to the words, glancing to the windows like a bored student in a stuffy classroom and giving that pen you're still holding a nibble every now and then. As the prologue of a hymn vibrated through the cool air and the congregation united in a broken falsetto, he wondered, what in heaven could you be scribbling about?

An embarrassed smile climbs up your lips.

“I have a confession to make: I didn't come for the liturgy.”

You readily explain, “I'm writing a paper about the stained glass—” and his eyes flare up, outpacing you.

“Oh, you're that researcher,” he remembers, or feigns to remember. “It's a relief. Here I was, ready to accept my sentence as a terrible bore.”

He jests, of course. Holding anyone's attention never seems to be an issue for him—for better and, well, often times for the worst.

His hand extends forward.

“I'm Father Jud.”

His palm feels warm against yours. A little coarse, perhaps, and drier than it should, results of labor, effort, rinsing, and scrubbing. Something else too, under those knobbly knuckles, secrets of a life-lived, tucked beneath his skin.

Per custom, you offer your name back, along with a glib Nice to meet you.

“I wasn't purposely being disrespectful,” you clarify after the introduction. “It's just, the light is perfect now, and the hours coincide with—”

He cuts you off swiftly, waving his fingers as if to cast out any awkwardness.

“You don't have to explain. It really is rather beautiful here,” he concedes, those not-quite-blue irises traveling in the line of your gaze to the golden beams of the morning sun. “I like to sit in the nave when I can, just to watch the reflections on the lancet windows…”

He stops himself, clears his throat.

“I'll leave you to it. If you need anything, don't be afraid to ask.”

He pivots, ready to traverse the lane, carried by a prudent, discreet gait, shoulders just a little stiff. Leaving behind a whiff of clean soap, clinging to the dark curls of his hair.

You can't help but call back to him, just as he's about to cross the fourth row of benches.

“What's the first?”

Stopping in his tracks, he blinks, slightly confused.

“Mmh?”

Your pen clicks against the pad.

“You said being boring was a clergyman's second worst fear. What's the first one?”

His uncertainty melts into a quizzical grin. Boyish, slightly enigmatic, almost elf-like. Whatever is about to come out of his mouth, you think, it might not be the truth. Aren't men of God forbidden to speak lies?

“Catching altar boys drinking the communion wine, probably,” he hums, humorous.

You can't help but smirk in response.

“Happens a lot, I gather?”

His head gives a light shake, a smile drawing dimples in his left cheek. Quite the smile, too. Strongly curved parentheses framing his mouth, warm, oddly familiar. Like an echo of other smiles, of a beloved childhood friend's, a nurturing uncle's, or a favorite cousin's. You can see why parishioners would trust him. It's the kind of grin that teases ease out of people, a desire to confide. Who knows what anyone else would do, with such a gift of a smile—perhaps it's a relief this one chose the cassock.

“Good luck with your research,” he amiably wishes, before making his way to the sacristy.

You don't think of the priest again until a few days later.

Timidly knocking on the very same door Father Jud disappeared through upon the first day of meeting him. You're looking to borrow a pen after forgetting or losing yours, that overchewed lucky charm.

The sacristy is a drab room, smelling stale and a little damp, a mixture of unaired textiles, varnished wood, burnt crackers, and, oddly, the faint, acrid afterscent of cigarettes. He's alone in there, answering your knock after a short beat. Eyes a little glassy, possibly preoccupied. He evulses any sign of aloofness as soon as the hinges creak, inviting you in, asking if you'd like some coffee—he just made some. Your eyes wander around while he fusses about. The preparation room is encumbered with heaps of stuff: mismatched teacups and glasses, markers missing their caps, books with worn-out covers, and a crumpled altar linen stained a deep burgundy red, awaiting to be salvaged.

He notices the way you examine the surroundings.

“This isn't all my doing, by the way,” he says about the mess. “Nearby clubs and activity groups in the parish meet up here for the time being. It's a little, ugh, modern.”

“I'm not judging.”

He invites you to sit and slides a ballpoint pen in your direction, along with a cup of steaming coffee. You contemplate his knuckles as he moves, just like you did last time. He has beautiful hands.

Fidgeting with the pen, you raise the drink to your lips.

“What is it you study, precisely?” he asks eventually, finally sitting down in turn.

You swallow before you reply, voice croaky from the heat of the beverage. It's awfully bitter.

“Religious iconography.”

The study of images and symbology in Christian art would be the complete phrasing, but that's just too many words. You always mechanically deliver the shortened version, used to people dropping the subject as early as it is socially authorized to do so.

His gaze shifts, head tilting, cooing out a soft “Oh”.

The topic could've ended here. It doesn't.

He understands your language.

It's simple, because it is his as well.

When he inquires about the figures in the colored glass, the ones that hold your academic interest, it's with an awareness that eludes the profane. Scenes of the Life of the Virgin Mary, Saint Catherine with her wheel, Mary Magdalene's river of flaxen hair—he knows them all. Of course he does. He interrogates you on the specimens exhibited in the aisles, details, features he could've missed. The shape of a leaf, a certain hand gesture—all those small things with meaning, locked in time, awaiting to be read, rediscovered. He offers you the same incandescent smile you've already seen him wear on that first day, stating that he'll need to go take a closer look when he can.

When you ask him which artist was commissioned for the crucifix, with an interest translating your admiration, he is struck, briefly, with the sin of pride. Glancing down to his mitts, marked from the woodworking. Even considering not telling you.

While he ponders, you notice the dark ink, its filigree-thin contrast on his skin, peeking out of his collar. A most unexpected attribute for a priest.

After you tease him, calling his silence an unfair act of gatekeeping, he surrenders the secret at last. You ask how he made the heart of the figure shine, this otherworldly glow that struck your pupil last morning.

There's a story behind that Christ sculpture. One he doesn't wish to share, for now.

So he tells you about the theology of light instead. About the ancient belief, constructed centuries ago by another holy man, conjecturing light as a divine messenger, its passage carefully thought and built into the architecture of churches, through refined windows, roses, translucent glass. Light as a means to exalt devotion in the hearts of the congregants. Light reaching through, the open palm of God.

“… Which is why it's so natural, I guess, to sense His presence in places like this,” he gestures to the doors leading back to the heart of the church. “Still, I'll admit, I find God just as perceptible in less consequential things.”

“Such as?”

“Oh. I don't know—” he chews on his cheek, suddenly bashful, “—someone's laughter. Moonshine on a pond. A cat galloping to greet you. I like to think all those have a touch of holiness to them.”

“Finding beauty in the mundane isn't the privilege of believers,” you point out, serious, mildly prickly.

He doesn't pick up on the drop of hostility straining your tone—if he does, he hides it well, or perhaps it simply doesn't bother him.

“You speak of beauty, while I talk of faith. But I agree with you. Rejoicing in His creation is not entitled to Christians—”

A knock on the door startles you both, pulling you out of the depths of your conversation. He has lost track of time, glancing at the clock with mild fright. A soft voice pushes through the door, calling for the Father. He quickly ushers you out, with a choice of words and manners devoid of rudeness that almost make you feel like the decision to leave was yours all along.

Priests, you soon learn, are even more sought after than doctors.

This priest, at least.

Father Jud knows he can't fix people. He cannot erase what has been done to them, what they have done to others, what they will do to themselves. It's a bittersweet certainty. Neither his hands nor his words are a cure. But they can be a salve, a balm. Soothing, bringing quiet in the noise, and an uncomplicated, unfastidious incarnation of love. His presence besides members of the community is stable, constant. It doesn't ask for anything in return. That's where he finds his purpose.

After a week or so, he grows used to the sight of your hunched posture in various spots of the church, concentration mistreating your spine.

He knows you're not a convert. Has known ever since he spoke to you in the sacristy.

But one day, you manage to stun him a little.

It happens a little before noon.

The rustling of your springy step resonates behind him, right after he's accompanied a parishioner back to the entrance of the church, a recent widower, still grief-bound and numb to the roaring of life around him. Father Jud whispers to him, “Call me when you need, I'll always answer,” squeezes his shoulder, watching him leave. The door shuts with a loud clangor.

He turns to look at you, your bag handle slung across your shoulder, a little sleepy-eyed, with ink-spotted hands.

After some meaningless small talk about the weather, you stifle a yawn.

“I've always found it a little ironic—” you comment, peering to the doorway, “—how one can speak to a priest and safely expect an answer but not receive the same from God. He's arguably the most important aspect of this religion. Yet the priests are the ones who listen and offer direct guidance.”

You're always so immersed in your task, he never thinks you might be paying attention to anything else, least of all his own endeavors. But you see the people who huddle in church with the hope of speaking to him, presenting him their woes for some, seeking company void of criticism and judgment for others. He contemplates you with a hint of uncertainty, intrigued by what you might be getting at.

“Could it mean some priests are more important than God?”

There it is, expressed with the muttering tone of hypothesis.

Father Jud stands silent. A brief frown, the slightest show of his stupefaction. There's much he could say, to refute your wandering supposition, but there's no time for him to articulate his thoughts.

“Sorry.” Your wince seems sincere. Then, with a quieter inflection, “It's probably blasphemy, to say this in a church.”

“We'll simply hope He was busy listening elsewhere when it happened,” he comments, in a friendly attempt to brush the matter off.

You chuckle at the not-so-funny statement, apologetic and amiable again.

