sam.ᐟ☆

i write, idk 🇬🇷🇪🇸🇵🇭🇦🇪🏳️‍🌈

[deadstarsz]

welcome to my blog .ᐟ

── fallen angel, minor, filipina-greek-hispanic, she/they, sapphic.

hihello my stars! this is just a lil blog for my writing, feel free to chit-chat with me!

will write for: rygos verse, mcr + more! feel free to request!

please note that i will NOT write nsfw, for i am a minor.

DNI: maga, isnotreal supporters, creeps, p3dofiles, racists, homophobes

requests | MASTERLIST | PLAYLIST

lots of love, Star <3

banner creds: uzmacchiato.ᐟ

[deadstarsz]

Long Live The Black Parade!

lltbp & reader

As the child of 'The Grand Immortal Dictator', you are tasked to watch over the recently-released-from-the-MOAT propaganda band, The Black Parade. What could possibly go wrong? ahaha

The fluorescent lights of the Ministry of Complimentary Conditioning did not buzz; they hummed in a strict, rhythmic 4/4 time, as dictated by Section 9, Clause B of the National Sonic Standardization Act, a cacophony of order.

You sat at the heavy steel desk, staring down at your uniform. It was immaculate—pressed to a razor edge, charcoal gray, boasting the silver-threaded seal of the Concrete Age on the lapel. To the citizens of Draag, you were a symbol of the ultimate stability. To the Grand Immortal Dictator, you were blood. Specifically, you were his offspring, a direct extension of his unyielding, supposedly eternal legacy.

But to yourself? You were a ghost trapped in a cage of mandatory fun.

A heavy, leather-bound logbook lay open before you. As the newly appointed Chief Auditor of the Cultural Preservation Sector, your job was simple; ensure that the mandatory amusement quotas were met and that all displays of grief were properly inspected.

Outside your office window, the monolithic spires of the city stretched into a smog-choked sky. Massive propaganda screens flickered between towering portraits of your father—his eyes covered with blackout glasses, sat expressionless in his great throne—and scrolling blocks of text in Keposhka.

RULE 8: Having fun is mandatory. Having mandatory fun is healthy for the mind. RULE 12: All displays of grief are subject to their proper inspections.

A sharp tink on the reinforced glass door shattered your thoughts. The Clerk, a twitchy man named Charlie, whose uniform always looked a size too large, stood in the doorway. He held a stack of punch cards pressed against his chest like a shield.

"The, uh... the 56th House Band has arrived for their daily conditioning, Your Greatness," the Clerk stammered, refusing to make direct eye contact. It was safer that way. To look at a child of the Dictator was to invite scrutiny, and scrutiny in Draag usually ended with a one-way ticket to the MOAT. "They have completed their morning labor. They are ready to punch in."

"Thank you, Charlie. Bring them in," you said, keeping your voice perfectly level, devoid of any inflection that could be heard by anyone near hindsight.

The Clerk scurried backward, and a moment later, five figures marched into the room in a single-file line.

Your breath caught slightly, though you didn't let your chest rise enough to show it. These were the men who had allegedly died in a fire in Mexico City seventeen years ago, only to be found perfectly preserved in the deepest cells of the MOAT. His Grand Immortal Dictator’s National Band. The Black Parade.

They wore their updated uniforms—black jackets adorned with faded silver braiding, marred by the dirt and grime of their reconditioning camps. Their faces pale, almost like they were deprived of sunlight.(they were)

Leading them was Gerard. Their hair was a black, save for some grey scattered near his temples, their eyes rimmed with heavy charcoal that bled into the lines of their face. They didn't look like a prisoner; they almost looked dead? Behind him stood Ray, Mikey, Frank, and their touring drummer, all holding themselves with a tense, coiled energy that the Ministry’s conditioning hadn't quite managed to crush.

They lined up before your desk. One by one, they stepped forward to punch their time cards into the heavy brass slotting machine. Clack. Clack. Clack. Clack.

Gerard was the last. They slid his card into the machine. Clack.

As he pulled the card back, his dark, paint-rimmed eyes shifted, locking directly onto yours. It was a flagrant violation of the rules. Non-verbal defiance. The air in the room grew instantly colder.

"Is there an issue with your conditioning, Lead Performer 01?" you asked calmly, tapping your fountain pen against the blotter.

Gerard slowly tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Not at all, Chief. The concrete feels wonderful today. Very stable. Very... abundant."

"Watch your tone, Parade Leader," the Clerk hissed from the corner, his voice cracking. "You are speaking to the direct lineage of His Grand—"

"It's fine, Charlie," you interrupted, raising a single hand. The Clerk instantly silenced himself. You looked back at Gerard. Underneath the palemakeup, you could see the raw, blistering intelligence—and the deep, burning rage—that your father’s regime had spent nearly two decades trying to bury. "The band’s performance last night at the National Stadium was... compliant. However, the Ministry noted an unauthorized deviation during the bridge of 'Mama'."

Frank shifted his feet, the heels of his covered boots clicking against the floor. Ray looked up at the ceiling, pretending to analyze the structural integrity of the drywall.

"Ah, the dagger," Gerard murmured, their voice dropping an octave, becoming the theatrical, raspy purr that filled stadiums. "A minor artistic flourish. A plea for a weapon to slice through the abundance of our beautiful country."

"A dagger is a weapon, Lead Performer. And according to Rule 2, weapons—dental tools or otherwise—are strictly prohibited unless sanctioned for state defense," you replied. You closed the ledger with a dull thud. "You are playing a dangerous game. The Dictator watches every set from his box. He takes notes. He eats his hot dogs. He does not miss a single beat."

"We know he watches," Gerard said softly, taking a step closer to your desk. The scent of stage sweat, cheap hairspray, and the damp, metallic musk of the MOAT washed over you. "But the question is, Chief... what is he writing down? Because from where I stand on that stage, looking up at that grand, immortal throne... he looks a little stiff. A little waxy. Don't you think?"

The Clerk gasped loudly. "Treason! That is a Class-A distraction! The Ministry of Operatic Retaliations will—"

"Leave us," you said, your voice cutting through the panic like a scalpel.

The Clerk blinked, paralyzed. "But, Your Greatness, the protocol—"

"I said, leave us. Take the rest of the performers to the secondary staging area. I will handle the lead's audit personally."

The room was silent for three agonizing seconds. Then, Mikey caught Frank’s elbow, guiding him toward the door. Ray followed, giving Gerard a brief, warning glance. The Clerk practically tripped over his own feet as he ushered them out, slamming the heavy steel door behind them.

The silence that followed was heavy, broken only by the rhythmic hum of the lights.

You stood up from your desk, walking over to the floor-to-ceiling glass window that overlooked the grey, concrete plaza below. You kept your back to Gerard, but you could see their reflection in the glass. They hadn't moved. They stood like a statue of a forgotten rebellion.