From then on, your path crosses his more often. On your breaks, seemingly aspiring for a chattier counterpart to those silent figures occupying the windows and your attention most of the time. Announcing yourself through an excessively formal “Hello, Father”—solely for the impish joy of making him respond with that peculiar smirk, as if asking you for a little less dignified stiffness. Cordial isn't the word, to define your chats. You seldom take him by surprise now, the way you did that last time, but you enjoy this, the small jabs, curious as to how he'll react. He's not interested in fighting you on the subjects you present to him, never losing his temper, never curt or chafed in his speech, even when he disagrees with you.

And Father Jud and you disagree on many things.

But your world touches his nonetheless; you with the factual eye, probing the memory of civilizations past, their beliefs, their stories, and him, tasked with plucking out what matters from it, perpetuating it, weaving peace or hope with fragments of the myths. You open the past to decipher it; he is a vessel of that past and its ageless promise all in one, its safekeeper.

Religion seems archaic to you. Wasteful in this modern age, when solutions can be found elsewhere, easy replacements for the voice in the sky, rendering God obsolete. Therapy in lieu of confession, science supplanting miracles.

Father Jud giggles when you tell him all this, one late evening. You're so used to speaking to him in the safe constraint of the church, you're a little taken aback to find him sitting in the local bar, deep in conversation with the patrons, local parishioners. Basking in this meek, cordial radiance you cannot help but envy. There exists a roughness to his features, not quite pugnacious, but an edge, brash, slightly cutting. It's there, always, oddly balanced by the earnestness in his eyes, and that smile he greets you with, his gift, an invitation.

So he laughs upon receiving your theory. Not a mocking laugh, but the modest, resigned snicker of one who has heard this speech before. You're not the first skeptic he meets with such a contemporary stance.

“It's a pragmatic view. But don't you think it reduces faith to a simple tool? Something utilitarian, transactional?”

“Still, you have to admit it's a little irrational. Worshipping something—Someone—who isn't really there.”

“Why are you so sure He isn't?”

“How do you know He is?”

He doesn't get defensive about your rebuttals. Doesn't behave like he's arguing with you.

“That's what separates us—” he declares softly, luminously holding your gaze; and though he uses the term separate, it stands more as a request to get closer, a tug at your own mind, asking for permission to mirror it with a different perspective, “—I'm not interested in material proof of God's existence. You're looking to rationalize it, to explain it, but faith demands to be felt, not thought.”

The bar's prattle quiets down around you as the minutes slide by, and you're both still huddled near the counter, entangled in the exchange, slightly tilted towards each other, like conspirators. Father Jud doesn't touch his glass—or barely; it simply sits there like an ornament—and he's talking to you about religion and philosophy, briefly invoking the writings of Pascal, Kierkegaard or Kant, who stated that God could only be touched through faith and not the rational mind. He doesn't sound pretentious; that's the true miracle.

“I had no idea they taught Kant at the seminary,” you notice, sipping on your own drink, trying to forget the chemical warmth creeping up your face, lodged in your limbs.

“I'm absolutely not an expert,” he confesses, emphasis on the not, the tip of his index finger following the rim of the glass. Your eyes fall to that tattoo again, clasping the side of his neck, the tip of an image you can't quite make out. He catches you staring, forcing you to avert your attention. You look down your glass, cheeks flushed. “… But I find it best to come prepared,” he finishes his sentence, with a slant dimple in his cheek, leading you to believe he knows what you were briefly focused on.

“Prepared against who?” you joke, covertly changing the subject. “The hordes of heretics?”

He holds a quaint expression, half-grinning, half-pursing his lips—happens each time he feels you coming at him with some hidden scalpel, ready to poke his mind. He's never met anyone as intent on dissecting him, on rattling what composes his box of thoughts.

“I already know you don't believe in God.” He hums, not in an accusatory tone—he never does that—it's the simple statement of a fact. “What holds your faith then?”

Your fingers drum an imaginary tune on the sticky counter.

“How do I answer that? Like some five-year-old child, that I believe in love and friendship?”

“We all believe in something, don't we? Even the cynical and down-to-earth. Love and friendship aren't such silly concepts to put your faith in… Five-year-olds are wise like that sometimes.”

He simply has an answer for everything.

The next day, back at church, you inquire about his favorite passage from the Bible.

He already knows how critical you are of the good book. Many historians are. The magic evaporates as soon as they walk backstage, armed with the analytic eye, pulling out the magnifying glass to see the seams loosely coming apart. Ideas redacted by ghosts who arranged and rearranged traces of the divine in order to fit dogmas of their antiquated times and corrupted spirits.

The word of God, tainted by the hands of man.

“There's plenty,” he muses. “It's hard to just pick one.”

“Indulge me.”

He has a way of looking at you when you ask him questions like this. Flushed but mellow, like you're a small frog perched on the tip of his shoe that he isn't quite sure how to safely nudge back onto the grass without harming.

He scratches the thin stubble on his cheeks before picking a Bible out of a deranged pile of liturgical texts stacked on a table in the sacristy.

The volume smells of apricot jam. Ochre, child-like fingerprints color some of its pages.

He opens it, taps an underlined paragraph with his thumb.

“Here. It's a nice one.”

He relaxedly pushes the Bible between your hands, digits brushing yours during a fleeting instant. Your eyes scan over the first sentence, shooting a puzzled glance at him next.

“Read it. Trust me.”

On this request, he leans against the wall near the window, hands joined in his back, hips relaxed in a stance that's almost graceful.

With knitted brows, obedient for once, you begin to read aloud.

“Love is patient and kind; it is not jealous or conceited or proud; love is not ill-mannered or selfish or irritable; love does not keep a record of wrongs…”

He watches your lips move, your voice shaping the verse he has read and reread himself countless times before. Focused on how you might accentuate one word and not another. Rediscovering the text through your own exploration.

“There are gifts of speaking in strange tongues, but they will cease; there is knowledge, but it will pass. For our gifts of knowledge and of inspired messages are only partial; but when what is perfect comes, then what is partial will disappear…”

You briefly look up to him. He seems caught in the flow of the sentences, reflective, as one would listening to a piece of music they grew up with.

“Meanwhile these three remain: faith, hope and love; and the greatest of these is love.”

After a lull, you inhale deeply.

“Are you showing me this because of what I said yesterday?”

The Bible closes shut, pushing towards your nose delicate aromas of the lingering sweet snack some child must've forgotten between the chapters.

When you gesture to give it back, he shakes his head lightly.

“Keep it. Hard to believe, but I've got a few more copies lying around,” he playfully points out.

Before you disappear, through the slim gap of the door, you hurriedly tell him:

“You're right. It is a nice one.”

And so you're gone, too fast to catch satisfaction tinging his cheekbones.

Father Judd anticipates your conversations. A brand new habit, casually slipped into his daily schedule. He likes the way you skip up to him, tapping gently on whatever lies nearest each time to announce yourself—he startles easily when you don't, it seems. You're not sure if he realizes how good he is at picking little truths out of people. Effortless and lenient while doing so. The spell works on you more than once, shrouds you in comfort, closeness, understanding, and you fall silent mid-sentence after a while, offering him a quizzical look, admitting, I see what you've done here.

You turn the tables around when you can. Asking him about books he's read, where he lived in New York, how he found his vocation, if he picked up carpentry as a result of it. People often react a certain way, with pinched unease, when he tells them about what happened when he was seventeen, the event that led him down the path of the church. It's something he speaks about with a disarming deliverance. Wearing his heart on his sleeve.

Inevitably, your discussions will turn to God. When it happens, he wonders how you'll attempt to duel him this time. It's a one-sided fight, if anything. Perhaps you perceive this as a joust, a game of chess, most frustrating to you, since your opponent doesn't move any of his pieces, simply describing them instead. In his eyes, this isn't about winning or losing or displaying any sort of mastery in rhetoric. It's simpler, so much simpler. A friction of minds, invigorating him. Galvanizing his faith.

At night, brushing his teeth, reading, or lying in bed, he'll think of those dialogues, replaying them, wondering how he should've said this and not that, could've formulated a conviction more eloquently, afraid of being misunderstood.

You creep up in his prayer one time. Another after that, then a third. Your name blossoms into a recurrent sound on his tongue.

“I didn't know priests went to confession too.”

It's the middle of the afternoon, the ninth hour, and you're both sitting outside, under the skirts of fussing, ominous clouds. He's taking a break from his upcoming homily while you escape the claustrophobic grayness overflowing the transept. A most delightful form of procrastination.

“Of course,” he confirms. “We sin just like everyone else.”

“Sounds superfluous at best,” you grunt. “What could a priest possibly have to atone for…”

The sentence comes out much more noxious and condescending than you'd hoped. It rings through your ears like a shrill heckle, making you shake your head, irritated by your own behavior. It's unbearable; you don't even like the people who talk like that, like they know better and aren't interested in rebalancing what they've taken for granted.

“I'm… That sucked. Forgive me.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His expression hidden from you.

“Don't fret it. I've received meaner punches back in my day.” Spoken like he's verging on his hundredth year of life.

You take advantage of the fact that he can't see you. Gazing at the nape of his neck, where little dark locks gather and swirl, bouncier than apostrophes. You want to reach forward, want to touch them. And his shoulders, how they always seem just slightly hunched, like his body's constantly trying to apologize for taking space, for standing just a little too towering in comparison to others.

“How do you do it?” you ask gently. “Nothing ever seems to bother you.”

He proves you wrong immediately. Swiveling, his eyes shooting to meet yours, brows tense, as if you'd just proclaimed your decision to get baptized.

“Is that what you think?” he asks, incredulous. “That nothing bothers me?”

Just as abruptly, the skies tear open with a rumble.