"You shouldn't say things like that," you said quietly, dropping the rigid, bureaucratic cadence of the Ministry. "Even if the walls don't have ears, the cameras have lips."

"I've spent seventeen years in a hole in the ground because we refused to play the national anthem at a city council meeting," Gerard replied, their reflection walking up to stand a few feet behind yours. "Do you really think I'm afraid of a camera?"

"You should be. If they think you're inciting something, they won't just put you back in the MOAT. They will erase the 56th House Band entirely. They will find a 57th."

"Let them try," Gerard spat softly. "They can't replicate the sound. They can copy the uniforms, they can learn the chords, but they don't know what the dirt tastes like. They don't know what it means to carry the coffin."

You turned around to face them. Being the child of the Grand Immortal Dictator meant living a life of absolute luxury and absolute isolation. You were surrounded by millions of people who feared your name, yet you had never had a single conversation that wasn't scripted by a Ministry scriptwriter. Looking at this broken, beautiful, defiant propaganda machine, you felt a strange, terrifying pang of envy in your chest.

"Why do you do it?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper. "Why keep fighting a system that has already won? Look outside. The Concrete Age is absolute. My father... my father cannot be overthrown. He is immortal."

Gerard let out a short, sharp laugh. It wasn't bitter; it was almost pitying. He stepped right up to you, breaking Rule 5—No touching—by reaching out and gently tapping the silver seal on your lapel. Their fingers were stained with black greasepaint.

"Nobody is immortal, kid," Gerard whispered. "Not even him. Especially not him."

You stared at them, your heart hammering against your ribs. "What do you mean?"

"The throne is a stage prop," Gerard said, their eyes drilling into yours. "We've been up close. We've seen the wires. We've seen the way the military officers stand on either side of him, holding him upright like a taxidermied dog. The Grand Immortal Dictator is a corpse, preserved in formaldehyde and dressed up in a general's uniform to keep you all afraid of a ghost."

The revelation didn't hit you like a thunderclap; it hit you like a missing puzzle piece sliding perfectly into place. The strange, unblinking stares on the jumbotron. The way the Dictator’s decrees had become increasingly nonsensical and contradictory over the last five years. The rules that banned throwing hair or running slowly. It wasn't the genius of an immortal mind—it was the frantic, panicked cover-up of a dying committee trying to maintain control of a empire whose figurehead had left the building a long time ago.

"You're lying," you whispered, though the lack of conviction in your own voice was deafening.

"Go see for yourself," Gerard challenged softly. "You have the security clearance. You have the blood. Walk into the high tower. Look past the velvet ropes. See what your 'father' really is."

You backed away from him, your boots hitting the edge of your desk. Your whole life, your entire identity, was built on being the progeny of the man who saved Draag from chaos. If he was dead... if he was just a puppet... then what were you?

"And if he is?" you asked, your voice trembling. "What changes? The Ministry still has the guns. The automated defenses are still active. The concrete is still here."

"The concrete only stays because people think the man who poured it is still watching," Gerard said. They reached down to their waist, rummaging through the tattered lining of his parade jacket. When they pulled their hand out, they weren't holding a piece of paper or a punch card.

They're holding a cassette tape. It was scuffed, the plastic cracked, labeled only with a hand-drawn skull in faded red marker.

"What is that?"

"The real history of Draag," Gerard said, holding it out to you. "Before the Concrete Age. Before the rules. It’s a recording of the final show in Mexico City. The night they tried to burn us alive to hide the truth. If this gets broadcasted through the Ministry’s main antenna during our set tonight... the illusion breaks. The people will remember that they used to have voices. They will remember that they are allowed to grieve."

You stared at the small piece of plastic. It felt heavier than a bomb. "You're asking me to commit high treason. Against my own house."

"I'm asking you to join the parade," Gerard corrected gently. "Your house is already empty, friend. There’s nobody home."

A loud, electronic buzz echoed through the office. The stadium sirens began to wail in the distance, signaling the pre-show assembly. The national anthem of Draag—a discordant, synthesized drone—began to play through the hallway speakers.

Gerard placed the cassette tape on your desk, right on top of the leather logbook. They didn't say another word. They just gave you a sharp, military salute, turned on their heel, and walked out of the office to join the rest of the band.

For a long time, you just stood there. The anthem droned on, a repetitive loop designed to dull the senses. You looked at the tape. Then you looked out the window, down at the thousands of gray-clad citizens lining up to enter the stadium, their faces blank, their movements mechanical. They were going to have their mandatory fun.

You picked up the tape. It felt warm in your hand.

With a sudden surge of adrenaline, you tore the silver seal off your lapel and threw it into the wastebasket. You grabbed your coat, slipped the cassette into your pocket, and walked out of the office, heading toward the high tower.

The backstage tunnels of the National Stadium were a labyrinth of cold steel and armed guards. Because of your status, the soldiers simply saluted as you passed, their eyes fixed forward, never questioning why the Dictator's child was walking toward the central broadcast booth instead of the royal box.

Through the heavy concrete walls, you could hear the muffled roar of the crowd. Ninety thousand people.

You slipped into the primary control room. The technicians were busy monitoring the jumbotron feeds, their fingers flying over illuminated control panels. None of them noticed you as you moved along the back wall toward the master override console—the one that controlled the city-wide audio relay.

On the main monitor, the live feed from the stage showed the band marching out.

The crowd was screaming, but it was a regulated scream. The screens displayed the rules in real-time.

RULE 11: Only sing along when unsure of the correct lyrics.

Gerard stood at the center stage, the microphone gripped tightly in both hands. They looked up toward the high royal box—the box where your father sat, a stiff, pale figure draped in medals, flanked by two rigid guards. From this angle, through the high-definition camera feed on the monitor, you could see it. The slight, unnatural tilt of the head. The way his hand didn't move to adjust his hat.

He was a doll. A terrifying, multimillion-dollar mannequin.

Gerard looked directly into the camera lens, as if they knew you were watching from the shadows of the control booth. They raised their hand, pointing a single finger toward the sky.

"This one," Gerard’s voice boomed through the stadium speakers, rattling the glass of the control room, "is for the ones who stayed behind. And the ones we left in the dirt."

Then, someone from the Draag National Auxiliary Band struck the opening chord of "Welcome to the Black Parade"—that single, iconic, piercing piano note. G.

The stadium exploded.

You didn't hesitate. You stepped up to the master console, pushing a startled technician out of the way. Before they could protest, you flashed your high-level security badge.

"Step back," you commanded, your voice carrying the absolute authority of the bloodline you were about to betray. "Emergency broadcast override by order of the lineage."

The technicians froze, pulling their hands away from the boards.

You popped open the auxiliary tape deck—a legacy piece of hardware kept for system maintenance—and slammed the cracked cassette into the slot. Your fingers hovered over the master broadcast toggle. If you flipped it, the stadium, the city, and every sector of Draag would lose the sanitized live feed. They would hear the truth.