Pudgy drops crash onto the grass, maculating the stone bench, licking your faces and limbs. He pushes a suspiciously spontaneous curse word into the dampening air, and while you stifle a laugh, you both dishevelledly run back to the church porch.

Petrichor penetrates the breeze, dispersed out of muddy grounds, fresh and nostalgic. From the refuge under the lintel, Father Jud inhales the scent deeply. Brushing himself off that water still speckling his hair.

You remember a cluster of words he used your first week here. God's presence in the inconsequential. You wonder, looking at him, if that's what he's doing now, watching God through the lincel of scintillating water, shrubs changed into jewels by drizzling alchemy; all of it hiding an everlasting, mystical love.

“I've thought about what you said last time,” you dare to speak, pulling his attention to you. “When you asked what I believed in, if not God...”

Your hand whips the air softly. Gathering your words or reaching for something otherworldly and transcendental—he isn't quite sure.

“The church is perfect. The sculptures—that Jesus effigy you made. The colored figures in the glass. They're perfect, so we don't have to be.”

Your fingers run over the knotwork mimicking foliage that decorates the door.

“And they're all man-made things. I suppose I believe in that, you know? This… ability, to transcend our own nature. To make things better than what we are. You'll say that it's God, of course; I wouldn't even know how to name it exactly. Maybe it's inspiration. Or hope. It doesn't matter. I believe in it, whatever this is.”

You can see the weather flicker in the millpond of his irises, the brief moment it lingers on you. Father Jud turns away at last, and you both stand without another word, watching the rain, listening to its soft pitter-patter.

He steps closer to you. You almost miss it. This guarded move, one prudent step. The skewed shadow his body casts on the uneven ground blends with yours. Right hand gingerly stealing up to your face, attentive not to startle you. Fingers trembling.

You close your eyes.

The pad of his thumb catches the raindrops lingering on your lashes. Featherlight. Gliding down, he wipes the water off your cheekbone, an imperceptible stroke.

As daintily as they began, his knuckles recede. Hand tugged back to his chest, splayed on his sweater-clad chest. Like it's trying to erase itself of what just happened, this surreptitious incident.

“I think—”, he grasps for a proper sentence. “I think—and I mean this with… the utmost regard… It would be best if we didn't speak, for some time. Anymore.”

His stammered words fall with the same staccato as the rain, skittish, disorienting.

You feel lightheaded in a bad way. Your mouth opens, but he stops you with a raised hand, a broken imitation of a Christ-like open palm, the gesture of blessing.

“No—don't.”

Those eyes, the same color as rain battered grasslands, quietly begging you.

“Don't say you don't know what I'm talking about. Please.”

His arm drops back to his side.

“You're welcome to finish your work. But I'd be grateful if you just—” he sucks in a sharp breath, “—stick to that.”

He leaves you there, with your mouth agape, petrified, while he furiously scurries off in the rain. Piercing through the line of trees towards the rectory, paying no attention to the gushing downpour. Miserable and lost and a little in love with you, sparked with that same incomprehensible fondness he keeps for the scent of freshly cut pine wood, the stained glass that has captivated you, or that verse from Corinthians he has committed to memory and heart.

Night falls, and with it comes anger. A small amount of it directed at God.

He wants to punch something, blame someone, he isn't sure who, maybe himself.

Mostly himself.

His fists clench and unclench. How did this happen? Why did this happen? It crept up on him like a vicious cold. Now there's no sweating out the fever.

That following week, though you never found the chance to make the promise, you keep to what he has asked of you.

Your eyes lurk in before you pass the narthex, checking the church pews, ensuring yourself of his absence. You do this every time you enter.

Five more days before you fly home, leaving Chimney Rock for good. It can be done. You can manage.

It's the last stretch of the morning, an indolent, sluggish hour. People are more concerned with what they'll have for lunch than whether they should come to church light a votive candle.

A purposely picked moment.

Which is why you're not supposed to run into him. Not while turning the corner to reach the path, nearly sent reeling from the blow of the collision. Maybe it's God's nasty sense of humour. The strong wall of the northern flank of the church eats you both in its shadow. Too bad it can't make you disappear.

You both stand, facing each other, like future roadkill trapped in car lights. Not sure which is which.

Father Jud's under eyes bloom a mean purple, stains upon his wan complexion, signs he hasn't slept at all. His trousers are crumpled, a pale powder, thinner than dust, smudging the fabric. His sleeves are tucked up to his elbows. There's another tattoo, on his forearm, one you hadn't noticed before.

Taking a harsh breath.

“I'm just leav—”

Your shoulders are smashed against the sturdy stones.

He hasn't shaved, his stubble grazes your cheeks when he kisses you. A scattered, almost painful collide of mouths and teeth, stealing what remained of air in your lungs. His clothes smell of the eternal white cotton soap, but his body exhales something arboreal, musky; of timber and metal mixed with sweat. His fingers grip your shoulders, slide up the side of your neck, nails scraping your jaw.

It's too early in the day, to be this drunk on someone's touch.

The buckle of his belt etches its harsh outline in your waist while your fingers grip his back, exhorting him closer. His tongue pushes yours and against all reason and dignity, you moan into the kiss.

A cool current.

Your bodies separate.

Your lower lip hurts. And that spot on your elbow too, abraded by the stone you're still leaned against.

Father Jud's eyes are still fixed on you. On your lips. His own now crudely reddened, his pupils shot with an impossible shine. Holding one hand slightly lifted, like someone realizing they've just shattered a porcelain vase.

For a split second, in between raspy breaths, it seems like he's about to say something to you. Eventually, his eyes flicker to the tufted grass. Only capable of murmuring a flimsy “I'm sorry.”

It rings in your ear like an insult.

You're the one who flees this time. Pissed off and muddled with humiliation, damning the church, its windows, God, but most of all the priest.

Five days, and you'll be going away for good.

Five days later, you've finished scrubbing the tiny cottage you've rented for the duration of your stay. Keys awaiting to be returned, laundry folded, your almost done-and-packed suitcase slumped in the path between the open kitchen and the living room.

Ponderous clouds throng the sky outside your windows, drowning all last remnants of blue. You watch as rain sinks into the sidewalk, splashing the quaint gardens of the neighborhoods, ready to swell into a storm.

There's a quick thumping on your door.

Glancing through the curtains cloaking the doorlight, you regret moving at all once you recognize the willowy silhouette standing on the front steps.

You could, of course, creep back into the home, feign your absence. But he knocks again, and for some reason, pretending you've ceased to exist isn't an option anymore.

The locks turn with a melodious clatter. Door sliding open just a little, enough to frame you in the thin gap, almost like you don't want him to see where you've lived during the past weeks.

“Hello, Father.”

Your tone isn't formal now, nor incorrigible like it used to be, when saluting him. It's just a bundle of neutral words.

“Hi.”

He appears a little sounder than the last time you saw him. Ironed shirt and pants, not sawdust-strewn anymore; the clerical collar shining like some ironic lighthouse in the sea of all black. Father Jud licks his lips, his thumbnail scratching the handle of his umbrella.

“I was hoping to talk. Can I come in?” he inquires.

“I don't think that's a good idea.”

He tries to speak again, but you're quick to cut him off.

“Let me put this in better terms: I'm not interested in being the source of anyone's guilt.”

“That's—” he stammers, “—that's fine, and I respect it. It's just—I biked here, but now it's raining cats and dogs, and I don't think it'll stop until the next—” he looks around, assessing the flooding menace, “—half-hour, or something.”

“A half-hour isn't that long.”

In the murky pond of his eyes, you spot a flotsam of distress. There's something heart wrenchingly winsome about him. Always has been. Especially now, spindly silhouette with shoulders dotted in rainwater, that poor carcass of an umbrella hanging over his head.

Charity seizes you by the scruff.

This is a mistake, whispers the seraphim on your shoulder.

“Fine. One cup of tea.”

“Thank you,” he sighs in relief.

He's standing in the middle of your kitchen. Sheepishly glancing around, unsure what to do with himself. You've refused his help—it's just boiling water; doesn't take four hands and two brains to conjure up.

“Are you leaving?” he asks upon noticing the sulking suitcase, still stuck in its corner.

“Yes.”

He marks a pause.

“You've finished your paper already?”

You hum, meaning no. Clumsily rummaging through the cabinets, wondering where you've left the last box of decent tea bags.

“I don't have the proper documentation here; I'll finish at home.”

Another way of stating you haven't mustered the courage to walk back into the church at all. All this, just to have him directly seek you out at home. You wonder if his scent will linger long in the room, after he leaves. You never thought cotton could smell so heady.

“Please sit down,” you mumble. “You're hovering, it makes me queasy.”

He pulls up a chair to the kitchen table, its feet scraping the linoleum.

“I hope you haven't been avoiding the church because of what happened.”

Discerning, he certainly is. Always so frustratingly discerning. That's a trait the angels weren't stingy on, while bringing it to his crib.

You smack the spoon drawer shut. Leaning against the countertop.

“What did you come here for? You didn't really say.”

“To talk to you. I want to apologize.”

His bony index finger scratches his forehead. When he speaks again, it's in a gentler tone. Meditative.

“Remember when I told you being boring was my second worst fear?” He wasn't serious then. But he is now. “You asked me what my first one is, and—” he shakes his head, waving like none of this matters, “—I don't even recall what I said back then. But, the truth is, I think it's something like this.”

A movement, short and vague, yet so damn eloquent: his index finger, travelling from him to you.

The low hiss of the kettle begins rattling the air. His wrist falls, glare fixed on his fingernails. Speaking feels difficult, each word a little too large as it passes through his gullet.

“You never think those things can happen until they do.” His voice, almost reduced to a dwindling streak. “And when it does…”

He looks up from his bruised knuckles, encasing you in his gaze.

He doesn't realize how long he looks at you like this. The exact same way you do when sitting before the stained glass. Like he does, after dawn, alone in the nave, waiting for the precise moment the sun reveals itself through the windows of the sanctuary.

You pivot to halt the screeching of the kettle. The spell is severed.

“Maybe I should go now.”

“It's still raining.”

He stands regardless.

“Thanks for the tea.”

“You didn't have a drop,” you blankly point out, in a feeble voice.

You precede him in the vestibule nonetheless, a bad taste of deja vu souring your mouth—his slender silhouette, black and navy blue, disappearing into the deluge.

Your fingers stiffen around the doorknob. A piece of somber weather slithers in through the passage.

His hand covers yours. The door falls back into its frame with a rattle.

“I recognized you. Ever since we first spoke. How is that possible? How do you explain it?”

Recognition, meaning familiarity. An admission of inborn closeness. As he imagines Adam, the first man, would've recognized his missing rib.

“Don't talk about God here,” you warn, sensing where this wind might turn. Your voice shrouds itself in cool admonition, concealing what lies under. “If you want to stay, leave Him at the doorstep.”

“I can't do that.” His voice drops to a whisper. A sweetness lingers on his breath, caressing your face. Syrupy, botanical. You imagine him, nervously chewing on honey drops, the ones shaped like round hives the size of pennies—wishing they'd soothe not just some benign throat pain, but whatever flows further below, nestled in his ribcage.

Gently, ever so gently, his fingers rearrange yours, unclenching them from the knob until they rest in his hand. You can't look up. Your attention remains fixed on his collar—lily-white, perfect, unsullied. Sitting right beneath that black lace of ink, close to his pulse, a patch of skin you're desperate to kiss.

You're incapable of distinguishing who is speaking to you in that moment.

Priest or man. Maybe both.

“I feel closer to Him when I'm with you,” he murmurs.

Not quite a confession. It lacks the weight of remorse.

You frown, eyes trailing up; his gaze catches yours, holds it like a chalice.

“How does it even make sense?”

“I don't know. I don't know,” he exhales.

His lips ghost over yours. Breathings merging. He smells so deeply of the rain, loosely doused curls trickling against your forehead.

With great difficulty, you steer him back a little.

“You can still go,” a soft reminder. “I'll understand.”

“At my last confession—” his palm encases the nape of your neck, drawing you back to him, nose brushing the shell of your ear, “—I said that I've been distracted. That I've found myself wanting for what I can't have, what I shouldn't even think to have. Neglected the congregation, people in need... People I want to help, to whom I want to bring Christ's love.”

Your jointed shapes jaggedly step away from the front door. Stumbling down the corridor, still clutching each other. Afraid, nervous. Wanting.

“But I couldn't tell the truth. And I couldn't pray it away. I only made it worse.”

Your absence only made it worse.

“You remind me why I do all this. What it's for. You just do.”

His breathing hastens. Fingers pushing into your waist. You feel tipsy, electric, with his finger swiftly pulling down the strap of your top to trace your clavicle. Large hands on your body, reverendly mapping you, like you're made of glass.

The taste of salving candy lingers on his tongue, shared with yours when he kisses you at last. Communion.

You run your fingers through his hair, coaxing him closer. Ankles almost tangling with his while you guide him down the hall, nearly losing balance, gripping the notch of his jacket at the last minute. He removes the jacket, shaking the flimsy sleeves until everything falls to the floor.

The bedroom door slams against the wall when it swings open—you'll need to check later that it hasn't made a dent.

The hems of his shirt hang untucked from his pants. His belt loops onto the ground with a metallic twinkle. Your fingers halt as they're about to unbutton his shirt, and he spots your mild panic, the eyes on his throat. Struck with a certain tenderness for you, once he understands the origin of your hesitance.

He removes the clerical collar himself. Preciously setting it onto the small console table nearby. It doesn't make sense; it shouldn't mean anything to you, but you're holding your breath as you watch him. He turns himself over to you next. Finishing what he started. The tank top is hurled over your head. He does the same with your jeans, fidgeting with the button, undoing the zipper.

Scabbed-over lesions pattern Father Jud's knuckles, like they've ruthlessly been bashed onto a robust surface. You notice this with wrinkled brows, reaching to pull his hands away from the task of undressing you.

“What happened here?”

He improvises.

“Candle holder fell. It's not important.”

He's about to distract you from further questions, but you're bringing his hands to your lips, kissing the abrasions, kissing those hands that can mold wood, that offer drinks or tissues, that pat shoulders or other hands, hands that pull out weeds and pick up the phone at three in the morning to pray with tormented insomniacs. Hands that give more than they take.

You lend his fingers back to him with a grin and he collects it, stunned, smitten with you. Bending down, he frees you of the sheathing denim, pulling the trouser legs to slide your knees out of them, one after the other, until you're almost naked, slightly shivering—though not from the cold.

“I can't believe how much stuff you're wearing,” you gently fuss, unveiling the tee-shirt stowed beneath his black shirt. “Do you really get that cold?”

Your rambling makes him wonder.

“Are you nervous or something?”

It's a little unbelievable that he's the one asking this. But it feels impossible to lie to him. The tee-shirt joins the rest of the heaped clothes at the foot of the bed.

“This is probably an intrusive question—” you almost choke on the words from how fast you're pushing them out, thinking the sooner you do, the sooner the embarrassment will subdue, “—but, have you… have you done this before?”

He doesn't seem to understand. When it finally dawns on him, he bites his cheek, swallowing a smile, on the verge of a nervous snicker.

“I wasn't always a member of the clergy, you know. But honestly, it's been a long time since I've—” your fingers nudge him carefully, making him recline on your bed; he props himself up on his elbows, finishing his sentence in a raspy tone, “—since I've done this, yeah.”

You straddle him, hips hovering over his, not quite touching each other.

“Let's take it slow then.”

“Fine by me,” he coos.

He sits up and reaches around you, unclasping your bra, letting it flop down onto his lap. By instinct, you want to shield yourself behind crossed arms, but he's already moving ahead of you. His knuckles graze the side of your breast, one thumb contemplatively following its curve.

You let him do this almost a whole minute, gulping down whatever it stirs in you, until you can't take it anymore and push onto his shoulders to give yourself a breather. His irises consider you curiously while you help him out of his underwear.

“Sorry,” you stutter, upon realizing you've literally just smacked his hand away when he tried to do the same, fingers dipping into the waistband of your panties. “It's just, you're making me really—”

His proximity feels fucking sweltering.

“At any point in this,” you explain, “if you don't want—”

“Hey—” he thrusts himself back up, “I'm here of my own free will.”

His palm cups the side of your face.

“You said we'd go slow,” he reminds you. “Let's go slow.”

He lies back down, tugging you along so you're nestled against him, catching your lips with his in a slow, deliberate kiss. One hand curving around the back of your neck, the other reaching down rubbing your spine. Making out with you until your body unstiffens, prying you out of your own nest of briars and nerves.

You're astonished he's still here. Letting you touch him, letting him touch you. It all seems like a hazy dream. Your mind stills at last, exiting the fight or flight mode.

Parting away from his mouth with a wet sound, you lower yourself a little, your hand slipping over his lean form, flat stomach, coarse black hair climbing up to his navel. Digits bumping his protruding iliac bone, brushing gingerly against his length. When you take him in your hand, your eyes travel back up to him. Exploring his features. Feeling him twitch against your palm and his hips wavering forward, subconsciously begging you. After a bundle of mist-soft kisses peppered down his stomach, your breath hitches atop his erection.

“Can I?”

“Yeah.”

He exhales so quietly, you barely catch the word.

Your tongue follows the trail of a sinuous vein, the fragile texture on this sensitive, conceiled part of him, and his head rolls back, Adam's apple motioning as he swallows harshly. Has such a hard time, staying focused on you when it feels like you're scattering stars under his skin, mouth warming his tip, a little further, a little more, your hand gripping him with enough firmness to set ablaze every single nerve in that region.

“You're—” a ragged breath, “—pretty good at this.”

People spurt strange declarations when pleasure heats their core and muddles their reason. All things considered, this isn't too bad.

“You know, I'm never sure whether that's a compliment,” you retort in a light voice.

He laughs. You bite your lip before pressing a soft peck onto his thigh.

Switching between your mouth and your hands, uncertain what he seems to be responding to best, trying out combinations until the melody of his breath changes, wildly losing composure.

You think he's close. It's difficult to tell. Your tongue's too busy anyway to inquire about it. He sits perfectly rigid between your lips, slick with a blend from his own arousal and your mouth. Your face pulls back, searching for air, but your fingers keep building the tension. You want to watch him. His muscles hard and edged with pleasure, his chest rising and falling, that hand of his, the one with the inked forearm, loosely clutching the side of your face.

He whispers your name. Fingers stiffening in your hair.

He pulsates in your palm next. Gravelous moans replacing the rumble of the weather outside, spellbinding. You keep on stroking him, preserving the same pressure that brought him to the verge. His spent lightens your collarbones, trickles down your right breast.

You wait for him next, for him to climb down from the clouds. Nails grazing his thighs gently. Eventually, his eyelids flutter open. There's a stretched, unhurried silence.

He tries to catch his breath before his eyes travel over to you, rolling back up, not quite back into your realm yet.