On stage, the band was pouring everything they had into the performance. Fire erupted from the stage wings, massive plumes of orange and red that licked at the concrete pillars. Frank was throwing himself into his guitar, Mikey’s bass was a thumping heartbeat, and Gerard was pacing the stage like a caged animal that had finally broken the bars.

"When I was a young boy, my father took me into the city, to see a marching band..."

The crowd was breaking the rules. They weren't clapping for thirty seconds; they were jumping, screaming, tears streaming down faces that had been taught for seventeen years that grief was a crime. The Ministry guards were moving into the aisles, trying to enforce order, but there were too many of them. The music was a tidal wave.

You looked at the monitor one last time. Gerard was looking right at the broadcast tower. He smiled.

"Long live the Black Parade," you whispered.

You slammed the override toggle forward.

The jumbotron feed flickered violently, static cutting through the pristine image of the Concrete Age. The synthesized anthem feed died completely. In its place, a raw, unedited audio track from nearly two decades ago tore through the speakers of every television, radio, and PA system in Draag.

And it that one singular moment, you didn't care if you were 'betraying' your lineage. What's there to betray when their already dead?

The technician next to you gasped, reaching for the cutoff switch, but you grabbed his wrist, holding him back with a strength you didn't know you had.

"Let it play," you ordered, your eyes fixed on the stadium.

Down on the floor, the citizens of Draag stopped looking at the rules on the screen. The screens were dying, short-circuiting under the weight of the unauthorized broadcast. People began to rip off their standardized coverings. They began to fight back against the guards, not because they were fought upon, but because they finally remembered how.

On stage, Gerard threw his microphone stand into the air, watching it shatter against the stage floor. He looked up at the high tower, giving you one final, respectful nod as the sirens of the Ministry of Operatic Retaliations began to wail outside the control room door.

They were coming for you. You knew what would happen next. You would be taken to the MOAT, stripped of your title, and thrown into the dark.

But as the door behind you began to hiss open, and the heavy boots of the state security forces echoed in the hallway, you didn't feel afraid. For the first time in your life, you heard the music clearly. And as you were tackled to the cold, concrete floor, your lips moved to the rhythm of the rebellion, singing words you finally knew by heart.

hi guyssss..... first mcr fic over here............... 67

[themurderscene-deactivated20140]

and if you turn to ur left you’ll see the emos

[rnyselfie]

is that my chemical romance?

[penceyprepster-deactivated20160]

OH MY GOD not every group of emos is my chemical romance stfu tumblr

[chxmical-rxmance]

but it actually is my chemical romance

[losered]

this is the funniest fuckibg thing I’ve ever seen

[gay-emo-quotes]

I’ve…. seen this everywhere except on Tumblr itself. It’s the blessed post.

[mimekynumber1fan]

Mikey’s absolute joy after whispering a joke in his brother’s ear 😭 x

[deadstarsz]

how i feel whenever i say random shit to my siblings in public

[headshr1nker]

hi

[deadstarsz]

dream blunt rotation and im the one getting passed around.

[deadstarsz]

hi guyz..... how r u all.. 😇😇

pls dont kill me...i KNOW i havent been posting for a month (maybe more?), its just that ive been (sadly) very busy w life as of rn ☹️😢🤧 I'll start answering reqs once I'm done with it school works! and also when im done revamping my blog theme.. 🫣🫣🫣

(PSST. i also may start writing for other fandoms.. liek mychem.. (ps. NOT the band itself, will only do ddays + tbp e.g party poison, fun ghoul, kobra kid, jet star, the secretary, marianne, sylvia + more!))

send reqs 😇😇

[cosmicyeehaw]

I'll be forever changed

[valentine-blue]

Request: ok ok so soulmate AU were tattoos match for soulmates and ryland never was able to find his soulmate while on earth. And the usual story of him being forced onto the ship but Eva found rylands soulmate as a sorry and goodluck to ryland then sent her with ryland onto the ship. Reader probably isnt mad at ryland for what happened and instead has a intense hatred for Eva. i have a feeling ryland would be so distraught over the fact his soulmate was forced to go into space because of him, so this is a good angst one!

ooo i feel like this could also make ryland and rocky have another thing in common because of the mate tattoos rocky has. this is a long one so buckle up

Fate of the Stars - Ryland Grace x afab!reader

Theme: Angst, fluff

notes: book references, movie spoilers, angst, crying, mention of suicide, trauma, use of y/n, panic attack, kissing, not proofread

“This may seem like me betraying you, but it’s actually me believing in you,” Stratt says, trying to keep her composure. “Sure feels like you’re betraying me,” Ryland says, nervously laughing. He stumbles away, running from the several guards chasing after him. “Yeah he’s running,” Stratt says over the phone, watching the scene play out from her window. “Bring me his soulmate.”

You walk in Stratt’s office, accompanied by two guards. There’s some chairs strolled around from where Ryland moved them to escape the guard. “What is this?” You ask, confused on why you were forced out of your home to come here. “I’m sending you to space with Dr. Ryland Grace. You’re his soulmate and since he will be gone for decades I’ve decided that you will go with him. Consider this a way of me thanking him.”

You laugh nervously. “You expect me to just go to space? Right now?” you ask, waving your hands in the air. You don’t know anything about this mission. “Yes,” a simple bit stern answer from Stratt. “No. No I can’t go to space I- you don’t understand I have friends a- and a job I can’t just-“

“You can and you will,” Stratt says, growing impatient. “We can do this the easy way or the hard way. Tears form in your eyes. The thought of possibly dying in space taking control of your mind. You try to escape, running out the office door into the field Ryland previously was before getting put into a coma.

You fall to the ground, Russian soldiers by the gate hold you down while a doctor jabs the syringe into your neck. You let out a choked yelp, watching Ryland as he’s put into the Hail Mary. Your vision starts to blur, the world drowning out around you before it all turns black.

~

“Eye movement detected,” a robotic voice says. You squint at the bright lights surrounding you. A robotic arm comes toward your face, removing a tube from your throat. You gasp for air before coughing. “What is two plus two,” the robotic voice says. You try to respond to ask where you are, but you find you can’t speak yet. “Incorrect,” the voice responds.

Your vision is still blurry, but you can see a figure, appearing to be a man standing near you. You blink a few more times and your vision clears up some. He has dirty blonde hair, a little ruffled. He has wire framed glasses and he’s wearing a shirt that says “I had potential,” with a red jumpsuit wrapped around his waist, acting as pants.

You try to say something, ask where you are or even who you are. Who are you? Who is this man standing in front of you? “It’s ok, you’re safe. I’m not gonna hurt you,” the man says, coming closer.

~

“So this is really happening?” you ask Ryland. He summed up what had happened before you two were launched into space together. You’ve remembered your name but not much else. He nods, taking a bite of his spin drive heated burrito. “I don’t know why Stratt sent you. There were two others but they died on the way here. I’m sure you’re a scientist, pilot, engineer, something like that,” he explains. “Right now our mission is to get to Taú Ceti and figure why it isn’t dying.”