“Where's the bathroom?” he croaks after two minutes or so.

You're a little taken aback.

“Door over there.”

He vanishes from your touch, and you lie on your back, limbs akimbo, eyes fixed on the ceiling.

Shit.

He's going to walk out of there now, you realize, building the upcoming sequence in your head, trying to prepare yourself. He'll say he has to go, pick his clothes up, get dressed, and leave.

You think of the morning he kissed you for the first time, the woeful glance, the desperate “I'm sorry”.

This was always going to happen.

The door squeaks. He reappears, towel in hand. The mattress sinks as he kneels next to you. It startles you when he begins to run the fabric across your skin, your chest, where traces of him still linger. He's dampened the cloth with warm water first, cleaning you now with almost ceremonious heed.

“You don't need to… do this.” You're not sure what else to say.

He lets out a soft puff. You're right, he doesn't need to. But he wants to.

When he finishes, he casts the towel aside, his face lingering above yours. One palm lying flat on your stomach.

“I don't think we're done yet,” he observes. Instilling in you nothing but the purest trust you could ever offer someone.

He drags the elastic band of your underwear down, finishing what you prevented him from doing earlier. Digits slithering down your pelvis, curving to part the petal-soft flesh.

Your fingertips extend towards him, softly tracing over the tattoo on his forearm before wrapping around his wrist. Barely guiding him, only giving a soft nudge, a lax pointer, so his fingers press where you like.

“Here?” he whispers.

“Here.”

With focused eyes, he begins working you up. Attentive to the way you squirm and bite your tongue. When a sudden moan breaks through your lips, he repeats what elicited the cry. Quick, small circles. Languid motions, drawing back and forth. Your arousal coats his long fingers, warm and glossy.

He knows more about what he's doing than he's let on.

You let go of his wrist to clasp the comforter. His mouth lowers to your chest, tongue teasing your erect nipple. Catching its bud between his lips, giving it the most delicate nibble.

“Oh, f—please do that again,” you whimper.

So he does, indulgent, compliant. His mouth keeps brushing your upper body, reaching lower, lower, lower. Your eyes are closed, but you sense his weight shift around the bed. His bulk settled between your legs, one hand kneading the back of your thigh.

When he eats you out, his speed, his tension, he adjusts, alters, changes with the sounds you make. Quick flickers of his tongue that almost make you cry. Middle finger pumping into you, true to your agreement of keeping things slow—even if it's only to sow frustration in you—until he inserts his ring finger, pushing knuckles deep, curling them slightly, inflicting a mind-stilling caress.

You're certain of it now. He knows so much more than he's let on.

A familiar heat spreads from your core. The tapping of rain on the window melts into a hallucination of angelic chatter.

“Jud. I'm gonna—”

It's the first time you verbally slip, sputtering only his first name, disrobing it of prefix and title. He doesn't have any time to focus on that, to ponder on its meaning.

The very next second, something uncoils between your hips.

You come on his tongue, on his fingers, your muscles squeezing tight around him. He doesn't stop, doesn't slow down, transmuting the initial crash into a wave of pure bliss, and you're sobbing euphoria, all your thoughts scattered, useless.

“Hey,” sluggishly calling to him, once you get your voice back, with slight disbelief, “you're pretty good at this too.”

He shakes his head at your nonsense, amused.

Taking care of you has gotten him hard again. His erection teases your thigh while he climbs back atop you, his knees poking the back of yours. Your thumb contours his lips, hands framing his face next, absorbing the heat he exudes.

“I don't have protection,” you signal, still panting, hit by the harrowing realization.

He obviously isn't carrying any around either.

“How far's the nearest drugstore?” he leisurely asks, and you burst out laughing.

Some things are simply universally comical, and a priest buying condoms might fit into the list.

He isn't serious, of course, but still. You grab the back of his neck, pulling him in for a kiss. Feels like overheat, when you're close like this, sweat gathering between your chests and stomachs.

Your lower body arches up. Trying to meet him. His hand finishes the gesture, pressed on the small of your back, slotting you against his pelvis.

Lewd sounds densen the air of the room, hard skin on soft flesh. He looks down to where your bodies touch. Only touching. A prologue to an act he can't bring himself to finish, the line that he can't breach. It maddens him, how perfectly your lower lips shape the side of his length, your hips swirling to meet his in this captivating, hypnotic motion. As enthralling the sight, he can't watch you forever. His resolve would break.

“I want you so much,” you sob.

“I know,” he heaves back.

Planting a love bite in the side of your neck to make up for it. If he doesn't come soon, he knows he'll end up slipping through, joining your bodies for good, raw and utterly careless.

You want to memorize every shape of the muscles in his back, the rolling motion of his shoulder blades beneath your fingers, the steady bumps of his spine.

God, that friction.

Your hand snugly presses him, massaging him between your core and your palm. The pressure on your clit is perfect. Meticulous, almost torturously slow, trying not to push too fast, too far.

“Fuck, this is—” he gasps, struggling to finish the sentence.

He takes over your grasp, his hand stabilizing himself against you.

“Are you close again?” he wonders.

You nod passionately.

“Do you wanna get there together?”

“Yeah.”

He hums his approval. Grinding a little faster against you, bucking his hips forward.

“I'm almost there,” you whimper.

“I'm gonna…” he begins to warn.

“Just a little more. A little more.”

“'Kay,” lips burrowing into your neck, embracing patience, directing himself so he keeps rubbing your clit. “A little more.”

Swept up in ecstasy, time stills when you break apart against each other. Holding with nails, teeth sinking into each other, almost afraid of being yanked from one another. Flesh puffed and muscles sore from the jittery movement, you're incapable of a single move. The tiny room feels damp, its air congested and scalding.

His body drops on top of yours, relaxed and heavy. Skin slick with sweat, burdened with reddening patches that will prove difficult to explain, should anyone actually come to notice it.

You're not sure how many seconds elapse before he budges again. You've lost all track of time.

“Oh, shit, I'm smothering you,” he mumbles.

“No, no you're not,” you giggle.

Like ivy, his arms encircle you, catching you in a tightening embrace. Tendrils of dark brown hair tickle your chin.

“When are you leaving?” he hums into your collarbone.

“Tonight. ”

“Do you know if you might…”

His voice falls hushed.

“No,” you admit, because there's no point in lying. No point in pretending whatever just happened could ever exist again outside this room, outside this precise moment. “I don't think there's a reason for me to come back someday.”

Another odd silence. Could almost hear an angel stretch its wings.

“You know I can't—” he begins.

“I know. I would never ask that.”

Your fingers pinch a solitary eyelash on his cheekbone, discarding it without making a wish.

“You don't have to stay. I understand if you're needed elsewhere,” you assure.

He should go. But having to and wanting to are very different things.

“I'm not. Unless you want me to leave.”

“No.”

“Mmh. Good.”

“If there's some time, maybe you can tell me about this.”

Your finger grazes his neck tattoo. He scratches it like a mosquito bite, and you feel the rising of his cheekbone when he smiles, poking you.

“I'll tell you. Whatever you want to know. But, let's just—”

He slides himself off you, now flushed against your flank, one leg caressing yours and arm still wrapped around your waist. His nose teases your temple.

“Let's just stay like this. A little while longer.”

You'll never know, whether God sits somewhere in the room, or if He left on his tippy toes a moment ago, bashful yet softened, bringing gossip back to the Heavens about His endearing mess of a son.

If you are to imagine this God, you want to picture Him loving, forgiving, just like that man in your arms: Father Jud and the pond-blue eyes, the tousled hair and fervent heart, his peaceful restlessness, imperfect enthusiasm, and those coarse hands, delectably tender when they're running across your skin.

For a little while, it feels more than enough.

[cillianmurphysteacup]

Soo good!!!

[barnesonfilm]

picture you

★ summary: the daily planet office in gotham desperately needs your help covering the infamous maroni case, your meta-human boyfriend can't stand the idea of you being there, but little do you know you have a bat over your shoulder, watching your every move

★ pairing: clark kent x reader x voyeur!batman, superbat (kinda)

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, fem reader, stalking, voyeurism, possessive clark!, pathetic bruce wayne!, p in v, oral, public sex, public masturbation, breeding, cum play, size kink

★ word count: 6.1k

★ notes: this was purely self indulgent. i make no apologies <3 & do not fret! i am working on a part two ofc

“I just can’t believe you said yes!” Clark’s voice rang through the still apartment. The argument was still ongoing, as every time you opened your mouth, it felt like you were throwing gasoline on the fire. Resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you continued shoving clothes into your suitcase, taking your anger out on the innocent dress pants. 

“I can’t believe you’re still making this a big deal, Clark. It's a month at most. I’ll be set up in a hotel with security-” 

“It’s Gotham, Y/n.” The vein on his neck was fully protruded now. 

“Wow, really? I had no idea.” You snarked back, purposely moving around him to grab the files off your desk. 

The moment you accepted Perry’s proposition to travel to the Daily Planet branch in Gotham to help them cover their case load with the recent Maroni scandal, Clark had been in an uproar. You knew he meant it with love; he all but came barreling into Perry’s office, saying it was a bad idea. After an awkward conversation about Clark doubting your work and a domestic dispute in front of your boss, it was settled. 

“This is serious.” His voice rose again before taking a deep breath. “I just really don’t like the idea of you being in the most dangerous city in the world.” 

“Good thing you’re Superman, huh? I just gotta send out the Clark signal and you’ll be there.” 