Ryland goes to the small storage compartment and finds a bag with your name on it. “Here, maybe you can find something more comfortable in here,” he says, handing you the bag. You give him a small thanks before heading to another room to change.

You notice a small mark on your right shoulder. It’s three straight vertical lines with a horizontal one crossing through the middle. It must be your soulmate mark. You haven’t remembered much about your previous life yet, but the mark doesn’t matter. You’ll probably never find your soulmate anyways.

After changing, you walk back into the lab to find Ryland looking at Astrophage? You can’t remember what he had called it but it was the substance killing the sun.

“Oh, hey,” he says, turning in your direction. “Uhm- I think there’s another…important thing you should know about the mission. You sit beside him, waiting for him to explain. “This mission…it’s…” he struggles to get the words out. “We’re not going back to Earth,” he finally says. You don’t know if you heard him right. Not going back to Earth?

“What?” you finally choke out. He sighs, knowing that you’re both going to eventually die out here. “This is a suicide mission. Once we’re done here we’re going to die,” he finally says.

You turn to look down at the table. Tears form in your eyes, threatening to fall. You cover your mouth, eyes screwing shut as you finally give in to the overwhelming fact that you’re going to die out here.

Ryland tries to comfort you, as he wished someone was there for him when he found out. “Hey, it’s ok. We’re gonna get through this. Together.” You don’t know what makes you do it but you stand and hug him, crying into his chest. He’s stunned for a moment before wrapping his muscular arms around you, rubbing your back. “It’s ok. I’ve got you. Just let it all out”

Once you’ve calmed down some, you remove yourself from Ryland, immediately missing his warmth. You wipe a tear from your eye, sniffing. “Sorry I-“ you start before Ryland cuts you off. “It’s ok. I know what it feels like.” You muster up the smallest smile you can before return to unpacking your things.

~

“Dirty, dirty, dirty. Why room so messy question?” Rocky says, rolling through yours and Ryland’s sleeping room. “Well I wasn’t expecting company, was I?” Ryland responds. You laugh, the whole situation playing out before you. Rocky had been communicating with you and Ryland through a computer that Ryland put together. Rocky wanted to join the Hail Mary to go to Taú Ceti E.

You and Ryland finally get Rocky to calm down, the two of you lying in your makeshift bed. You two decided to join mattresses to make a bigger bed. The two of you lay in bed, processing what just happened.

~

“You got a mate?” Ryland asks, surprised by Rocky mentioning he has a mate. You’ve successfully obtained enough Taumoeba to stop the Astrophage from killing Earth and Erid’s sun. To celebrate, Ryland set up a firework show in the screen room. “Yes?” Rocky says with a tone of “are you really asking me that?”

“You and (Y/L/N) mates?” he says. “Oh, no pal we’re just…friends,” Ryland replies. “But you two have mating mark?” Rocky says. “What?” You both question. “On shoulders. Same mark. Grace and (Y/L/N) mates,” Rocky plainly says.

You and Ryland turn to each other. Ryland looks to you for permission, to which you nod, before lifting your sleeve. His jaw drops, not knowing what to say. You lift his sleeve, and sure enough, he has the same mark. “Holy shit,” you say, trying to muster something else to say. “Rocky, you knew this whole time?” Ryland asks. “Yes? Grace stupid. How long since last sleep, question?”

You close your eyes, memories of Stratt sending you on the Hail Mary flooding back. How she forced you onto the ship, how you were chased down, how they put you in a coma with no remorse. Your breathing hitches, tears forming in your eyes. You feel strong arms picking you up, carrying you before setting you down on a soft surface.

You feel hands cup your face, turning your head. “Hey, hey, hey. It’s ok. I’m here,” Ryland says. “Breathe for me. Just like that. You’re gonna be ok,” he praises, helping you calm down.

You open your eyes, looking into Ryland’s blue eyes, shielded by his wire framed glasses. He holds your hand. “You’re ok, I’m here.” You squeeze his hand, not wanting him to let go. “I-I remember…” you start. “What?” Ryland asks, confused on what you’re trying to say. “I remember what happened. Why I’m here. Why Stratt sent me,” you say as more tears stream down your face. “Stratt send me as a thank you…she wanted you to have your soulmate before yo- we die.”

He thinks for a moment, processing what you said before anger floods his face. How could Stratt do this? Sending someone to their death just so someone could have their soulmate before they die in a few years? He couldn’t believe it. Sending him was one thing, but you? You weren’t even a scientist.

“I’m sorry,” is all he can say. You sniffle, touching the mark on his shoulder. “I’m just glad that I get to be with you,” you reply. Ryland doesn’t know what to say. You cup his face with one hand from the medical table, rubbing his face with your thumb. Ryland puts his other hand on yours, leaning into your hand.

You both lock eyes before he finally leans in, closing the distance between you two. His lips are soft, moving against yours as he deepens the kiss before pulling away for air.

He blushes, clearly flustered and surprised he was brave enough to do that. You smile, running your hand through his ruffled, blonde hair.

“See? Rocky told you that you are mates,” Rocky says, watching the scene. You both laugh, turning to face him. “Thanks pal,” Ryland responds. Rocky chips, giving Ryland jazz hands before rolling back into the control room.

Ryland kisses your cheek before resting his forehead on his. Your hands cup his face. “Maybe Stratt sending you here wasn’t such a bad idea after all,” he says before kissing you again. “It’s fate,” you say, smiling. You both go back to the control room, heading back to completing the mission fate decided you and Ryland would share together

~

ahh i don’t know how to end these but thank you for reading!

[deadstarsz]

SO CUTIES OMGGGGG 🥹🥹🥹🥹💓

[m00n-man2]

MORE CELEBRATION CLOTHES !

thank you to the ✨ amaze amaze amaze ✨ discord server for your insight on the coloring! :D

(close-ups under cut)

I think it'd be so funny if all three of them were married in awesome polyamorous Erid tradition and Grace had ZERO idea. Amidst the anxiety of proposing to him, they forgot to tell him what exactly he was signing up for LMAO.

Grace didn't even recognize that his tiara was his wedding ring.

When he was complimenting the craftsmanship, Rocky was puffing out with pride because that was basically an enthusiastic Eridian "YES" . Grace was just admiring his bling, man LMFAO

btw! here are the reference photos :3

[kyri45]

Was inspired by the wonderful post by @hailed-marys so me and @sam-i-am-27 got possessed by the demons and came out with this.

HC list under the cut

* Astrophage is more like a virus that either alters people, causing them to commit crimes or violent acts, or a power that supervillains are starting to use.

* Grace is still a middle school teacher who got bitten by the spider, obviously.

* Adrian is the one who stitched up the suit (the Aunt May of this universe).

* He has all the perks of a normal Spider-Man, but he's still Grace, so he's incredibly clumsy. He does have a super-strong spider sense, and that's what saves him 100% of the time, but he absolutely does not have the agility. When adrenaline kicks in, he can do anything, but otherwise he'll trip over the most ridiculous things.

* He was wearing his yellow raincoat the first time he saved someone, so now he wears it over his suit (along with his white Converse).

* The spider was discovered by SHIELD (which is undercover as a scientific research facility that Grace works for part-time). After the original test subjects (who were only able to survive the spider mutations if they possessed a specific gene) were killed in an attack, Eva delivered the spider to Grace so he could be bitten before other villains got their hands on that power. (My boy gets unwillingly turned into a savior in every universe.)

* Simon is still an ex-convict who, in exchange for his freedom, is asked by the evil company of the day to test a series of mines infected by what appears to be blood from a meteorite (which eventually turns out to be the symbiote Ellie!).

* At first, they wanted to kill each other, but they end up becoming besties.

[sammy-automatic]

”i asked chat gpt-“ well i asked ryland grace and he called you a staggering waste of carbon

[sunthoon]

Project Hail Mary fans after finishing the book and the movie

[pineappical]

thinking about statues of Grace being built all around Erid years after his passing so he can continue to watch over Eridians as they sleep

[theworstwolvie]

action!

summary: your kid forces you to go to parent teacher conference to meet her very favorite teacher: dr. grace. how were you supposed to know you'd leave that meeting with an embarrassingly massive crush and a tutoring appointment?

CWs: none! this is fluff! single parent!fem!reader x teacher! grace, no use of y/n, shameless flirting (they're both kinda bad at it), my failed attempt at rom-com humor, grace is a loser (complimentary), some hand holding and a little bit of ogling, but can you blame her? he's hot.

word count: around 5k! (sorry lmao)

author's note: first x reader fic w grace........kinda nervous........but for real thank you so much to @clarkscolumn, my beautiful bestie, for helping me with everything from picking the pictures you see up there at the top of this fic to helping me pick a name for this fictional child AND helping me beta this <3 i promise to be less needy in the future <3

The sheer size of Grover Cleveland Middle never fails to impress you. For a school that’s only focused on 6th through 8th Grade, it’s sure…sizeable. Are there really this many kids in San Francisco? Jeez.

At least you can take comfort in what you’re here for even if the size of the school is intimidating. Parent-teacher conference has always gone smoothly. It’s not like you have anything to worry about. Your kid is great, if you do say so yourself. Clara does all of her work. Never acts up in class. Gets pretty good grades. Sure, she got a C in Algebra, but who can blame her? Adding letters to a bunch of numbers is tough, and math is basically a second language that you never learned, anyway.

Honestly, you don’t even have to come to these because she’s so good in school. Not to mention that she’s getting old enough that you don’t really need to do this anymore. In fact, you almost skipped this one. You really wanted to. You could have spent the day with her instead, but she insisted that you go:

“Pleeeeease?”

Clara’s got her hands clasped together to enhance this begging she’s doing. This definitely wasn’t what you expected when you told her you might not go to parent-teacher conference. You grimace and lean over the kitchen island, a way to get on her eye level where she’s sitting on the other side of it.

“Are you sure? I thought we could have a girls’ day out. It’s our only day off together until Thanksgiving break, y’know.”

She waves your comment away. Even adds a scoff to it. You throw a brow up, because how couldn’t you? Kid’s really developing an attitude. Probably got it from you, though, so it’s not like you can complain.

“Don’t worry about it. We can do that stuff over the weekend. I really want you to go this time!”

“Did you want me to beat up your Algebra teacher or something?”

“I mean, I won’t complain if you do that,” she grumbles. She really doesn’t like that guy. Maybe you should beat him up just for giving her so much grief about her grade. She tried really hard. That guy just has a stick up his ass or something.

“But I want you to meet Dr. Grace. He’s my favorite teacher this year, and I think you’ll like him a lot.”

You press your mouth into a thin line when she says that, but your contemplative look doesn’t last long. It twists and turns, the corners of your lips tilting upward just a bit. She’s never asked you to go to one of these for a specific teacher.

“Really?”

“Yes! He’s super cool!”

“Do you have a crush on him or something?” you tease. Her entire body tenses up when she cringes at your joke. It makes you laugh.

“Oh, God, ew! No!”

“I’m just kidding!” you insist through your laughter. She huffs and crosses her arms over her chest. Rolls her eyes and shakes her head. Definitely got her attitude from you.

“Dr. Grace makes science make sense. Not a lot of my science teachers have been good at that.”

You hum after your laughter dies down. Your smile lingers. A couple seconds later, you extend your pinky.

“Fine. I’ll go just to meet Dr. Grace, but you owe me a girls’ day out this Saturday.”

Clara practically starts vibrating with excitement from how you agreed. She throws her pinky out to you and hooks it with yours, grinning so hard you’re worried her face will get stuck like that.

“Yes, I swear! Thanks, Mom!”

Now, here you are, lost in this big ass school, searching for the science wing so you can find the elusive Dr. Grace that your kid’s obsessed with. Before you left this morning, she promoted him to the best teacher she’s ever had. That piqued your interest. She’s usually obsessed with her History teachers.

Is she obsessed with him because he’s weird? Very likely. She’s usually interested in the eclectic teachers. What if he’s some kind of crazy? A psychopath with a teaching certificate? One of those insane wackos who jump on desks and flail around and somehow manage to get incredible test scores?

You let your thoughts run wild as you round the corner and enter the science wing you’ve been looking for for the last 5 minutes. Who fucking knows what you’re about to walk into. Clara’s got a sneaky sense of humor, which means she could totally be setting you up to meet a teacher she knows you’ll hate.

While you’re hesitantly walking down the wing, your eyes fall on each little blue nameplate outside each door. A number and a name on each one, and yet none of them have the name you’re looking for. Clara should have just came with you to show you to the classroom, but you were nice enough to let her sleep in.

So much for your kindness.

If it wasn’t for the final nameplate that said DR. R. GRACE right at the end of the hallway, you’d have left. Classroom number 220. Why the hell is 220 on the first floor? Who designs a school like this?

You peek through one of the big windows embedded in the classroom wall, and shock replaces your irks about the layout of the building. When you see the person sitting at the desk within the classroom, you’re taken aback. Surely, this man isn’t Clara’s teacher.

He’s bent over his desk and scratching red pen marks on the paper in front of him, but you can still see a decent amount of his face. He looks so young for a doctor. Maybe he’s a little older than you, but his messy blonde hair and overall bright facial expression make him look like a picture of youth.

His glasses slip down his nose and force him to push them up, giving you a good look at his arm. At his toned forearm. At his surprisingly large bicep. At the way that his t-shirt is practically strangling that surprisingly large bicep. At the dorky graphic on the t-shirt that you can’t see clear enough from here; one that you can tell is some kind of science joke.