Your suitcase was dramatically zipped closed now, lying on your shared bed. You knew he was worried about you, and you empathized with that. It’s not like you’ve never been there before. You interned there when you were fresh out of college, and you knew how to protect yourself. Despite Clark knowing all of these things, you were certain he would put this entire city on lockdown to prevent you from leaving. 

“I don’t like how you’re diminishing my feelings.” He said, his tone shifting to one of defeat rather than the frustration it was laced with earlier. 

His admission made your shoulders fall. Leaning up, you placed your hand on his cheekbone. His stubble tickles your palm. 

“I don’t like how your worry is turning into anger. You have to trust me.” His face nuzzled into your hand, his eyes softening down at you. 

He pulled you close, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “I do trust you.” 

“Then let me go and prove to you that I’ll be fine. You can come visit, and I know I’ll probably see you every night.” 

Despite the emotions running through him, he couldn’t stop the smile from appearing on his face. 

“I’m going to see you every morning and night. Maybe even on my lunch breaks, too.” 

“See?” You laughed, pressing small kisses to his cheeks. “Worried for nothing.” 

“You’re my whole world. Of course I’m gonna be worried.” He said, pulling you into a tight hug, resting his chin on your head. 

“It really is gonna be fine. Besides, if you can’t make it there, Batman's got it.” You chuckled, your body tensing at the mention of the masked vigilante. 

“Not helping.” He groaned, trying to pull away from your hold. 

-

The transition to Gotham wasn't as hard as Clark anticipated it would be. He helped you settle into your hotel room,  but not before properly vetting every single employee there and checking all of your possible escape routes. You were surprised he didn’t find a way to put a security camera in your room, but you didn’t wanna give him any ideas. 

Working at the Gotham office was much different from your Metropolis hub, but you had befriended a few of the fellow reporters and editors there. Most of your days consisted of waking up to Clark’s morning calls, getting coffee from the hotel, taking the Daily Planet car to the office, working until your eyes hurt, ordering takeout, and ending with Clark’s goodnight calls. It was all mundane until one Friday night, you ended up working late. Later than you should have been in this part of town. Your driver was already off for the night, meaning you’d have to walk the few blocks back to the hotel. In Metropolis, this wouldn’t be an issue, but Gotham was a lawless land. 

Clutching your bag to your side, you kept your head down, doing your best to blend in with the shadows as you raced down the sidewalks. Halfway through your walk, or should you say jog, a loud group of boys walked past, making your heart feel like it was going to burst out of your chest. Your hand reached into your back pocket, clutching the pepper spray Clark triple checked you had packed with you. Every loud noise had you flinching. You didn’t feel real fear until the hair on the back of your neck stood up. It felt like someone was watching you. Without slowing down, you did your best to stay vigilant, neck turning around every few seconds, only to be met with pitch black alleyways or a piece of trash blowing by in the wind. 

You swore you could feel eyes on you. Like someone was looming just feet behind you. The feeling had bile rising in your throat. By the time you made it to the hotel lobby, you barreled through the glass doors frantically. The staff side-eyed your abrupt entrance as you rushed to the elevators, showing them your room key to go to your floor. Fight or flight had kicked in, and you were trembling from the adrenaline rush. Nearly dropping your bag as you scrambled to open your door. 

Once inside, you triple locked it and, with shaky hands, dialed Clark’s number, propping the phone up with your elbow as you threw your bag down. 

“Hi, baby,” Clark said, his voice slightly out of breath. There was a lot of wind in the background and what sounded like the rustling of fabric. 

“Hi.” You breathed out, your voice matching your trembling frame. A loud crash happened through the speaker, making you pull the phone away. 

“Oh. Sorry about that. There’s this Imp that the Justice Gang swore they could handle, then four more appeared, and it’s been a- Hey!- mess.” He spoke, and you could imagine him fighting off some floating alien with one hand and the other one clutching his phone to speak to you. 

“Sorry to interrupt, I just-,” You sighed, pacing around the room, “I worked late tonight and walked back, and before you say anything, yes, I had my pepper spray, but I think someone was following me? Maybe I’m being ridiculous and freaking myself out, but I don’t know.” 

The line on the other side of the phone was silent for a moment. Too silent for your liking. Nothing but the sound of wind whipping through the speaker. 

“Clark?” You asked, stepping to the window to peer out of it. The view from your room wasn’t amazing, but it gave you a view of a rooftop across the street. You had to squint, but you swore you saw an outline of a figure standing on top, staring directly at you. All you could make out were broad shoulders before you blinked, and they faded with the wind. 

“Let me in.” Clark’s voice finally rang through the phone, the jumpscare causing you to shriek. You wasted no time in throwing the phone down on the bed and rushing to let him inside the door. He was inside, arms around yours, before you could even greet him. 

“No one’s lingering around the hotel from what I could see. No suspicious bodies on your route either.” He assured me, leaning down to kiss the top of your head. His suit was slightly charred, sweat clinging to his skin. 

“You didn’t have to come all the way here.” You lied, relishing in the feeling of his arms that you’ve missed so dearly. “What if they need you?” 

“You’re my girl. Of course I had to.” He smiled, grabbing your chin in your hand. “They’ll be fine. I was really just doing them a favor. You know, Guy gets lazy after a while. Besides, with you not home, I was just kinda bored.” 

You laughed at his admission, shaking your head at your boyfriend, who, in his spare time decides to fight deadly interdimensional creatures. 

“I swore I saw someone on the rooftop across the street. As soon as I blinked, they were gone.” 

At this, he kept your hand in his, striding across the room to peer at the rooftop. He was obviously using his enhanced vision; his brows furrowed. 

“Maybe it was just someone who lives there? I don’t see anything.” He frowned. He was scared that he unconsciously planted this paranoia in your head with his constant worrying. 

“Probably.” You sighed, letting your shoulders finally relax a little. The tension slowly rolls off your shoulders. 

“I’m sorry if I scared you, honey.” He said, pulling you into his chest again. Wrapping your arms around him tightly, he picked you up. You were weightless against him, your hand curling up the back of his head. 

“M’ just tired. Missed you.” Your words were muffled by his dirty suit fabric. You couldn’t even find it in yourself to care. 

“Let’s close these curtains, get you a shower, and get you to bed.” He said, one arm holding you around him and the other closing the curtains. He let you cling to him as he floated around, getting the shower started for you. 

“Only if you join me.” A yawn escaped your mouth, knowing you were too tired to do anything besides gaze longingly at the man as he helped you wash your hair. 

“Oh no. Really? I don’t know if I can.” He said, his voice monotone, but his smile was contagious. 

“Ha Ha.” You said dryly as he helped rid you of your work clothes. Stepping out of his suit, you helped him fold it against the counter. 

“You’re gonna have to leave before dawn, can’t let the entire floor see Superman leave. It’ll be in the Gotham Gazette by lunch.” 

“Way to make me feel like a dirty mistress.” He laughed, leading you into the shower. 

You both showered with an intimacy that could only be known by the two of you. He washed your hair, and you helped him wipe the stubborn ash off his chest, with only minimal gawking. He held you that night until you fell asleep, sneaking out in the morning just as promised. When you eventually woke up to your alarm, there was a note and an already-made coffee on the nightstand. 

After that night, Clark promised to visit more, flying in town to have dinner with you, and would leave before his shift in the morning. It made the days pass by quicker. This day started as any other working at the Gotham field office. You were in the middle of talking to one of the editors about their notes before a silence fell over the room. The kind of silence that you could cut through with a knife. Kylie, the editor, looked behind you, her eyes wide. Unable to beat the curiosity of what could have changed the atmosphere of the room so quickly, you turned around. 

As soon as you did, you regretted it. There stood Bruce Wayne himself in all of his agonized glory. His darkened eyes locked onto yours almost immediately. Everyone knew the son of Martha and Thomas Wayne. The billionaire prince of Gotham himself. You’ve been knee deep in research about his family since you’ve been here; seeing his face in person was a shock to the system. Standing next to him was the field office’s editor in chief, Edson.  

Edson cleared his voice loudly, snapping the few heads that hadn’t yet turned. “Hi, everyone. Is Miss Y/l/n around?” 

This shook your system even more; the heads now turned to stare at you. What did they want with you? Hesitantly, you raised your hand, waving awkwardly to the pair. A smile beamed on Edson’s face. 

“Have you guys ever heard of an email?” You scoffed under your breath, striding across the bullpen. Bruce Wayne was haunting up close, his pale eyes darkening with each step you took towards him. 

“Miss Y/l/n,” Edson led you into a private conference room, “Mr. Wayne here requested a sit-down with you. We know you’re the main writer on the recent news story centered around his family.”

“No disrespect, Mr. Edson, but I believe Mr. Wayne can speak for himself, but I’m not writing a story. I’m reporting the story of the Maroni case. Any involvement his family had will be in there, yes, but I’m not writing a hit piece. As you’re implying.” 

A soft chuckle left Bruce’s mouth, Edson’s face as red as the spandex of Superman’s suit, which you once spent hours scrubbing alien guts out of. 

“I apologize. I’ll leave the two of you.” Edson announced his exit, leaving you and Bruce sitting across from each other in overpriced plush leather chairs. The energy in this stuffy conference room makes your shoulders tense. 

Deciding you would be the one to speak first, you took a breath. “I’m not here with the intention to bring more shame and pain on your family, Mr. Wayne. But there are stories to be told here. Your father, may he rest in peace, got multiple journalists killed-” 

“He didn’t know they were going to be killed. He made a mistake.” Bruce’s voice shook. “He was protecting his wife. My mother.” 