When he straightens at his desk to stretch a little, you get a glimpse at that shirt. Black. Relatively tight. Features a white graphic of ramp with a ball at the bottom of it. Says “I HAD POTENTIAL” at the top of it.

“No fucking way,” you whisper to yourself. You even laugh. Clara’s teacher isn’t this super cute guy with that insanely cheesy t-shirt on. This is some sort of teaching assistant, or…a student teacher, maybe?

But she never mentioned a student teacher or a teaching assistant. Perhaps this is a teacher who lost his way. Or some random guy that snuck in and is cosplaying as a teacher. Concerning for school safety? Yes. More believable than this really attractive man being Clara’s teacher? Also yes.

This is the last door in the hallway. Clara’s teacher’s name is on this classroom’s nameplate. This has to be Dr. Grace.

Yet, when you very timidly take a few steps into the classroom, just beyond the doorway, and pause in it, you find yourself knocking and asking, “Would you happen to know where Dr. Grace is?”

The guy who definitely isn’t Dr. Grace perks up from behind his desk. Snaps out of the little grading trance he was in. He smiles at you, and it’s a beautiful smile. Soft and lacking teeth because it’s just a gentle upward curve of the corner of his lips, but still comforting and gorgeous nonetheless. The corners of his eyes crinkle a little. Their bright blue color is striking, to say the least.

Oh, Christ…are you ogling him? Stop it!

“Yeah,” he answers. His voice is as polite and casual as the smile on his face. “You’re looking at him.”

Okay. This guy who definitely is Dr. Grace perks up a little more. The way he’s keeping his eyes on you isn’t making this any easier on your heart.

“Oh,” you squeak out. Much higher pitched than you wanted it to be. How humiliating.

He stands up, now, and even from your spot at the door, you can tell he’s taller than you. A decent amount taller than you. He rounds his desk and starts toward you. You, on the other hand, can’t move your fucking feet at all. You’re still stuck just a couple steps into the classroom.

“Nice to meet you,” he says while sticking his hand out for you to shake. He got here so quickly. Didn’t give you enough time to recalibrate, or to do a system reset, or to come back down into your body. You clear your throat enough to find your voice again, though, just a few seconds after you take his hand and shake it.

“Nice to meet you, too,” you mumble. You’re reeling over the firmness of his grip while you let out an awkward laugh.

“I wasn’t expecting you to look like this,” you blurt out. Fuck. Why did you say that? And why did he throw his eyebrows up like that when you said it?

“No?” he asks. Crosses his arms over his chest and smiles at you. If God was on your side right now, he’d make Dr. Grace stop finding ways to flex his biceps in front of you.

“What were you expecting?”

“I…well, I thought you’d look like,” you pause and awkwardly laugh again. Really making a good first impression with this one, huh?

“I don’t know. I thought you’d look like Bill Nye, or—or a mad scientist, or something.”

“Bill Nye or a mad scientist,” he repeats.

He laughs. A little wheezy, a little higher pitched than you expected. Just makes him even more attractive, which in turn ends up making you more flustered. Your face floods with an embarrassed heat that’s so hot you could probably melt steel with your skin alone. You look down at the floor between you and force out a chuckle.

“I can’t tell if that means your kid really likes me or really hates me.”

You look back up at him. There’s an incredibly defeated, embarrassed little smile on your face. This is potentially the most humiliated you’ve ever been in your entire life. Can’t get much lower than this, right? Somehow, that thought grants you the ability to speak.

“I’m sorry. Can we restart? I’ll walk out, come back in, and we’ll pretend I never said that,” you softly mumble. It’s a little surprising that you were able to compose yourself enough to say that coherently. Dr. Grace’s brow pinches together. Is that sympathy? Is he trying to not laugh at you? Who knows.

But he nods. Then he smiles at you, devoid of sympathy and full of what you’re pretty sure is genuine kindness.

“Sure. You want me to reset? Go back to my desk?”

“Yeah. Let’s just time travel to…a couple minutes ago?”

“Deal.”

He claps his hands and calls out, “Action!”

Then he skitters back to his desk. A light but quick jog that has you laughing pretty hard as you walk yourself out of his classroom.

When you’re in the hall, in a spot he can’t see you, you shake your hands at your sides. You let out a soft, anxious sigh and run your fingers through your hair. Self soothing, but also a way to tame any potential fly aways. You even jump a few times. Anything to shake the jitters off.

“Okay,” you whisper to yourself. “You can do this. You can talk to him without embarrassing yourself.”

With your jitters mostly shaken off and your self-pep talk not doing much for you, you walk into the classroom again. Dr. Grace is sitting at his desk as if your first introduction never even happened. Same position and everything.

You start the scene by clearing your throat.

“Hi."

He looks up at you with that same gentle smile he flashed you the first time he saw you. Nods his head at you.

“Hi, stranger I’ve definitely never met before.”

“I’m looking for Dr. Grace?” you ask through a giggle. Your question sounded so dorky because of the grin stretching your face. Maybe you're a student instead of a parent.

“You found him!” he excitedly responds, both of his index fingers pointing at himself and eyes widened behind his lenses. “Because that’s me!”

Your giggles turn into a full laugh. Between his stilted use of the word “stranger” and the enthusiastic way he’s currently standing up behind his desk and rounding it to meet you, you were done for. He juts one of his hands out toward you and, for the second time today, you find yourself reeling from Dr. Grace’s palm being pressed against yours.

“Very nice to meet you, Miss.”

When he releases your hand, he gestures toward an empty chair sitting right next to the one he was occupying. “You can have a seat over here if you’d like.”

A typical parent-teacher conference usually maintains some distance. It’s rehearsed, in a way. A performance of good teacher and good parent. It’s got a formulaic parent question about how your kid’s doing and a formulaic positive teacher answer that every parent wants to hear. And it happens over their desk with at least five feet between parent and teacher.

Not this one, though. Dr. Grace is breaking that formula and improvising that performance.

You blink a few times, but you round that desk and follow him. You both sit down at the same time, and he turns his chair toward you to continue giving you his full attention. He leans back a little. Leaves his arms uncrossed, now, because he wants to remain open to you. Although, the smile on his face and the interest in his eyes was enough to tell you that he’s an open book.

It’s nice to break that formula. It’s nicer to improvise.

“I didn’t catch your name earlier,” he mutters. There’s a little apologetic lilt in his voice. A sheepish quality to it that’s quite heartwarming.

“Because we’ve never met before, so how would you have caught it?” you counter while you point back and forth between him and yourself. He snaps his fingers, then gently smacks his own forehead.

“That’s true,” he confesses.

“What’s your name, stranger?”

You give it to him. He smiles. Repeats it with some sort of reverence and leans into you just a pinch.

“That’s a pretty name.”

“Thank you, Dr. Grace.”

Have you ever sounded so timid in your entire life? Probably not. But it’s hard not to be when he refuses to break eye contact with you while he’s complimenting you so sincerely.

“You don’t have to call me that. Most of the kids just call me Mr. Grace,” he mumbles. Basically blows off his fancy title that definitely took him years to achieve.

“But you’re not 13, so…please call me Ryland.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“I really like that. It’s unique.”

He scoffs. “You think mine’s unique? You should hear my brother’s.”

He waves off that murmured comment and laughs at himself.

“That’s a story for another day, though,” he says, “because I’m pretty sure you’re here to see me instead of hear about my brother.”

What a rambler. A really, really attractive rambler. Is the rambling only bearable because he’s so cute?

Maybe.

“You’d be right,” you respond, muddled a bit by the smile you can’t wipe off of your face.

“I figured. So, who do you belong to?” he asks while he picks up a packet from his desk. It’s full of names. Some kind of roll sheet, you guess. Only a few have been checked off. Maybe that’s why he’s so excited about how you’re here. Another parent to perform for.

You know he’s asking that question about Clara. If he wasn’t her teacher, you’d have made some kind of feisty quip. Something like:

“Are you asking me about my kid or my relationship status?”

Shit. Did you say that out loud?

Ryland’s eyes widen. His face flushes pink and he laughs really, really hard while he tears his gaze off of you. Even though he clearly wants to keep looking at you, he’s seemingly unable to; he opts for gluing his eyes to his hands as they clutch that roll sheet like grim death.

Nice to know you’re not the only one getting flustered here—and, boy, are you flustered. You’re so tensed up that you’re starting to worry about the way your muscles are squeezing your own bones. You’re so embarrassed that you could throw up.

He glances up at you from behind those cute glasses and shoots you a crooked smile. A fleeting glance that makes you feel good about yourself. He still wants to look at you despite the way that you humiliated the shit out of yourself so badly that you might have to excommunicate.

“I was asking about your kid.”

“I’m so sorry. Just a stupid joke,” you mumble. You clear your throat and shake your head to try and rid yourself of the terrible thoughts in it. Then you point at the roll sheet in his hands. You found Clara’s name the moment he clutched that paper.

It called out to you. That kid’s your everything even though she’s just unknowingly tossed you into the most embarrassing moment of your life.

“I belong to that one,” you say, trying your very hardest to get this conversation back on the right track.

Ryland perks up. His smile from earlier grows. It’s not crooked anymore, but it’s still just as genuine as it was when he tossed it your way.

“Oh, you’re Clara’s mom!” he exclaims. “She’s great! Super bright. Takes a little while to get her out of her shell and speak up, but she’s a perfect addition to third period because of it. I never have to get on her case.”

Your face might split in half if you grin any harder.

“Yeah, that sounds like my girl,” you proudly confirm. “Can you believe she never stops talking back at home?”

“I can, actually. All the good ones are like that,” Ryland says through a chuckle. He checks her name off then passes you the roll and a pen. While you’re in the process of signing in the little blank next to Clara’s name, things take a tiny turn for the worse.

“You and Dad did an incredible job.”

Ouch. At least you’re not the only one saying the wrong shit today.

You must have visibly winced when he said it, because he looks like he wants to die now. You didn’t think it was possible for a person to look this mortified. He’s pushing the boundaries of just how red a person’s face can get. He drops his mouth open, likely so he can apologize, but you hold one hand up between you to stop him before he can get a single syllable out.

“Don’t worry about it. I know he’s on here,” you mumble while you gesture toward the roll sheet. A wistful little sigh falls from your lips, then an awkward giggle. One you force out to make things not so tense. He still has the ghastly appearance of, “man, I wish I could throw myself into oncoming traffic right now" plastered on his face.

So you reach out and lay your free hand over his. Give it a gentle pat and squeeze before you pull away and let it settle in your own lap. His fingers twitch. For a second, they appear to have been chasing after yours.

Maybe. A lot of things are weird right now. That was probably just in your head.

“At least now you know not to call him if you ever need anything,” you continue. A bit of a joke, albeit too realistic. Pulls on a taut, aching string in your heart—that same one that always gets pulled when you have to think of that idiot. You’re not sure if it’ll ever snap and relieve you of that pain.

You’re in the process of handing the roll sheet back to him when Ryland finally says something.

“Can we restart one more time?”

You sink your teeth into your bottom lip to bite back a grin when you look up at him again. His face isn’t as red, but there’s some pink lingering over the bridge of his nose and bleeding into his cheeks. You’re not sure it’ll go away after that massive fuck up, but…at least it’s cute on him.

“Should we go a couple minutes back again?”

“That—Yeah, maybe,” he stumbles over himself, grimacing a little before he finishes, “just as long as we can forget what I just said.”

You pinch your eyebrows together and let out a confused huff.

“What do you mean?”

He’s confused, now, too. Laughs to himself as he begins, “When I said that you and—”

You decide to cut him off with a little clap and a whispered, “Action!”

Then you straighten in your chair.

“You’re losing it, I think.” You gently tap your temple a couple times while you laugh, too. “Because all I remember is you saying my kid’s pretty good in your class.”

Then it clicks for him. You can see it. The sparkle in his eyes and the way he has to suck in a deep breath so he doesn’t blow the next interaction you have. He decides on simply shooting you a thumbs up.

He settles back into that casual routine you had both been nurturing. The tension in his shoulders—his broad shoulders—melts away. He looks almost relaxed as he drops his hands into his lap. When he rubs his palms up and down his thighs for whatever reason someone would do that for, you have to force yourself to not think about the veins on the back of his hands. And how soft his hands look. And how big his hands are.

You're not really doing a great job at it.

Your tongue runs over your bottom lip and you force your eyes to meet his when he speaks up.

"Clara really is a great kid."

"She'd die if she knew I told you this," you begin before you lean forward just a little. Enough to get closer to him. To get a hint of that woodsy cologne he's wearing and fuck yourself up pretty badly. Can't help but wonder if that scent would transfer onto your skin if you got close enough to him.

Jesus. What the hell is going on with you today? Best to continue your actual conversation before you melt into a puddle.

"But she begged me to come to this because she wanted me to meet you. She said you were her favorite teacher ever."

Ryland smiles. Then he laughs. You like how much he does both of those things.

"Seriously?"

"Seriously!" you exclaim. He clutches his heart. Quite dramatic. Quite hilarious. Man, he's interesting. One of the most interesting men you've ever met.

"No way!"

Through a giggle, you tell him, "Yes way! She likes you a lot, actually."

He huffs. "I find that hard to believe. She's got such a good History teacher this year."

"Oh, yeah? You wanna bet?" you question, smirk on your face and a twinge of mischief hidden in your tone.

"Word for word, she told me that 'Dr. Grace makes science make sense.' So…on behalf of her, thanks for that. You're making my kid's life a lot easier."