“I sympathize with that. I really do.” You said, your brows softening. “I would do anything for my partner, but I wouldn’t cover up 4 murders and a large crime syndicate for him.” 

Bruce let out a sarcastic laugh, his eyes nearly rolling into the back of his head. “You and your partner,” the word sounded like venom on his tongue, “have no secrets? Not hiding anything from the world at all.” 

Your heart fell into your stomach. The glint in his eye told you he knew more than he was letting on. There was no way Bruce Wayne, so far removed from Superman, would know anything about what was happening in Metropolis. Right? 

“Surely you’re not making an accusation, Mr. Wayne.” 

Your pointed stare made his lips tick up in amusement. “Never, Ms. Y/l/n. I was simply trying to make a point. I hope you took no offense.” 

“Of course not.” You gave him the largest smile you could muster with the nerves still tingling underneath your skin. 

“I only came today, hoping to get to know you. Understand if we could agree on keeping my mother’s legacy intact.” 

“Not your father's?” 

“My mother is more of my concern at the current moment in time.” 

You nodded softly at the man, his dark circles taking away from the soft, dreary blue of his eyes. 

“I do apologize, Mr. Wayne-” 

He cut you off with the soft wave of his hand. “Please. Call me Bruce.” 

Heat flushed to your cheeks at this strong gaze, you cleared your throat and let his name fall from your lips. He watched you so intently as if his name had never been spoken before. 

“I just hope we can move forward at this time. I’ll only publish the piece regarding Maroni’s part in the murders. There’s a sense of camaraderie amongst us journalists, and I can’t do them a disservice by not bringing their deaths to light. Your father’s mistakes will be headlined, it’s inevitable, but consider all words of Martha’s past to be omitted.” 

He seemed content with your words, standing up slowly. You followed him up, standing face-to-face with him. 

“I’d love to read the piece before it’s published. Not to make changes,” He stressed after noticing the look on your face, “I enjoy your writing, Y/n. I respect your fight for vengeance." 

“Justice. That’s the word I’d use.” 

“That’s right.” He said, a grin on his face now. The same one as before, as if he knew more than he let on. Bruce Wayne was a walking mystery, and you couldn’t help the inner journalist in you that wanted to do nothing more than unravel him piece by piece. 

You held your hand out to him, and he offered it gracefully, his cool hand engulfing yours with a gentle shake. 

“Have a nice night.” You spoke, wanting nothing more than for his foreboding presence to be far away from you. With a tight-lipped smile, he walked out of the room, his black trench coat wafting behind him, reminding you of Clark’s cape whooshing in the wind. 

You let out an anxious breath you didn’t know you were holding in. You had no idea what you were getting yourself into.

-

 “I enjoy your writing, Y/n. I respect your fight for vengeance." “Justice. That’s the word I’d use.” The recording crackled throughout the quiet batcave, a rewind sound, and the recording played again. Bruce couldn’t help himself. From the moment he saw you, he was entranced by you. The way you carried yourself, never once backing down. What are the odds that Clark Kent’s girlfriend would show up in his city, under his watch? Not only that, but reporting on his family. 

“Pretty girl. And who is she?” Alfred spoke, interrupting another one of Bruce’s depressing episodes of watching back the recording from his ventures. This time, it was the footage of you today, back straight and face stern. 

“Y/n Y/l/n. Journalist.” Bruce spoke, clipped and straight to the point as always. 

Used to this behavior, Alfred was unfazed, “And you’re watching her over and over, why?” 

A sigh left his mouth, closing the recording. “She’s the one covering the Maroni case. They brought her from Metroplis.” 

“Ah. Did she agree to disregard your mother’s past?” 

“Yes.” 

“I see..” Alfred’s last words lingered as he took his time leaving. 

Bruce took his poking and prodding with a grain of salt. Looking at the clock, he knew it was around the time you’d be getting off work. He couldn’t help himself. From the night you arrived, he was watching. At first, it was only to get an idea of your motives, then it was to make sure you were being safe in the city. This would be the last time, at least that’s what he told himself while he suited up. 

He felt dirty while he smudged the makeup on his eyes, pushing his greasy hair into his cowl. Just a few minutes, he told himself. He’d watch you get into your room safely, then he’d leave. That’s how it started. Soon it became a nightly ritual; despite whatever excuses he made for himself, he was still stalking Superman’s girlfriend. A fascination he’d been unable to shake. 

-

That night, you couldn’t shake Bruce’s piercing eyes out of your mind; it was as if he knew something you didn’t. When Clark stumbled through the hallway to your room with takeout, all the thoughts of the man disappeared with the wind. It wasn’t until after dinner that Clark had you pressed against the bed did those haunted eyes flashed through your mind once more. 

“Did you know Bruce Wayne spoke to me today?” You asked randomly, pretending as if Clark wasn’t pressing small kisses to your neck. He pulled back, his shoulders tensing. 

“I didn’t.” He said calmly. You knew he took no offense to your brain being miles away while he was kissing you; he knew a journalist's mind better than most. 

“It was strange,” you admitted, propping yourself on your elbows, “he wanted to talk about the pieces I’ve been writing about his family, which I understand. I don’t know, it just felt like he knew something about you. About us.” 

The look on Clark’s face was the same one he used when he was trying to listen for Krypto thousands of miles away, getting into something he wasn’t supposed to. Unbeknownst to you, this is when Clark heard Batman’s gate saunter heavily onto the rooftop across the street, as if he was daring Clark to look. The pitter-patter of his heartbeat confirmed it was him, Batman in the flesh.

Concerned, you leaned closer, pressing your palm to his cheek. “Honey?” 

As if snapped out of his thoughts, he gave you a gentle smile, “Sorry, I was just thinking. I don’t think I’ve ever crossed paths with him.” Technically not a lie, he never met Bruce Wayne, but he did know The Batman. 

“He was probably just being a pompous rich guy. Trying to scare you into keeping quiet.” He offered, leaning forward on the bed, crawling on top of you.

“Probably. But I don’t know, there was something so… tortured about him.” You sighed, hands running up and down his chest, popping buttons open on his shirt. Attempting to end the conversation, Clark took his lips into yours again, his hands gripping your hips harshly. It was wilder than before, like something had taken him over compared to the way he was gently kissing you earlier. 

“What’s gotten into you?” You asked, out of breath and panting, and you helped him throw his shirt off across the room. 

“You.” The cheesy smile on his face nearly distracted you from how dark his eyes were. His hands gripped the hem of your shirt, ready to tear it into pieces. 

“Should we close the blinds?” It was a rhetorical question, teasing him for leaving them open. 

“I don’t know, should we?” His voice is gravelly. “What if I told you we had an audience?” 

Your eyes nearly bulged out of your head at this information. “What?” You spluttered, horrified at the idea of strangers gawking at you during your intimate moments, even more horrified at how casual Clark was being about this. 

“The Batman. Vengeance himself is across the street on that rooftop. Watching. Pretty sure he’s been the one watching you the past few weeks. I can’t believe I didn’t think of that.” 

Of course, he would be privy to your sudden relocation to Gotham, but that just means he, too, found out his own secret identity. 

Vengeance. Your mind was swirling. Why had Bruce decided to use that word specifically with you? There was no feasible way the scrawny, tortured man sitting across from you earlier today was Batman, but if he was, why was he hiding in the shadows watching you? 

“Are you telling me that Bruce Wayne-” 

“I didn’t say anything,” Clark said quickly, ever the loyal Boy Scout. 

“Why is he watching me?” You settled on keeping your hands on his bare shoulders. 

What Clark wasn’t going to divulge to you was how he could hear Batman’s pulse pick up the moment he began kissing you, the way his blood was rushing in between his legs. A lightbulb went off in Clark’s mind, an idea so riveting it made him catch his breath. 

“Because who wouldn’t want to watch you, baby. Look at you.” His hands moved up to the hem of your shirt again, pulling the fabric up slowly. “And I need to show him who you belong to.” 

There was no denying how the words he said went straight to your core. That’s what this was: Clark had a primal instinct to show you off to his unsettling co-worker. Your hesitation made his eyebrows furrow in concern. 

“I’m s-sorry, I don’t know where that came from,” He started, his cheeks flushed, “I don’t mean any disrespect or to make you uncomfortable, I’ll go over there and knock him around real good for you, baby, I just-” 

You cut off his rambling by grabbing his hand, guiding it underneath your skirt. Letting his fingers find your soaked heat. “Does this feel like I’m uncomfortable?” 

The sound that came out of Clark’s throat was inhuman. He wasted no time in slipping his fingers past your panties, dipping right into your soaked heat. Your back arching against him. 

“Such a minx.” He whispered against your skin, plying you apart with his fingers. Curling them into the spot that had you trembling. With a loud gasp, you brought his lips to yours again, mumbling curses as your cunt suckled his digits in deeper. 

Right when you were on the cusp, his fingers stilled, causing a heartbroken whine to leave your throat. Before you could protest, he was dropping to his knees, his tongue lapping where your arousal had spilled all over your skin and his hand. His fingers began their pace again, his tongue sucking greedily on your sensitive bud. 

You were falling apart in no time, your head lolling to the side. Peering out the darkened window, you didn’t have Clark’s vision, so all you could see was the dim reflection of your mouth agape, while Clark was between your legs. Wishing so desperately to meet Batman’s eyes while you came, to show him just exactly what Clark was doing to you. This only made you cum harder, screaming into the air while he savored every drop. 

Clark’s face was glistening in your release when he came up for air, a joyous smile on his face. “Gosh, I never get tired of that.” 

Giggles escaped your lips looking down at the man you loved. You cocked your finger at him with a come-hither motion, and he wasted no time. His shirt went flying, and his pants fell to his ankles. His body cradled yours when he kissed you deeply, hands roaming. It was easy to get lost in this with him. The pleasure and the love radiating off of you both were palpable in every room you stepped in, even more so when you were together like this. The most intimate and raw, except this time there was a guest. 

Pulling away from his lips, spit still connecting, you couldn’t help but speak. “Our guest…” 

Clark picked up immediately, letting his gaze fall onto the rooftop again. The bulge in his Batsuit was undeniable. His blood was rushing through his veins at lightning speed, going straight to his cock. His breathing was shallow, eyes locked onto the couple intently. Each time Clark looked this way, Bruce found his throat dry. Clark’s neck muscles tensed with each turn of his head, the way your body arched off the bed rivaling that of a Greek painting. Bruce knew he should have left the moment Clark’s hands trailed up your shirt, but he couldn’t. His feet were cemented on the ground, his body heavy. He knew Clark knew he was there, but never once did the Kryptonian close the curtains or fly over here and smash him through 30 stories of concrete. 

Just a simple nod, an open invitation to watch. One that Bruce was happy to accept, no matter the consequences. Anything to admire the curves of your body, to imagine how both of your skins would feel brushing against his own. A shudder ran through his body at the thought. The perverted feeling only made his cock ache more. 

“He’s still there. You okay, honey?” Clark asked you, hand cupping your cheek.

 You answered him with an eager nod and a pathetic plea. His cock rutted against your clit, sliding your wetness all over him. When he couldn’t take it anymore, he let his tip prod your entrance, slowly sinking into your warm heat. No matter how many times the two of you did this, it never failed to take your breath away. Your body took him expertly, the stretch feeling like home to you. 

“Oh fuck.” You gasped when his hips met yours, giving you little time to adjust. His hands held your legs open wide for him, watching every time your cunt sucked him back in greedily. 

From the rooftop, Bruce couldn’t control himself; the lust was overtaking every reasonable thought he had. He fumbled with his gear, pushing the kevlar out of the way. He hissed the moment his cock escaped the confines, the chill air making him twitch. Precum leaked from his tip, his gloved hand wrapping around himself in a smooth motion. 

Clark had looked over towards the window as he ravished you, squinting to see the shadowed figure that was on his mind. He heard the shuffling and could only imagine the man was rubbing his own hard on over his tactile gear. The mental image made Clark’s cock twitch from where it was inside of you. Between that and the way your tits bounced with each thrust, he was already on the verge of losing it. When he finally saw the man, his imagination wasn’t far off. Batman’s cock was hanging outside of his suit, his gloved hand stroking himself in slow, drawn-out strokes. 

Noticing Clark’s gaze out the window, you knew what he was looking for. “Is he watching?” Your voice drew him out of his trance. “What’s he doing?” 

Clark looked back down at you, pressing his lips to yours in a harsh kiss. “He’s stroking his cock to us. I wish you could see honey.” 

A heat bloomed in your belly, clenching around his cock, spurring Clark’s movements even more. You couldn’t deny feeling left out of the moment Clark and Bruce were having through the window pane, but the sensation of Clark rutting inside you was more than enough. “Well, we have to give him a show, right?” 

“Yeah, baby, I guess we do.” He wasted no time in pressing his hand on your lower stomach, pistoning his hips faster than before. The pressure on the bulge of him in your guts had you mewling. One of his hands reached down, rubbing fast circles on your clit, the slick sounds filling the room. 

Between Clark’s ministrations and the idea of The Batman getting off to watching both of you had you reaching your high. Your back arched, gripping the bedsheets so tight your hands began to ache. Thinking of how the two of you looked, so lost in pleasure with each other. 

“Come on,” He urged, “Want to show him just how well you cum around this cock.” 

That was all it took for you to gush around him, yelling his name in gasping breaths. 

“You like that, don’t you? Knowing he’s watching me split you open?” He panted, watching where your release dripped off his cock that was sliding in and out of you with little resistance. Your cunt gripping him like a vice, making his legs shake. 

“Y-yes,” You whined, looking up at the man. His face flushed, eyes fixated on where you were connected, “I’m yours. All yours.” 

You all but wailed when he pushed in deeper, stilling his hips for a moment. “All. Mine.” He grunted, giving himself one last look through the window. 

Bruce’s hand was moving faster now, his top teeth biting down on his lip through the cowl. His tip was flushed, begging for a release. Clark could see the tension in his shoulders, the want in his eyes. For both of you. 

“I’m gonna show him you’re mine,” Clark spoke, his hips moving again, chasing his high. All you could do was nod, letting out screams of pleasure as he pried another orgasm out of you, relishing every time your cum coated him. One final act of your cunt gushing around him was all it took for Clark to cum. His hips stuttered and stilled, filling your cunt up with his load. Before he was finished, he pulled out, rubbing his cock quickly, letting his aftershocks spurt all over your stomach and chest. 

He grunted your name, unable to think of anything else but the fucked out look in your eye. His release painting your skin. He wished he were an artist so he could paint this to show you how beautiful you were. 

“I wish he could see this.” You mumbled absentmindedly, reaching your hand down your ruined skin. Your fingers circled your cum covered clit, rubbing small circles on the swollen bud. Clark held your legs open wide, watching drops of his release plop onto the bed. 

“He’s watching.” Clark breathed out, turning to watch just in time as Bruce came. Spurting his own cum pathetically all over the rooftop. Whimpering with each thrust of his hand. The shame rolled off of him the moment he was done, shoving his limp cock back inside the suit, he took one last look before he faded back into the shadows. 

“And he’s gone.” He let out an out-of-breath laugh, walking over to shut the curtain. Signaling the end of the show for the night. 

“No one else saw. Promise.” He spoke, gathering a warm washcloth to help clean you. 

“I know.” The blissed out smile still on your lips. “That was….” 

“Yeah.” He sighed, a flush creeping up his cheeks. “That’s gonna make future encounters quite awkward.” 

You let his words sit in the air a moment, wrapping the sheets around yourself. “Or quite nice.” 

He looked at you with a raised brow, urging you to continue. 

“I love you. You love me. That’s never changing, but I know you enjoyed that. Probably just as much as me. If not more.” 

His face was now beet red; he was never ashamed around you, never. He knew you’d never judge him.. “I just think it could be fun to continue this. Maybe I could actually see this time.” You finished. 

He let the words roll around his head, trying to avoid his cock stirring at just the idea. “Maybe. If you’re good.” 

“Oh, please.” You giggled, pulling him close to you. Lying your head on his sweaty chest. “Just think about it. I’m only here for another week. When the paper goes live, he’ll be at the party. I’m sure of it.” 

All that night, it was all Clark could think about. The week passed by in the blink of an eye. You kept the curtains closed and never felt that feeling of being watched again; in a way, you’d never admit, you kind of missed it.

-

 The morning of the publication date, Clark brought you breakfast from your favorite place in Metropolis, kissing you hungrily. Before he flew off to work, he paused, “Tonight. Give him an invitation. Just to see. I’ll be back at 9.” 

A smirk appeared on your face, sliding the extra hotel card in your clutch. The paper was a success, and the bullpen was full of congratulations and farewells. You enjoyed your time here, but you were ready to be home. There was only one thing that could keep you in Gotham. 

The dress you had on was starting to suffocate you as the hours on the clock taunted you. It was nearly 8 pm, and Bruce Wayne had yet to make an appearance. Unbeknownst to you, Bruce had been outside for the past few hours, mustering up the courage to enter the threshold. In his typical suit and tie, clad with a bouquet, Alfred insisted he should bring. Praying he didn’t stink of shame, he summoned up the courage to take a step inside, bombarded by people immediately. His awkward answers to reporters' questions and his immediate refusal to interview. 

“Bruce!” Edson shouted, making you turn around to spot the man you’d been searching for all night. He looked like a deer in the headlights, cradling flowers in his hand as if they were a weapon of mass destruction. With each step he took, you tried to calm the stirring in your belly. 

“I believe congratulations are in order.” He mumbled. Gone was the confident Bruce Wayne you met weeks ago.

“Thank you, Mr. Wayne.” You flashed him a toothy grin, his eyes never meeting yours. Nervousness was radiating off of him, so palpable that Edson excused himself to grab another drink. 

“Bruce. I told you to call me Bruce.” He let out a shaky laugh, handing the flowers over to you. “On behalf of the Wayne estate.” 

You took them happily, “Why, thank you, Bruce.” 

He pretended his knees didn't almost buckle when his name rolled off your tongue. The red roses with blue accent flowers were so on the nose that it almost made you laugh. 

A loud call of your name had you looking around, a group of staff ready to bid you farewell. Your eyes softened at Bruce, knowing you’d have to run. 

“I’m sorry-“

“No, no! Don’t worry about it. I just needed to drop these off.” He said, ready to rush off. You stopped him with a gentle touch on his hand while you slid the plastic card out of your pocket. 

You slid the hotel key into his palm, covering it with your own. He raised his brow quickly at you, “What is this?” 

The smile never left your face, slowly letting his hand go. His palm clenched tightly around the key. Before you sauntered away, you gave him a wink, whispering two words to him. “An invitation.” 

[cillianmurphysteacup]

Hehehehehhehehe

[iluvemobitches]

Me waiting on y'all to make them stranger things fics

[daddysdecayingdoll]

my hearts going crazy