There's a twinkle in both of his eyes, now. You might even say they're misty. Your heart aches; this was fun until you stoked the fire of his tender-hearted ways. It might just be a hallucination, but you're pretty sure his bottom lip trembled a little for a second there before he cooked up a response for you. Makes you want to reach out and give the poor guy a hug.

"That's so sweet. Means a lot," is that response he cooked up, accompanied by a hint of a cracking voice that makes him clear his throat. You nod and try not to stare at him when he brings one hand up to his face and rubs a lash line. To lighten the situation a bit, you lean back in your chair and cross your arms over your chest.

"She also said she thought I'd like you."

He blinks a few times and snaps up to look at you again, quick and surprised by your sudden pivot. Throws an eyebrow up. A corner of his lips quirks up to match it.

"Yeah?" he asks. His fingers toy with a loose thread on his jeans while he keeps his eyes on you. Clearly, he's got no idea what to do with those pretty hands of his.

You can think of a few things. But maybe you shouldn't right now.

"Was she right?"

You punch out a hum; might as well let him steep in the suspense of waiting on your answer.

Your gaze, exhibiting some sort of mind of its own, sweep up and down his face and body. Over his widened, seemingly hopeful eyes. His pronounced jaw and the stubble dusting over it. The broad expanse of his shoulders, the tightness of his shirt around his arms and the way it hugs his torso just right.

Then you see a flash of his smile in your mind, and you replay that tiny wheeze hidden behind his laugh when you first walked in, and you think about the genuine kindness that's always hidden in his voice no matter how silly he's trying to be.

"Yeah. I think she was."

Ryland's response? A very relieved sigh and a very dramatic loosening of his shoulders. He even hangs his head for a moment to breathe out a laugh. You hadn't noticed he was tensed up. Too busy thinking about the prominence of his nose. Can you be blamed for that, though? It's really nice.

"That's good to hear."

"Do you usually want your students' parents to like you this badly?"

He blushes. Bright pink, all over his cheeks and the bridge of his nose and creeping down to his neck and up to his ears.

"Well, I—"

He gets cut off by someone rapping at his classroom door. When he sits up and snaps his head toward the door to look at the person waiting there for him, you realize just how close you actually were to each other. You practically could have crawled into his lap without him noticing.

"Hi! We're just finishing up here, so I'll, uh—I'll be with you in a moment!" he calls out. His voice cracks a little when he raises it. You bite back a snicker while you lean back in your chair. The person who you presume is a parent nods and backs out of the classroom. It leaves a slightly awkward air sitting between you and Ryland, but it's oddly comfortable.

"I guess that's my cue to go."

You didn't mean to sound as sad as you did. It's like all the wind has been taken from your sails. If you could spend all day with him, you'd do it in a heartbeat. Why the hell did that parent have to show up?

You reluctantly stand from your spot. Ryland shoots up to follow you. His chest bumps against yours, causing him to roughly pull back and frantically apologize beneath his breath. He almost falls backward, so you lunge forward and grab onto his hand to keep it from happening. His fingers intertwine with yours and he steadies himself when he presses his free hand down onto the flat surface of his desk.

He doesn't let your hand go, though. He's still apologizing for bumping into you, but he's giving your hand a squeeze at the same time. Firm yet gentle. The most comfortable grip you've ever felt, maybe.

Safe to say you're frozen. Eyes wide, breath caught in your chest, face burning like he's set it on fire. You've got no idea where to move and where to go because, if you were being honest, you'd say you wanted this the entire time you've been in here. How on Earth has he managed to wrap you around his finger so quickly?

He releases your hand right and mutters another apology. An unnecessary one. If anything, he should be apologizing for letting you go. For taking the welcoming firmness of his grip away from you.

"It was really great to meet you," he softly coos. You return his sweet little comment with a tiny head nod and a bright smile, then you round his desk and start for the classroom door. He follows you, because…well, of course he does. Did you honestly expect anything else?

"You're good company, Dr. Grace," you tease. A tiny, mischievous lilt added to the title you know he doesn't care for. Something that makes him roll his eyes. You saw that smirk on his face, though.

"And I'm really glad that you're my kid's teacher."

"Ah, well," he pauses and waves off your comment. "She's great. I'm happy to be her teacher."

He clears his throat to stop you just before you walk out the door. A frantic comment follows.

"But if she ever needs a tutor or something, don't be a stranger. Reach out!"

You spin on your heel and send him a sympathetic little smile.

"I don't know. She's got a pretty good grade in here. I don't think she needs a tutor."

He deflates almost immediately. A frown's on his lips while he rubs the back of his neck. Then a little bit of hope flickers in his eyes, and he cheekily adds, "Well, I'm good at other subjects too."

You laugh.

"I'm sure you are."

He sighs. Perches his hands on his hips and presses his lips into a thin line. It's a cute way to feign disappointment.

"But," you begin, heat welling beneath your cheeks and playfulness laced in your tone, "science was my worst subject in school. Maybe you could tutor me instead?"

"Yes!" he frantically replies. A little louder than you were expecting. A little quicker, too. Almost a garbled yelp because of the smile on his face. You're a little surprised he isn't jumping for joy.

He clears his throat again. His face burns bright red again. Then, in the most embarrassingly fake non-chalant way possible, he tells you, "Yes. I can definitely be your tutor."

taglist: @clarkscolumn @thceseus @clarknsun @sparklingsin @notebookmixup @frivolousimagination @qardasngan @aerixae @snoopysupe

[luunarmoonar]

PHM if it were good

[42starsintheuniverse]

When Grace dies he asks for his body to be turned to ashes, and then into a statue. The statue has him sitting, legs crossed, arms curled slightly, with his palms on his knees. He says in his final message there is a reason for this very specific positioning, but that he can't say what it is.

Time continues forward. Rocky and Adrian grow and change. They move house a couple of times. Rocky changes career from engineer, to inventor, to scientist, to diplomat, to teacher. Adrian picks up a new hobby every few decades. They explore other parts of Erid they've never seen. They meet humans on more than one occasion, but there's something about it... Something not quite right. The Eridian mind can never forget, and no matter how much time passes, Rocky feels it. Missing Grace. His human.

And then time really does move on. Rocky walks stiffly, Adrian sleeps for weeks at a time, they both eat less often due to how draining it is.

And one day, the temperature is perfect. Adrian wakes earlier than they have in years. The warmth loosens Rocky's arthritis, the wind is quiet that day, and sound can carry for miles because of it. The soil is quiet, ready, resonant. And they both know.

They go for a walk, take a dip in the sea, attend a choir in a crystal cave. And then, without fanfare, when no one else is around, they visit Grace. And Rocky climbs into his stone lap. And Adrian curls their body around Grace too. Just like Grace did hundreds of years ago, they let go, no scream, no pain, just peace and togetherness. Too beautifully intertwined to ever untangle.

And there they sit, three stones, for the rest of time.

[deadstarsz]

ouch.

[doctor-ryland-grace]

You: Stubs your toe

You: Proceeds to name every profanity in the book

Ryland: