Summary: the Eridian scientists haven't quite gotten the heat in the biodome right just yet, leaving Reader and Ryland to come up with their own way of staying warm.
Contents: it's smut, there is so very, very little plot in this. Reader is supposed to be the Hail Mary's engineer. There's no reference or implication to Reader's age so you can read her/them as whatever age you like. explicit sexual content. oral sex (f!receiving). unprotected piv & creampie. They're both a lil silly and giggly but soft dom Ryland (if you squint). Consent king Ryland btw.
A/N: yeah, look. I don't have an excuse for this. Ryland Grace lives rent free in my head.
W/C: 4.6k
The biodome temperature is plummeting. It's not cold enough that you're at imminent risk of freezing to death, but it's definitely gone beyond a bit cold and headed firmly in the direction of uncomfortable.
You've got three layers on and it's still cold. Long since having abandoned even attempting to sleep, you try to keep yourself from feeling too miserable. At least there's fresh air.
Aside from being cold, though, you're also exhausted. When morning comes, you can probably speak to the Eridian scientists about adjusting the temperature in the biodome, but first you have to make it through the night.
A soft knock on your bedroom door tells you that Ryland isn't doing much better.
He's wearing his favourite cardigan, with a thick blanket wrapped around his shoulders, but even so, he still looks just as miserable as you feel.
"Doing okay in here?" He asks.
In response, you exhale, your breath visible in the air, making him smile wryly.
"Thought as much. Can I come sit? Can't sleep anyway."
You scoot over on your bed, pat the space beside you.
"Course you can." You tell him; you're used to being up in each other's personal space after so long spent in close proximity.
Sometimes you feel like the two of you are right on the edge of becoming something more. More than friends. More than the only two human beings for sixteen light years.
Neither of you are quite bold enough to make that first move.
Still, you're perfectly comfortable sitting side by side with him, resting your head on his shoulder while he in turn rests against you.
You both have something to read, but it's difficult to focus when your bodies are using so much energy trying to keep warm.
"Never going to sleep at this rate..." You complain, huddle a little closer to him.
He makes a little hum of acknowledgement, the sort of sound you're used to hearing when he's thinking.
"Maybe if we pile all the blankets together and then -"
Ryland doesn't finish his sentence, instead flushing an adorable shade of pink as he realises what he's saying. What it might sound like he's implying.
Your brain catches up, processes what he's suggesting, and then you nod. It is a good idea; the pair of you could conserve more body heat together, just by pressing up close to one another within a small space.
"No, that's a good idea. We should. We'll stay warmer together that way. That and if we can't sleep, at least we have company?"
Ryland feels far less awkward as he realises that no, you don't think he's a pervert for suggesting it. Instead, the two of you work together to gather the blankets from your bed and move them to his.
"Body heat?" He confirms, and it's your turn to feel a little shy as you agree.
With the lights off and in near total darkness, you both strip down to your underwear and dive under the blanket pile, trying to be close enough to one another to stay warm, whilst also not making the other feel crowded.
The bed isn't exactly enormous though, and any gap left between you just lets cold air in, so you end up far closer together than either of you perhaps originally considered you'd be.
"Definitely need to talk to Rocky about the temperature in here..." Ryland mutters, and you hum agreement.
"Kind of hard to complain when they're doing so much for us already..." You say quietly, "I always feel so bad asking for anything."
Oh, he can relate to that all too much, but there's a difference between being burdensome and needing to survive, which he swiftly reminds you of.
You lay together in silence for a little while, but the cold is still too much, so you end up drifting closer and closer together, until you loosely wrap one arm around his waist and tug him against you.
"Only works if we stay close," you remind him as he wraps one of his warm, solid arms around you.
Ryland laughs softly, remembering his own words from what feels like a lifetime ago on the aircraft carrier, when you'd been standing close together on one of the observation decks, trying to keep warm whilst also getting some fresh air.
That little reminder seems to diffuse any nervous tension between you, though.
It's been so difficult, everything you went through together, assuming you would die together, slowly regaining your memories together.
You've both reached the mutual conclusion that there had been something there, before. That there certainly was now, but you were so hesitant to act on it, both of you. Perhaps not quite believing that you did, in fact, have time now.
There had, after all, been a time where you had expected to go on this mission without him. You'd closed yourselves off to one another, you think, to try and spare yourselves any more pain, any more damage.
One of the more recent memories to return to you is called to the forefront of your mind again; you in the medical bay, before they'd put you under.
The way you'd seen him, already comatose. The devastation you'd felt, knowing he had been condemned to his own death to save humanity. That your sacrifice would benefit humanity, but not the one person you had hoped you could save.
You'd very gently brushed his hair off his forehead, couldn't remember anything beyond that.
But the feelings that he inspired within you had never left, even if there had been a lot of time that you hadn't understood them.
So you're not actually surprised that you feel so comfortable like this, his arms around you, your cheek pressed against his shoulder.
Idly, your free hand moves, brushes across his bare skin. He feels a little warmer, at least, but not much.
"Is this okay?" You ask, because you know that he's cagey about being touched, always makes jokes about keeping walls up between himself and others.
Ryland doesn't remember whether he's held you like this before; he doesn't think he has, but it feels perfectly natural to him. Right.
"Yeah, it's okay." He kind of likes it, actually. Likes the way your fingers gently run through the soft hair at the nape of his neck. The way your touch is so gentle; reverent, not cautious.
He doesn't know what he did to earn that softness from you. Doesn't remember, and he doubts you do, either. What he does know, is that it's a gift, one he doesn't intend to squander or take advantage of.
It's been years since he held someone like this; his ex-girlfriend breaking up with him had devastated him, made him more comfortable icing people out, keeping a distance to prevent feeling that pain again.
Something about you makes him want to take the risk.
Just as he's thinking this, your fingertips gently brush his hair out of his eyes. He needs to trim it again, it's getting a little too long, and falls in his face sometimes.
The gentle touch feels strangely familiar, though he isn't sure why, and wonders whether he's dreamed it before.
Sometimes, he does things without thinking, acting or speaking on impulse. This is one of those times.
He leans in closer to you, one hand moving to gently cup your face, tilt your head up.
"Ry-?" You ask, and it's your nickname for him that does it, has him closing the minimal distance between you and brushing his lips across yours.
You think you feel time stop; years, you've wanted him to kiss you. Have desperately wanted to be in this very position, with his arms around you. Of course, there had always been far more pressing matters at hand.
But now... Now you have nothing but time.
"Is this okay?" He asks, and you can hear the uncertainty in his voice, which only makes the warmth and desire you feel for him grow.
You answer him with another kiss, slow and careful, letting it naturally progress into something deeper and more intense.
Slowly, cautiously, Ryland licks into your mouth; you both sigh into the kiss at the same time before you're gently tugging him half on top of you.
Chest to chest, you thread your fingers into the longer hair at the top of his head, caressing, pulling him down into another kiss.
For a while there's silence in the room except the soft sound of your kisses, the little sighs you both make as you run your hands all over each other.
You don't know where to touch; your hands drift between his chest, his arms, into his soft hair. Every single brush of your fingertips seems to make him purr, his hands all over you, still being somewhat reserved with his touch.
So, when his hand slides down to your hip, you catch his wrist, link your fingers with his, guide his hand into your underwear, between your thighs.
He takes the hint, cups your pussy gently with his hand, gasps slightly when he feels your slick heat.
"Feel what you do to me, Ry?" You whisper, grateful that he can't see the shyness in your expression, even if your voice sounds confident.
The shiver that runs down his spine has nothing to do with the cold, and everything to do with your confession, the accompanying evidence.
Between the two of you, you get your underwear off, leaving you both entirely bare to one another.
Slowly, gently, he drags his middle finger through your wetness, coating the digit before he presses it inside.
You gasp out a breathy little sound as his finger sinks knuckle deep with ease. He's almost caressing you as he slowly drags it out, presses back in.
Even after years of tension between you, there's still no rush to it; as much as the desire between you is heightened, finally reaching a boiling point, time is something you have now.
Ryland genuinely doesn't remember the details regarding the last time he was with a woman. Of course, it's been years. He never really was one for casual hookups; he thinks there might have been one or two after his ex-girlfriend left him, but nothing more than an awkward one night stand.
That doesn't mean he doesn't know what he's doing; he's not inexperienced, more... Out of practice.
But that's fine, because you seemingly have absolutely no issues with what he's currently doing to you. Quite the opposite, in fact. You're making some truly beautiful little sounds for him as he eases a second finger inside you, your back arching up slightly off the bed to press yourself against him.
Okay, so he can remember the last time he slept with someone, but he definitely doesn't remember ever feeling this desired.
You're so wet for him, the hot, open mouthed kisses you give him are needy and full of passion. It makes him genuinely wonder why you hadn't done this sooner, how you'd managed to contain yourselves.
Logically, he knows why, and they were all very genuinely good reasons, but right now? They seem like stupid reasons. Particularly when you start kissing and nibbling his neck, finding sensitive spots that draw pretty sounds out of him.
Almost reluctantly, he slides his fingers out of you, a little amused by the way you whimper when he does so.
“‘s okay,” he reassures you, “I'm not going anywhere…”
And he isn't, has absolutely zero intention of doing so, instead kissing a slow pathway along your jaw, down your throat.
“What are you-? oh-” your breath hitches in your throat as he gently sucks one of your pebbled nipples into his mouth.
The sudden warmth feels good, has you squirming a little beneath him as he circles his tongue around your nipple before pulling away, repeating the motion on the other side.
Perfectly content, he alternates between each side for a little while.
Just when you're really starting to make pretty sounds for him, he keeps kissing his way down, ignoring your soft whimper of protest.
Under the blankets, he settles himself between your legs, your thighs draped over his broad shoulders.
You're glad it's dark, so he can't see the shy expression on your face as he kisses your inner thigh slowly.
It's torture; for a moment you think he might just do this for hours, until you're desperate. He doesn't seem in any great rush.
But then, finally, once you're shaking a little with sheer need, he presses a feather light kiss to your core.
You inhale sharply, a little whimpery sound that jolts through him, rushes to his cock and makes him ache against the sheets.
But he's good at ignoring his own desires, focusing solely on you for now.
He presses soft kisses to your clit, traces circles around the sensitive little bud with the tip of his tongue, getting a feel for what makes you give him the best reaction.
You’re very reactive, he soon discovers, making the prettiest little sounds as he buries his face between your thighs.
Letting your slick drip onto his tongue, he drinks you down like you’re sweet, expensive coffee, guided by your moans and whines, your fingers threading into his hair and tugging gently.
That latter action has him groaning into you, low moans as he wraps one arm around you, resting across your stomach to keep you in place, gentle but firm.
You gasp and whine and moan for him as he sucks on your clit, laps at your folds, gently sucks on those, too, the gentle scratch of his facial hair adding to the already overwhelmingly delicious sensation.
He moans into you, holds you in place as your hips try to move of their own accord, alternating between sucking your clit and fucking you with his tongue until you're practically sobbing his name.
You were already so close after he fucked you with his fingers, but this time he lets you tip over the edge.
The intense climax ripples through your entire body, leaves you shaking beneath him, thighs twitching slightly on his shoulders.
He makes soft, appreciative little sounds as he eats you through it, messy and greedy, lapping up every drop of slick and cum that trickles out of you.
You reach for him with a broken little whine as he pulls away, wipes his mouth on your inner thigh with a satisfied groan.
Shakily, you slide your legs off his shoulders.
You're both warming up, but it's the last thing on either of your minds right now. Near desperate, you tug him up, all the way on top of you; he cages you in beneath him, his strong arms on either side of you as he settles himself comfortably between your thighs again.
It doesn't escape either of your notice that your bodies seem to slot together near perfectly, as though you were made for one another.
Finally, you can feel the heat of his hard cock against your belly. It's only once you can feel him that you realise how badly you've wanted him, for so long.
Brief memories flicker through you; jolts of warmth as you remember brushes of hands, little touches, lingering in each other's space.
For a moment, he isn't quite sure what to do; doesn't want to make you feel like he's pressuring you for anything, regardless of how eager you seem to be.
But then you hook one leg up around his waist, your foot settling at the small of his back, your fingers threading through his hair, and his nerves fade away. Once again, it strikes Ryland how natural this feels; how easily your bodies fit together.
Resting on one arm, he uses his free hand to reach between you. He still feels a little shy, even as he wraps that same hand around his shaft, gives himself a slow, lazy stroke before letting you feel the full length of him against your slick soaked core.
Your eyes widen a little as you realise just how big he is. It's not like you've never thought about it; you have, in detail.
In your past experience, though, there's been a certain arrogance to men who are well endowed. He doesn't have that attitude to him at all.
Slowly, he drags the velvet soft tip of his cock through your folds, back and forth, teasing, coating himself in your slick.
"Still okay?" He asks, voice soft, though there's a slight hint of roughness to it from arousal.
"Still okay," you whisper back, run your fingers through his hair, a habit you seemingly can't get enough of now that you're allowed to do it.
"Keep going?"
Maybe he's being too cautious, but he needs to hear you say it, half for his anxiety's sake, and half because he wants to hear you say it. Needs to hear how much you want him.
"Ry," you breathe, nip at his collarbone, "please don't stop now. Please, I need you..."
He likes the nickname you call him, the way your voice softens every time. He's been so used to being referred to by his surname only, it's surprising to hear his given name again, let alone a shorter version.
Once, he wasn't one for nicknames, but he doesn't mind when it's you.
More than the nickname you've given him, though, he likes the way you ask him to touch you. It makes his brain feel particularly fuzzy and stupid, lust taking over most of his other senses.
Even so, he's careful as he notches himself at your entrance, presses just the tip of his cock inside you; that first little stretch has you whimpering into his shoulder, so he slows even more, almost to a stop.
"No, nonono please, keep going..." You plead, so breathy and sweet in your begging that he can't help but give in.
He's still gentle, though, eases himself inside you inch by inch. Focusing on being careful, he doesn't try to stay quiet, his little groans escaping his mouth right beside your ear.
Finally, finally, he's buried to the hilt inside you, moans as he gently grinds his hips against yours.
"Fuck-" he exhales, nuzzles into your neck, "god, you feel so good..."
And you do; Ryland has almost forgotten what it feels like to be inside someone, the velvet soft warmth of you wrapped around him is a long forgotten sensation, one that’s instantly addictive, and definitely worthy of the rarely uttered expletive that just fell from his lips.
For what it’s worth, you can’t form an articulate sentence just yet. Instead, you’re too busy focusing on the feeling of him stretching you open, the delicious sensation of being full of him.
Your breaths come in ragged little gasps, needy, your hands sliding under his arms to settle on his back. Your palms splayed, short nails lightly digging into the muscle of his shoulders.
“God,” you breathe, nuzzle into his neck, press warm, open mouthed kisses to his pulse point.
You aren’t quite sure what you expect his reaction to be. Not the almost whimper that he muffles into your shoulder as he rolls his hips, a little sharper than originally intended, making you mewl for him.
“’m sorry,” he pants, presses his forehead to yours, stills again, clearly worried that he’s hurt you.
“No, it’s okay,” you reassure him, “I’m okay, you’re just kinda… big.”
In the very dim light, with your faces so close together, you can see him blink, the slightly puzzled – and shy – look on his face.
“I am?”
He sounds just a little too innocent, though, and you give him a little poke, giggling.
“Ryland Grace, there’s no way you don’t know that.” You mock chastise him, still giggling when he shakes his head.
“Maybe I just wanted to hear you say it,” he mumbles against your shoulder, presses a kiss to your soft skin before he asks, almost shy again, “can I move now?”
“Mm,” you answer, deciding not to waste time on words when you could be kissing him instead.
Sliding one hand back out from under his arm, you instead run the palm of your hand up his chest, over his shoulder, settling at the nape of his neck. Originally, your intention was to just pet the short strands of hair, but then he moves.
Ryland has a temper, somewhat, beneath his usually polite and awkward exterior, and there’s a certain arrogance there, too. Somehow though, you’d always assumed maybe he’d bring that same awkwardness into this situation. Thought that perhaps he would be the shy and nervous type.
Apparently, that was the wrong assumption to make. He knows you well after years in close confines, knows every intimate, tiny detail about your reactions and body language.
So, that kind of close relationship transfers near seamlessly into this. He pays close attention to the way you respond to him, gives you slow, shallow thrusts at first.
Your little moans and breathy whimpers are muffled into the kiss you give him, open mouthed and needy. He lets that guide him, too.
Keeping himself propped up on one forearm, his free hand runs down your side, caresses your ass and thigh before he hikes it up a little higher on his hip, allowing him deeper.
You gasp, the hand in his hair tugging lightly at the longer strands, making him groan softly.
“Yeah? You liked that?” He sounds half amused, half curious, rolls his hips to see if he can get you to make that same sound again.
“Oh, you did…” he murmurs, kissing your collarbone when you moan for him.
It really is curiosity, desire to learn how to make you feel good, with that faint undertone of arrogance that ends up coming off as the softest of dominance, can barely be classified as such.
Regardless, it makes you weak, has you clinging to him as he slowly works up to a steady pace. There's no rush; after waiting so long, he wants to draw this out, just in case you both decide never to do this again.
So, he keeps his pace slow and sensual, has you running your hand up and down his back, clinging to his shoulder each time he hits deep, regardless of how gentle he's being with you.
“Tilt your hips for me, honey, can you do that?”
Ryland’s voice is impossibly soft as he all but coos the words at you, purring when you obey.
You bring your other leg up to wrap around his waist, keeping him where he is, which is to say, in the perfect place.
“Yeah, exactly like that, there you go…”
Showering you in little kisses, keeping himself braced on one forearm, he moves again, builds up a steadier pace in this new position as you whimper, barely audible moans right into his ear as he cages you in beneath him, holding you like you’re the most precious thing in the world.
It takes you a moment to realise that he’s forcing himself to be quiet, muffling his own little groans into the kisses he plants all over you.
“It’s okay,” you breathe, turn your head so you can kiss his jawline, “I wanna hear you. Let me hear you, Ry, please?”
That seems to be the encouragement he needs; Ryland makes no effort to hide the sounds that pour, unchecked now, from his parted lips as he steadily builds up a harder, deeper pace.
Your moans, the filthy sounds of his cock inside you, his groans of pleasure, they all harmonise and echo in the room as you cling to him.
Already, you can feel that familiar pressure building in your core, somewhat amazed that you’re so close again already. But then again, this has been long overdue. Literal years of tension between you, near endless yearning.
“I don’t know h-how much longer I can-”
Every word he speaks is ragged with arousal, letting you know just how close he is to the edge. That doesn’t bother you; nothing could possibly bother you right now, not when he’s steadily pounding you into the bed, groaning into your soft skin.
He doesn’t stop, especially not when he feels your walls start to tighten around him; your short nails bite into the muscle of his shoulders as you cling to him, a more intense orgasm than the previous tearing through your body.
“Oh my god,” you whine, breathy and desperate and barely coherent through your high pitched moans. “Oh my god, Ry-”
Ryland thinks that he could definitely get used to hearing you cry his name like that as he fucks you through the peak of your release, chasing his own now with reckless abandon.
His hips collide with yours as you writhe beneath him, clinging to his biceps now, as though trying to ground yourself.
Meanwhile, he’s completely lost in you. In the feeling of your body against his, the whimpers you breath into his ear, the way you feel wrapped around his cock as he fucks you harder, deeper.
His own climax hits him out of nowhere; he felt it building, of course, but didn’t expect it so soon; he feels almost like some kind of animal as he grinds against you, his breaths coming in ragged groans as his hips finally still.
Even in his present state, all he can manage is a soft little “wow”, murmured into the side of your neck. He kisses just below your earlobe, and you laugh, exhausted.
“Wow doesn’t even cover it,” you say, breathless, “I’d be more inclined to say something far more expletive laden, but… that’s just me.”
That drags a laugh from him, because it’s true. Generally speaking, you do have a far more expansive repertoire of curse words than him.
Carefully, he pulls out of you with a low groan, suddenly feeling the exertion throughout his entire body.
Not wanting to collapse his entire weight onto you, he rolls onto his side, pulling you with him, your leg still draped around his waist, over his hip.
“You alright?” He asks softly, brushes his nose against yours.
One hand flat against his chest, you hum, tilt your head so you can steal a brief kiss.
“Mm, more than alright, actually,” you reply, which is true. You haven’t felt this weightless and happy in a long, long time. His arms around you, the little kisses he peppers over your face, it just feels right.
“Good. I’m glad. I feel the same way,” Ryland adjusts his arms around you, just so you can both be a little more comfortable. You nuzzle into him, pleased when a little purring sound rumbles in his chest in response.
You should probably go try clean up, but you’re warm and comfortable, and neither of you are in any rush.
Eventually, you do extract yourself from his arms to go pee and clean up, shivering by the time you crawl back under the sheets into his waiting embrace.
“Feel better?”
“Yeah, less gross, but now I’m cold again,” you complain with a little huff, burrowing your face into his shoulder.
There’s a little pause before his fingers slip under your chin, tilt your head up so he can kiss you.
“Well… we did just find a way to generate heat. And we both know we can’t call a theory proven without multiple experiments.” He says, very seriously, even though he’s trying not to smile.
“Did you seriously just ask me for round two in science terms?”
“... maybe.”
“You’re such a nerd,” you tease, exasperated, “but you’re my nerd, so it’s okay.”
Your nerd, huh? Yeah. Ryland thinks he can live with that.
Summary: It’s been two weeks since that day in his classroom, since Grace fucked you over his desk and then asked to take you out. The plans are made. He intends to take you on a real date. The problem? Grace is feeling impatient before it can show up.
tw: m/f, (18+), professor/student relationship, needy Grace, jealous Grace, fantasizing, masturbation, sexting/phone sex, Grace is a secret freak and is ashamed but gets off to it, orgasm denial, intense bj, dirty talk, begging, probably more I’m forgetting.
Note: I am so so sorry this took so long. Pls enjoy.
—
Grace had been staring at the same page of his book for the past half hour, having read the same paragraph six times already. He still couldn’t tell you what the author had said.
He wanted to care. For goodness sake, he was one hundred and eighty pages invested, but his brain just wouldn’t work tonight. How could it?
When you flashed through his mind, behind his open eyes. It was like reels of old film. Clips and snapshots of you, repeating and rolling on a loop. Your laugh, your smile. Your mouth.
Grace groaned out loud, slumping further down into the covers of his bed. The book was tossed. It landed somewhere with a thump, the too boring pages snapping shut.
He didn’t know what was wrong with him.
He looked to the ceiling, and not that he felt like he really had a choice anymore, his mind started to drift. To you.
To this morning in the assembly hall. There was a ceremony held for the college’s debate team. Ribbons and a small carved plaque, honoring the regional win.
The memory of you grinning so wide, and waving to your friends in the audience played through his mind. Grace had watched as they placed the ribbon on your shirt, and draped the team’s banner across your shoulders. The bright flash of a high tech camera taking your picture. One Grace was sure was already published on the school’s website.
He’d done his best not to stare too intently, but not too little either. He didn’t want to seem uninterested because that was never Grace before. Before you’d slept together.
Truth is, Grace wasn’t sure how to act now, like he would have before. It was different.
Like this morning, in one of the moments Grace allowed his eyes to linger on you the team, and your eyes caught his in return. All Grace could see was you, spread out on his desk. His mouth devouring your pussy. The way you felt beneath his lips, his tongue. The way you begged him to help you come.
“Uggghh,” Grace groans, squeezing his eyes shut and flopping back onto his pillow. He feels his cock twitch. Feels the weight of it growing heavier where it’s resting against his thigh, still tucked inside his pajama pants.
This wasn’t like Grace. He was respectful, and polite. He was the guy that woman would place in the category ranked farthest away from bad boy, and he’d like to think, dog.
It wasn’t like he wasn’t a man, and didn’t have needs, but it had never felt like this. He had already done things out of order by fucking you first, in his classroom nonetheless.
He should be thinking about your future date, planning it. Imagining the flowers he’ll buy and the dish he’ll prepare.
Not you…bent over…your ass cheeks spread and his—
“Alright, okay.” Grace speaks to no one, to himself, out loud, trying to physically shake the thoughts away.
It wasn’t like jerking off was out of the question. Grace wasn’t against it by any means. It was a regular and healthy part of his routine. Something about tonight felt different though. Like something had its teeth in Grace, and wouldn’t let go.
His fingers itched for his phone. The screen lit up brightly, reflecting back into his glasses. He lazily thumbed through until he pulled up your text thread.
You’d exchanged numbers that day, obviously. There wasn’t much in the thread. A few dorky memes you shared back and forth, and a sweet message confirming the future date.
Grace lays there, staring at the screen.
How could he follow that up with what he wanted to say right now? How was Grace even considering this? Sexting you. Cheese and crackers, he’d never even sent a sorta dirty text, let alone a dick pic.
He wanted to though. He wanted to take his cock out, and stroke it. He wanted to take a video and let you hear what he sounds like when he’s alone and fucking his fist.
Grace looked to the numbers at the top of his phone. They show it’s almost eleven. He wonders if you’re still out celebrating.
After the ceremony this morning, a commingling of students, faculty and families were littered throughout the halls. Grace hadn’t planned on it. Seeing you. If anything, he was sure to miss you in the chaos of the crowd. You hadn’t.
You ended up dwindling closer and closer together, passing through groups of people who stopped to speak and give their congratulations. Eventually, the both of you had ended up in a nook by one of the auditorium doors.
“Congratulations. You guys did amazing,” Grace said, giving a little awkward dip of his head towards your trophies. It wasn’t like you were any better. He watched the blush spread to your cheeks almost instantly. The quiet shuffling of your shoes as you whispered thank you.
“I had a lot of great professors, you know. Mrs. Calloway. Professor Xavier. Dr. Elle…”
You said this with a shrug of your shoulders, your eyes cast to the floor, but there was a teasing, playful lilt to your voice. Grace narrowed his eyes and smirked as you continued with your little list. Naming every one of your professors but him.
You couldn’t hold it in any longer, your smile and giggle spilling over when your eyes finally catch his again.
“Oh, okay. I’ll just go fudge myself then,” Grace laughs.
Your laughter tapers away then, and it’s instant. That spark. Something feline and dark. Something dangerous. Your voice slips lower, just for him. “Only if I can watch.”
It catches Grace off guard, and before he can find his footing to respond, you’re not alone anymore. Another professor saddles up beside Grace, and one of your…teammates?
“Hey, ready to go soon?”
This guy steps in close, his voice light and directed to you. Grace watches as his hand settles near the small of your back. David? Devin? Grace doesn’t remember, but yeah, he’s on the debate team. He’s wearing the same ribbon.
“Going out to celebrate?” The professor to Grace’s left ask with pride and amusement, and that awe only reserved for the youth and the idea of their young antics.
David or Devin or whatever, smiles with all thirty-two of his perfect teeth, this Tom Welling looking motherfucker, and nods. “Yes, sir. Nothing crazy of course. It’s just the team and some friends going out to celebrate the season.”
He actually does slip his arm around you this time, around your shoulder. He pulls you inward, in a playful jest kind of way and you both laugh. The other professor does too. Grace realizes he hasn’t said or done anything.
It’s the last thing he remembers from this morning. The sight of you walking away into the throng of the crowd with that guy. That, and what you said before.
Grace stares at the phone and wonders if you’re still out, with what’s his name especially.
He wonders if you really would like to watch him fuck himself.
Grace finally reaches down and palms his hard dick through his pants. He lets his fingers curl and give a semi stroke.
His eyes flutter shut and he knows he’s losing control already, all the blood rushing from his brain to his cock, because Grace isn’t smart about it. No. He types out the first thing he thinks and hits send before he can think at all.
Do you still want to watch?
He groans to himself. In embarrassment and pleasure, his fingers tightening. What the fuck was he actually doing? Grace had never done this before.
Just before the panic could soak into his body, your number flashes across the screen. He sucks in a sharp, cold breath at the words you sent back.
Oh fuck. Please???
They read desperate. Insistent. Grace’s mind feels sluggish and heated. He’s trying to calculate if there’s any way you could’ve misunderstood him, what he wants.
You seem so sure.
Before he can even think of what to say next, his phone vibrates. Again, and again.
Grace???
Let me see. Can you send a picture??
Wait wait no a video
“What the fuck,” he whispers to himself. His dick throbs, bouncing and pushing against the fabric of his pjs.
They’re shoved off the sharp, lean points of his hip bones and down his thighs before Grace even realizes what he’s doing. He immediately grips his cock and picks his phone back up from where he laid it on his chest. He reads your messages again.
You’d never texted like this before. Persistent. Repeatedly. Given you hadn’t exchanged very many, maybe he was wrong, but something felt different. Your tone. The multiple punctuations. The speed, like you were firing them off.
Regardless, his cock leaks.
Grace successfully late night sexted you, like some horn-dog douchebag frat bro, but you answered, almost immediately, and those second and third messages erased any doubt that you were confused. You typed his name for cryin’ out loud.
No, you weren’t confused. Those messages, they sounded like you were begging, and that thought alone has Grace spreading the pre from his tip to the thick base. He strokes himself fully for the first time.
His other hand holds the phone as he thumbs open the camera app. Grace may have not sexted anybody else before, but he has recorded himself plenty of times. For his own pleasure. Videos of himself jerking off, using toys, fingering himself…
Getting the right angle is easy. Grace knows how and where to hold the phone, but his hand shakes anyway. With the knowledge that this going to you. That you’ll get a video of his hard dick on your screen and watch it, maybe touch yourself to it.
He hits record and focuses back on his other hand, fisting his cock a little slower than what his body is demanding. Grace keeps his grip tight, letting the camera catch the way the head pushes through and peaks out. The light from his bedside lamp is low but it’s enough to catch the shine, the sparkle of how wet he already is.
With labored breath Grace hits send, watching the bar at the top of the screen race across and then vanish. Delivered.
He waits. He teases himself in the meantime, his fingers slipping down to play with his balls. They’re so incredibly sensitive. You barely touched them last time before Grace had snapped. He thinks of your mouth on them.
The second your phone vibrates again, you don’t dare look at it until you’re standing in the bathroom stall. The latch slides closed with a metal on metal click.
There’s an unsteady stream of girls coming and going, laughing too loudly and reapplying makeup in the mirror. It’s a bar after all. If you’d been anywhere else, somewhere a little fancier, you’d second this decision for sure. Afraid of standing out and disrupting the flow of available stalls.
That wasn’t the case here. This was a dive bar and half of them were drunk. If anything, they’d assume you were too, locking yourself in here sick.
You weren’t though. Sick or drunk. That’s not to say you weren’t heavily buzzed. Beer was safe. You’d stuck to that for the majority of the night, until your group lined up the shot glasses on that sticky bar top. It was flowing through you now. Warm and gentle. The burn and the salt sitting in your belly.
You lean against one of the walls, sliding one of your headphones in, thankful they’d been left in the pocket of your jacket. Extremely thankful, as the first second of Grace’s video is filled with a soft whine.
Spit pools across your tongue, flooding your mouth at the sight of Grace stroking his cock. It’s pink and slick, and big. It’s like your body has its own physical reaction too. Your pussy clenching around nothing, whining herself, and remembering exactly what it felt like to have that buried inside.
Your entire body flushes too hot. You watch the video back once more, before flipping to your camera app and propping it up on the toilet paper dispenser.
The angle is atrocious but it works. You lift your shirt, bunching it beneath your armpits, and pulling your bra down.
When Grace’s phone goes off again, he swears he could come from the thumbnail alone. It’s blurry and full of movement, but your tits are out and you’re playing with them.
He mindlessly strokes himself as he presses play. Almost immediately, Grace’s grip is tightening as he realizes just where you are and that you’re doing that, there.
Your back is to some wall that’s decorated with numbers and names and suggestive doodles, overlapping and messy. It’s the noise surrounding you that sends a deep pulse through Grace. There’s voices. They’re muffled but ranging in volume, and completely separate from the show you’re putting on.
You’re still out.
You’re in public, and they’re completely unaware of what you’re doing on the other side of what Grace deduces is just a flimsy bathroom stall door. He chokes out a whine and uses his thumb to rewind the video, his eyes refocusing on you.
The video is at an angle, pointed upwards. You’re taller than whatever you have your phone sitting on and Grace fucking loves it. It gives the illusion of you in his lap again, your chest just slightly higher than his mouth.
He gets the most insane underside view of your tits. The shape and the weight of them and how they sit. His palms ache to feel them again. He gives himself a single tentative stroke, refusing to rush.
Grace watches as you bring your hands to your chest, groping yourself gently and then rougher. He can’t see your face. The frame cuts off just by your mouth, but good grief, he can see your neck and the way it extends back.
You’re either really into this or putting on one hell of a show, leaning back against the dirty wall without a care, thrusting your bare chest towards the camera.
Just in the way you have yourself exposed has sparks popping off in Grace’s veins. It’s haphazard and reckless and it’s exactly what Grace has wanted to do. What he would do to you if he was there.
You pinch your nipples, twisting them and tugging and Grace’s mouth waters. He imagines sucking on them again, soft and lazy, and unhurried. He thinks about waking up first and taking his time to suckle each one slowly, until you wake up that way, crying for him but letting him continue. You let him until they’re raw and puffy and you’re crying for him to fuck you.
“Oh, ffuck…” Grace whimpers, his eyes glued to his phone screen, fantasies racing wild. He barely registers that his hand is moving again. Faster than he’s let himself all night. Too fast. He’s gonna come from the first damn thing you sent him if he’s not careful.
The last thing Grace sees before he flips back to his own camera is you lifting your tits higher, and instead of wetting your fingers, he watches the spit drop from your mouth, right onto your abused nipple. You do the same to the other and start rubbing it in. They’re shiny and wet and ruined.
The next video Grace takes is far less calm and collected. His fist is a slight blur on the screen, and he’s so far from quiet. He recalls your video and the way you couldn’t say anything. In a way, it made it hotter, watching you touch yourself but hearing those other women in the background. Grace’s words start to get away from him but it’s still only a fraction of what he’s truly thinking.
His voice shakes, splintered and husky and mixing with the wet squelching of his strokes. “Are you trying to kill me? You look so pretty baby, so…so..oh fuck.”
Grace wanted to call you filthy, dirty. To call you those things because you were, half stripped and desperate for him in a public bathroom stall. He doesn’t even remember where he ends the video but he sends it and tries to slow down, to hang on until the next thing you send at least.
When Grace’s phone goes off again though, it’s not a video or a picture. It’s not a text at all. You’re calling.
His breath gets stuck in his chest but he’s answering anyway, before he’s even figured out how to breathe again. It’s why his voice comes out like a croak, throat clicking, like a panting, horny deranged frog. “Hel-clk-Hello?”
The first few seconds of the call is pure noise. There’s countless voices, the shuffling sounds of bodies and shoes moving, glasses clinking and music in the background. It’s becoming softer though.
Grace hears the squeak of hinges and the sound of what he could only assume is an incredibly heavy door slamming shut. You’ve gone outside.
Everything is instantly quieter. The background noise is still there, though muted. New sounds lingers. Tires on asphalt, the clicking of a street light changing color, and a dog barking in the distance. Grace can practically see it.
“Hey. Hi,” you breathe into the phone, right into Grace’s ear. Your voice sounds light and airy, a little raspy, like maybe you’ve lost it partly.
“Hey,” Grace says, softer this time to match, and a little awkward. He cringes at the way he’s repeated himself.
It’s chased by the sound of your laugh though, and Grace’s heart skips even in its racing, pounding state. If sounding like a dork makes you sound like that, maybe Grace is okay with it.
“Grace?”
The sound of his name in your mouth, in that hushed tone, it undoes something in him. The video of you is still playing on a loop in his mind. Grace’s hand had never fully left his cock, only coming to a gentle rest when you called. He strokes himself once again though, the feeling tenfold now that you’re on the phone. He takes a ragged breath in. “Mmngh. Y-yeah?”
“Have you…?”
Your voice is tentative. Soft. There’s a million things you could be asking him right now but Grace can imagine that to be difficult, given the topic and your location.
He can picture it. The way you’re mindlessly pacing the sidewalk, back and forth, just outside the bar. The red bricks behind you, one hand in the pocket of your jacket, phone tucked close to your face. Shoulders drawn. There’s neon string lights from the nearby restaurants and car headlights that every so often cast over you.
Grace licks his lips and plays lazily with the tip of his cock, torturing himself. “Have I…what?”
He hears the way your breath hitches. Your voice drops even lower, barely a soft mumble, your glossy lips brushing the edge of your phone because you have it pressed so close. “Have you come yet?”
Grace doesn’t even bother to hold back his whimper. He squeezes his eyes shut, shame and guilt and arousal flooding his body. His tummy burns with it. Those words coming out of your mouth should be illegal.
“N-No. No, I haven’t,” he whispers.
Your response slams into Grace like a train. “Good. Don’t.”
It takes a minute for the words to reach his brain. Even then, Grace isn’t exactly firing on all cylinders here. He barely and very caveman-like mummers half a word. “Wha—?”
You cut him off. “Give me your address. Please?”
That has Grace fully pausing, his hand falling to his sweaty thigh as he sits up a little in bed. He ask again. Clearly this time. “What?”
What Grace doesn’t expect to hear is your laugh.
Soft and sweet, and a little evil. Like a siren’s song in his ear. “Would you rather come in your own hand tonight or in me?”
“Or on me. Either one,” you cut in again, the smirk evident through your voice.
Grace finally finds his, the rare explicit dragging and scrapping over his vocal cords. “Fffuccck.”
He pants into the phone, cock temporarily forgotten, cheeks blood red. There’s a hint of shyness to his own voice now. “That’s not…you don’t…that’s not why I messaged you.”
“It wasn’t?” You snicker softy, teasingly. “You didn’t text me because you were hard for me? It was for me, wasn’t it?”
There’s a blunt edge to your voice. Grace doesn’t expect it. For you to say all that, so plainly and that forward, standing out on the street for goodness sake. It makes his head spin and his dick throb. The way you seesaw back and forth between sweetly alluring and slightly harsh, like there’s a grain of humiliation in how you accuse him of being hard and texting you in the first place.
Grace whines softly, giving into the whiplash but still feeling the need to explain himself. The guilt and the shame still burning hot. “Of course it’s for you. I just - it wasn’t my intention to get you to come over.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing?”
He shakes his head quickly even though Grace knows you can’t see him. His messy bed hair falls even more across his forehead, into his eyes. “No! No, it’s not. I just don’t want you thinking I texted just for that. To get you here.”
You laugh again. “So phone sex is excusable but an actual booty call is where you draw the line, Dr. Grace?”
His cock twitches where it lays on his belly. Hearing his name, his title, on your tongue again, and without any nerves this time. The way you’re playing a dangerous game saying it out loud in public, in a college town, where anyone could overhear. It only makes Grace feel like he’s losing more and more of his grip. “N-no. That’s not…I just don’t want you to think I’m—.”
You cut him off again. Your voice is steady and solid but with a soft plea layered beneath. “Grace? Your address.”
And Grace gives it. He leans into it. You. The feelings. He gives you his address and it’s not but a moment before he hears tires and a car door, and his address being recited to the driver. Who in return, offers simple pleasantries and a list of his uber accommodations. Water, snacks, music or no music?
The interaction, though brief, still leaves a gap of momentary silence between the two of you. Grace’s mind starts to swirl, and it hits him suddenly. You’re coming here. Here.
It hadn’t really sunken in yet, and frankly still hasn’t, and now everything suddenly feels like it’s dialed up to eleven. Rushed. Frantic. Grace has never felt this turned on this fast before, especially given the last ten minutes of cool down. His cock had never gone completely soft, but Grace wasn’t anywhere close to the edge either.
Until now.
Like the snap of two fingers, or flipping a light switch. That quick and Grace feels like he’s right there again. The thought of you on your way to his place. That all the things he was imagining, he could have again. Tonight.
Without thought or care, Grace spits into his palm and reaches for his dick. The pace he sets isn’t for teasing or drawing this out while he waits. It’s fast and desperate with the intent to make himself come before you get here. It’s audible, even through the phone. Not that that matters because Grace lets out one needy whimper after another.
There’s silence and then your voice again. That sharp edge is back, but almost inquisitive this time, rhetorical, like you can’t quite believe what you’re hearing, and that he’s disobeying what you said before. “Grace?”
A soft cry. An actual cry. Grace doesn’t stop. His cock throbs in his hand, his heels dig into the mattress. He can feel his ball sac drawing up tightly, and a sweet phantom pressure around his asshole, twitching and begging too. For a second, Grace wonders if you would touch him there as well and he cries out again. He hiccups, “I’m - I’m sorry, I can’t help it…”
“I thought I told you to stop?” Your tone is so casual, almost upbeat. Humorous but not really. It’s only for show, to not draw attention from the driver.
Grace starts begging immediately. His voice cracking. “You have to let me come first. I won’t - fuck, I’m too close. I won’t last when you get here.”
“You will, just not before I get there.”
But it’s like Grace didn’t even hear you. He’s babbling at this point, thigh muscles burning, shaking. His brain is fuzzy and warm, his mouth and words flowing free and fast. Maybe a little too free. “I can’t believe you’re on your way. I didn’t plan…I didn’t mean to…are you sure you wouldn’t rather st-stay and hang out with your friend?”
Oh. Uh oh.
Grace didn’t mean to bring that up. Truly. Honestly.
Silence follows but Grace can hear it, the leather snap of your attention, zeroing in and picking up on the cadence of how Grace said it.
Your next words are slow. Intrigued. “And who might that be?”
Fuck it, Grace thinks to himself and he lets his mouth keep moving. “David or whatever the fuck his name is.”
It lands heavy between you, but your response blows even harder. “When I get there, you’ll realize just how ridiculous that statement is. Now wait for me.”
Grace actually yells, something incomprehensible, voice ripping from his throat as he simultaneously rips his hand away from his cock.
He physically rolls over in bed in attempt to prevent himself from touching again, and regrets it instantly. The sheets are a dry rough drag against his dick. Grace’s entire body, every muscle from his head to his toes lock up. Oh no.
He feels the very start of his orgasm breaking, rising up the base of his cock. He grabs himself, squeezing until there’s tears in his eyes and his orgasm is stopped. Just barely.
As Grace’s senses reload from the denial, all he hears on the other end is your smug laugh and the words, “Good boy.”
“Oh, fuck you…”
Grace says it without thinking. He sounds half dead, throat scratchy. You laugh at him again. “Promise?”
He replies weakly, “mmhn, yeah.”
“Good, ‘m here.”
Oh fuck.
Grace gets out of bed on shaky legs, but not before he has a dilemma on how the fuck he should answer the door. Does he just pull his pjs back up and have them ridiculously tented and goofy looking? Does he forgo them all together?
No. Absolutely not. Grace might be a slut, and more kinky than he wanted to admit, but he’s not answering the door with his dick out. 
And by this point, his phone is back on the nightstand. You ended the call, promising to be up in a few minutes. You were. The elevator ride was short and finding his apartment number was easy.
Grace’s heart pounds when he hears the soft sound of your knuckles against his door. He tries to adjust himself one last time, running his fingers through his messy hair and pulling down his sleep shirt in a half attempt to look less ruined.
The door is only halfway open before you’re on him, and in his arms. No words. No hi or hello. Just your lips and your arms around his neck, and then your warm, soft tongue in his mouth. Grace sighs, sinking into it.
Only for it to be ripped away.
He groans. Your warmth evades him, snatched away faster than Grace can reach for you and pull you back. He tries but he feels sluggish and you’re moving desperately. Dropping hard. You’re falling to your knees.
Grace groans for a different reason this time. The sight of you on your knees, and the way you yank his pants down, the cool air washing over his skin. You’re pulling and pushing at him, even on your knees and Grace’s back eventually meets the wall by the front door.
It shoves the air from his body, stealing his breath, and before Grace can inhale again, you lean in, swallowing his cock completely.
It punches Grace in the gut. He gasps.
It’s not like before, like how you were in the classroom, where Grace had shallowly fucked your warm mouth two weeks ago. He couldn’t move his hips at all this time. You had them pinned to the wall, insistently pressing your body’s weight into him.
You bury your face into his pubes, the bridge of your nose digging in and poking his bladder. You stay like that. No bobbing or sucking. Just your throat. Tight and hot and constricting around his dick every time you swallow.
Purely unintelligent noises pour from Grace’s mouth. “Agggnughmf.”
And it was over before it started really. Grace had been so close before and seeing you so hungry for it now. Yeah, Grace was coming. You eventually pull back once, sucking and licking at him as he slides out of your throat. Only for you to fall right back down.
A true single thrust straight down your throat, and Grace sees white. His balls pulsing, pumping.
You pull back just enough to collect some in your mouth and Grace apparently has one last brain cell left to slur, “Don’t swallow. Don’t swallow, baby, please. C’mere.”
He’s already sliding down the wall, part his own volition, partly not. His legs are giving out. You knew what he was asking for though, pulling off and bringing your full mouth to his.
Full of his own come, still warm. You push it from your mouth into his by the sweep your tongue. Some leaks out, smearing, but you both audibly swallow, drinking it down.
The pure filth of it all sends a second wave. Grace whimpers, grabbing at his cock as he comes again. It splashes between you, painting your shirt and jeans a little and the floor too.
Which Grace falls to almost immediately. His bare ass hitting the cold floorboards. You right there with him. Both gasping and catching your breath.
When Grace finally comes back, you’re already looking at him, eyes dark and starry. Your lips are puffy and wet, his come actively drying down your chin. He reaches up and swipes his thumb through the mess, almost apologetically. “I’m sorry.”
Your eyebrows furrow. “For what?”
All of Grace’s fears come back. His voice is soft as he explains. “I don’t know…I haven’t even taken you on our date yet and here I am sexting you and now, now you’re here…”
“So? I wanna be here. I wouldn’t be if I didn’t want to.”
He nods quickly but gently, “I know. I just don’t want you to think I’m a—.”
“What? A freak, Grace?” You laugh sweetly, though your voice is wrecked, undeniably sounding like you were just deep throating cock. Sweet, Grace’s ass.
You shake your head at him and roll your eyes. “You think sexting me or us hooking up is wrong but it’s not. You are and you aren’t like every other dude on the planet. You’re just as horny and disgusting as the rest and that’s okay, because I know it’s different with you. I like the dirty stuff because I know the sweet stuff will follow.”
And just like that Grace feels lighter. He blushes almost bashfully, which is ridiculous after everything you’ve done tonight. “Y-yeah.”
You lean in close, brushing his nose with yours. You whisper against his lips, “I want everything with you. I wanna see all the sides of Dr. Ryland Grace. Especially the ones you keep so locked up. So…let go a little, yeah?”
That last part, it carries differently. Weighted. Like a challenge. A dare. You raise both eyebrows and smirk, and it moves something in Grace. His voice drops into a tone you’ve never once heard come from him, and with it, a single command.
“Strip.”
—
(GUYS, I’m so sorry again that this took so long. But we’re back baby!! One of my favorite things about writing for Grace is finding the balance. He’s really a mix of everything. Sweet and submissive but also far from innocent, and we see him grapple with that. I hope you guys like this part. Next part? Grace let’s go lmaoooo. 🫶🏼 if there’s any mistakes, I’ll catch them later. I just really wanted to post this already lol.)
Taglist note: it’s been so long since I’ve posted for this I don’t wanna tag anyone that’s not interested anymore so we’re starting over but this will be official from here on. So if you wanna forever be tagged in the Professor!Grace series, comment below and I’ll make a list.
something something Ryland Grace holding you in place on his desk with his stupidly strong arms as he eats you out. It’s in the Bible trust me
The Inevitable pt.1
Summary: You’re stressed. Lecture halls and thesis deadlines looming, college in general, and now this. You haven’t been able to make yourself come. You’re so pent up and it’s evident. What happens when the professor you’re closest with gets a little too nosy? Well, you beg him to help you of course.
cw: m/f, (18+), professor/student, semi public sex? They’re in his classroom, sweet Grace, reassurance, mention of sex toys, nipple play/sucking, a lot of teasing, oral (female receiving), comforting.
—
The dry erase marker squeaked, loud and crudely. Your hand was flying across the white board, but it lacked conviction, your usual confidence in writing out equations. Just as Ryland walked back in through the door with coffee for the both of you, you stopped abruptly, hand and marker hovering. With a genuine growl and another obnoxious squeak of the marker, you swipe through your work, erasing bits, scratching through others.
“Hey, hey,” Dr. Grace exclaims softly, occupied hands raised. He sets the coffees down, wearing a worried expression. Your free times had aligned and he was gracious enough to let you use his classroom to work on your thesis, and help as much as he could.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you sigh, bringing your palms to your eyes and pressing in. It’d been a long week. Late nights, too many exams, and something extra. Something that lingered.
“What’s wrong? If this is about your thesis, you’re doing perfectly fi—.”
“It’s not. It’s not the work.”
You’d cut him off. You didn’t mean to sound so snappy, so irritable. It wasn’t your work that was the problem. You knew. God, you knew what was, and you sure as hell couldn’t tell your professor.
“Well, then what is it?”
You turn to finally look at Ryland Grace, his hip pressed into the corner of his desk, arms folded. He’d ditched the blazer and rolled up his sleeves a while ago. The tie he wore was still there though, if not a little loosened.
He was stubborn. As sweet as Dr. Grace was, he didn’t have the reputation that he did for nothing. He looked insistent, eyes locked on yours over his glasses. He looked good. The light in the classroom was low, bathed in a soft burnt orange from the setting sun outside. The glow of the projector casted light and shadows over the room as well.
You laugh gently, leaning down to pick up the marker, to find something to do with your hands. Shaking your head you tell him the only thing you can, “It’s nothing. Just something I’ve been…having trouble with.”
“Doesn’t sound like nothing. I mean, I’ve been watching you all week. You’re here but you’re not. You’ve been quiet during lectures, unfocused.”
“I know, I’m sorry.”
You try to apologize, try to explain and brush it all away. Ryland Grace doesn’t stop though. He keeps talking, and he starts walking closer, stepping right into the glow of the projector with you, your back to the board.
“You’ve been frustrated. You’ve missed questions that are like child’s play for you. You’re taking it out on my whiteboard,” he rambles, huffing a little laugh.
You know he means well, know he’s not trying to be an asshole, but it pushes you, that hair trigger you’ve been so quick to pull all week. It doesn’t help that he’s so close now. The way he looks, the way he smells, that pushes you too.
“I can’t come.”
Your words are blunt, and heavy. They’re immediately followed by the sound of Ryland choking. His eyes widen, in part confusion, part shock. When he realizes he didn’t mishear you, his cheeks turn pink and you fully expect that to be the end of it. You’d laugh if you weren’t so pent up, maybe even find his flustered state cute if it didn’t add to the pressure wedged between your hip bones.
“What? What do you…mean?”
You don’t expect it. The follow up question, the way his voice drops a little, to a soft whisper between you both. You don’t think it’s meant to be sexy, but rather…inquisitive? He’s not being suave. He’s not making a move. He’s gentle, albeit a little awkward.
The frustration kicks off again. It’s like when you said it, it took the lid off, and now you can’t put it back on. You grumble, voice raising slightly, falling into a ramble, “What I said. I can’t fucking come! All week, no matter what I do, what I’ve tried, I can’t get there and it’s driving me absolutely insane!”
“Hey, hey,” Ryland says again, even softer this time, sweeter. He rushes closer to you, his body dipping down to your height, trying to catch your gaze, but you’re frantic at this point. He unlatched the gate and now you’re twisting and turning on your feet, your fingers tangled in your hair. Ryland’s hands land on your shoulders, planting you still in one place. You keep talking though, hot tears starting to sting your waterline.
“I mean, I just can’t relax and my brain, my brain won’t shut up, and I get all tense and shaky and my chest starts hurting, and then I get anxious…I feel like I’m broken.”
Something in Ryland’s chest squeezes when you say that last part, when your glassy eyes finally find his. The words are out and you seem to deflate now that they’re gone. You lean back against the whiteboard, his hands still firm on the upper, outer part of your shoulders.
Grace softens his voice, tries to find the perfect tone so that you’ll hear him. His thumbs move gently, back and forth, soothing when he speaks.
“You are not broken. A lot of people…struggle with that. You’re young. You’re figuring out what you like, what you don’t. God, even outside the classroom, you’re so hard on yourself. Stop doing that.”
You just stare up at him, feeling defeated, exhausted, and the next thing you do is definitely blame worthy. You blame on it your lack of sleep, lack of sanity, and orgasms. You’ll blame it on a million other things too once you get home tonight.
None of that stops you from leaning in though, from pushing off the whiteboard, the tiptoes of your shoes scuffing against the floor. Your lips press against his. Warm, gentle, closed mouthed. Ryland doesn’t move. From nerves, shock, or if he’s just trying not to hurt your feelings. You’re unsure.
It’s not until you move again, relaxing your jaw and leaning in harder, your lips actually parting his, that he pulls away.
“Help me,” you whisper, cutting him off before he can say anything. His grip tightens on your shoulders, fingers flexing. You reach out and grab his tie, gently. Your voice wavers again, “I can’t fix it on my own, Dr. Grace. Please. Help me.”
You’re kissing him again. Small kisses, pressed to his lips, the corner of his mouth, his nose. They’re peppered between your broken words, your pretty pleases and his name. His fucking name. You pull on his tie, needy, pathetic. He can’t stop himself.
Your back collides with the whiteboard, his larger fingers coming up to frame your jaw. You have no choice but to open up for him, his thumb pressing in at the hinge, spit pooling across your tongue. The kiss is consuming. Not in a dominant way, or an aggressive way, but like he’s trying to breathe you in.
It’s slow, and deep. The sweep of his tongue against yours pulls a whine from your chest. He groans in response, almost standing to his full height, his grip still on your face, making you scramble farther up onto your toes. You bow off the whiteboard, and then slam back into it with a thud when he pushes you back again.
It trips something inside you, the way he handles you. That hunger, that need you’ve felt all week. You feel desperate, reaching out to grasp at his other arm. You pull at him, tugging, your fingers clasped tight around his wrist, shoving it down towards the hem of your jeans.
He rips his mouth from yours, and halts your rushed movements. His hands slip into your hair, pushing back the flyaways, and he shakes his head, forehead pressed to yours.
“Slow,” he whispers, “we go slow.”
You know he’s right. It’s been part of your issue. The longer your problem kept persisting, the more your impatience built. Your movements every night turned too fast, too much, chasing instead of feeling.
Dr. Grace doesn’t give you a chance to agree. You’re pulled into another kiss, and pulled, and pulled, across the tiles of the floor. Eventually you feel the edge of his desk, bumping into it. He lifts you, stepping between your knees.
His voice is low and broken, “Tell me. Tell me what you’ve tried. Hmm? How’d you try to make yourself come?”
You physically shiver at the question, your mind spinning at the reality of having this conversation with your professor. Ryland. Dr. Grace, who’s standing between your legs, whose desk you’re currently sitting on. You take a deep breath, “Um, my fingers, and then…toys. They didn’t…work either.”
“Fuck,” he breathes. “What kinda toys?”
You whimper, your cheeks burning. “A vibrator, and a…a dildo.”
Embarrassment floods you, every limb. Your skin feels too hot. You let out a groan. You swear you can feel him physically shake where he leans into you, and you wonder if he’s picturing it, you using it on yourself.
His mouth is on yours again, slow and prying, licking deeply inside. He pulls away, his voice sounding like gravel, his chest heaving. “And what do you want from me?”
“I want you to make me come,” you whine.
He squeezes your cheeks between his fingers. “No. What do you want? How?”
You freeze, swallowing hard. You hadn’t thought that far ahead, your brain too foggy, mind racing too fast. This was your problem. You felt stuck. Overwhelmed.
You feel the tap of his thumb against your jaw, your eyes refocusing. He was looking at you, hard and gentle all at once. “Don’t do that. Wherever you just went…don’t. Focus on me.”
He kisses you again. Softer this time, like he’s just trying to give you a moment to settle. You can’t help but stare when he pulls away. His lips are kiss bitten, and red. You reach up, trailing the tips of your fingers over his bottom lip. You don’t expect it, when he leans in and takes the three of them into his mouth. It’s so warm, and wet. The feeling of his tongue swirling around each one makes your eyes start to roll back.
He has an honest to god smirk on his face, watching you like he’s not the one sucking on your fingers. He looks so sexy, so dirty. He pulls off your fingers with a pop. “Is that what you want? My mouth?”
“Oh god…yes, please.”
He only hums. You hear the hooking sound of his shoe catching the desk chair, pulling it towards him. He sits.
The height difference is intimate. He’s close. Your legs are spread wide for the chair, his arms around your waist, your hands in his hair. You remember from earlier. Slow. Slow is better. So you don’t try to rush him. His face is level with your chest, and he just leans in, breathing deep, nuzzling.
His glasses slip down his face, and then he’s kissing your chest through your shirt. It feels so juvenile, but not. Not really. It feels good. So good. You just want his mouth for real, not the teasing.
He rubs his face across your chest again, over the top swell of your boob, and then he sinks his teeth in. Hard. You gasp, curling the fingers you have buried in his hair. He moans when you tug at the strands a second time. It spurs him on, but not enough to give up teasing you. He reaches up to yank your bralette down beneath your shirt, still keeping you covered.
You’re confused, until he pinches one of your nipples through the fabric. He keeps teasing, rolling them and tugging. Eventually you feel the warmth of his mouth, still through your shirt, but your pussy clenches anyway. He sucks on your nipple, soaking the fabric with his spit.
It’s not until you hiccup, your arms shaking, unsure if you wanna push his mouth away or pull him in, that he finally relents. He shoves your shirt up, and starts all over again.
His mouth is hot, and wet against the bare skin of your chest. He doesn’t rush. Grace uses every part of his mouth to torture you. His teeth, his lips, his tongue. When he’s not sucking dark marks into the fatty parts, he sucks on your nipples, so slowly, and softly you think you might scream. It’s like he’s savoring it.
“Dr. Grace. Dr. Grace, oh fuck, please. Please. I need more,” you cry, your voice actually wavering as you claw at him.
The next few minutes are filled with soft shuffling, a foot precariously balanced here and there as Dr. Grace pulls your jeans off. All your nerves float to the very top, painting your skin in little goosebumps. He notices. Of course he does. How couldn’t he with the way you’re sitting awkwardly on the edge of his desk still.
With a soft smug smile, he places a hand to the certain of your chest, and pushes you to lie back. You catch yourself on your elbows, keeping your knees pressed together.
Dr. Grace gives you a look, an amused one, his eyebrows quirked. He simply leans back himself, unbothered. He settles into the chair, and drops his voice. “Show me.”
Your cheeks burn, and Ryland only gives you those puppy dog eyes in return. “C’mon, baby. How can I make it feel better if you don’t show me?…Show me your pussy.”
It’s startling. Not just the sound of his voice, but hearing those words come from his mouth. Dr. Ryland Grace’s mouth. The professor that wears glasses and cardigans, and converse sneakers. He just told you to show him your pussy, so he could make it feel better. It’s filthy. It makes your nipples harden, and somewhere between your legs pulse.
Slowly your knees start to part, and all the cockiness slips from Grace’s face. You swear his eyes darken. Along with his cheeks. The cool air hits your pussy, and you can feel how wet you are. Dr. Grace must see it, with the way he reaches down to squeeze himself through his pants. His eyes flutter shut, and a soft, “fuccck,” leaves his mouth.
“Dr. Grace, please…please make it feel better,” you beg.
And that’s all he lets you say before he’s grabbing you, dragging your bare ass to the edge of his desk. He slips your legs over his shoulders and lowers his face.
You almost ask him to put his glasses back on, the mental image of him eating you out while wearing them popping into your head. You don’t get the chance though, before his mouth is on your pussy, and it’s like he knew. Your thighs instantly clench around his head, your back bowing, muscles tightening. You would’ve crushed his frames.
Any and all teasing Dr. Grace had in him was gone. He eats like he’s starving, his face buried, jaw working. The burn of his stubble is just on the right side of painful, dragging up and down your pussy as he licks you open. His lips wraps around your clit, sucking it into his mouth.
It’s not too long before you feel it. That pressure in your back. It feels off though, like it has all week. It’s too heavy, too hard. The muscles in your legs start to burn, and not in a good way. You feel the sole of your left foot start to cramp, but it’s still close. It’s still something. So you push towards it. You hold your breath.
Ryland feels it, all of it, and pulls away.
“Uh-uh. Breathe,” he pants softly against your pussy, “breathe for me baby.”
You gasp, growl, and then whimper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”
A frustrated groan bleeds from you. You feel like crying again, the tears stinging your eyes. It’s Ryland’s hands that ground you, that slide up from your hips, up and over your belly, your ribs. The feeling of his hands on your body helps, some of the tension melting away.
He does it until your legs fall open again, a little more, a little easier. It’s so intimate. Ryland’s just there, his head resting on the inside of your thigh, face inches away from your bare pussy. His eyes are on yours though.
“You are trying too hard,” he says softly. He brings his thumb to your pussy, spreading the wetness all around, circling your clit lightly. “Don’t chase it. Let me give it to you.”
His hands don’t stop. They run up and down your body, his fingers finding your nipples again, playing with them gently. His mouth comes back to your pussy, slower this time. He kisses it so messily, his face soaked, his tongue running through you, nose brushing your clit repeatedly.
He zeros in on it, drawing these tiny figure eights with the tip of his tongue. Over and over again. You feel it then. Your hips lift, pushing up into his mouth. Ryland’s arms come down immediately, folding over your hips and your tummy, not hard, just there. He keeps the pace. His tongue swirling, and swirling.
That spark, the right one. It catches, and you feel like you could cry. You actually do. It’s a choked out sob. Broken and pathetic. “R-Rylan—.”
Your fingers slide through his hair, and you try, you do. You try so hard to keep your hips down, to not tense up. It’s building fast though. A warm heat right where Ryland’s mouth is, and at the base of your spine. You can’t help it.
Your thighs tighten around his head, and your hips start raising off the table…only for Ryland to slam you back down. His arms lock like steal across your hips, pinning you.
That’s what sends you over the edge.
Your brain gives you one crucial piece of cognitive advice. Don’t scream. You’re on campus property, currently getting your pussy eaten by your professor, and coming harder than you ever have before. Do not scream.
You don’t. Scream out loud that is. Your orgasm rips through you though, hard and deep. You feel it in the bottom of your feet, tingling, your toes curling. Your eyes roll back.
It feels like an instant high. Your limps go all floaty, and heavy. You’re trying to remember how to start breathing again while Ryland’s mouth is still working between your legs. Softer now but he keeps going, licking you through it, cleaning you.
It’s not until you cry out again and tug at his hair that he pulls away, slowly standing from the chair and draping himself across your body.
You kiss him. His face wet with spit, and your juices, your come. It’s so fucking hot. You lick into Ryland’s mouth, chasing the taste. He groans deeply, his voice wrecked.
“Yeah? You like the way your pussy taste, baby?”
You moan, letting your head fall back against the desk. He laughs. You do too. He kisses all over your face, your neck, while you slowly come back to him. Your eyes are still a little fuzzy when he says, “I wanna make you come again…can I?”
You run your fingers through his hair gently. That’s when you feel him for the first time. He’s hard, and still wearing his jeans completely buttoned. You swallow, and press your knee up into his cock. His breath catches, head falling to your shoulder.
the way these pictures make me think ryland x inexperienced!reader where he teaches her how to ride while he’s in the pilot seat. (nfsw 18+)
(p.s. this is all my opinion)
the way this man would grip your waist, and squeeze it, for sure leaving marks. i can’t ever decide if grace is an tits or ass guy so i feel like he’d both knead maybe slap your ass and have his face buried in your chest. he wouldn’t even take your shirt off all the way, just pull it up enough so he can get his mouth on you.
this mouth on this man could kill me!
“that’s it baby, just like that.”
“you’re so good to me, baby”
“look so pretty falling apart on my cock.”
“you think you can speed up a little for me, dear?”
“such a perfect girl. doing such a good job for me,”
he’s a softdom! for sure in the beginning. he wants to make sure he’s taking care of you and he’s enjoying watching you fall apart on his cock. but as you get a hang for it, he’s whimpering, moaning, crying mess. because at the end of the day, this man is touch starved and you feel like absolute heaven squeezing him.
a work by @vivsribbon | 🪐 | warnings - unprotected pinv, praising, breeding k¡nk, submissive!grace, fingers in mouth, semi-public sex (?), cursing uhh thats all i think
synopsis - When Rocky innocently questions why Ryland and you aren’t a “mating pair,” an awkward conversation forces feelings and more to show themselves
smut fluff angst | side note - me and my friend have been obsessing over him so i had to... for u mwah @metricrapier
The control room was quieter than usual.
Not silent—nothing on the Hail Mary was ever truly silent with pumps humming behind the walls and Rocky clicking faintly somewhere nearby—but calm enough that Ryland could hear the soft scrape of your sock against the floor as you drifted beside him.
Rocky was in his tunnel, working on something metallic and complicated that neither of you fully understood. Every few seconds came the sharp tap tap tap of his claws against the hull.
Ryland squinted at a spreadsheet floating on his screen. “Okay. If this culture dies again, I’m officially resigning from science.”
“You can’t resign from science.”
“Watch me.”
“You’re literally in space.”
“I’ll resign harder.”
A pleased chirping sound came from Rocky’s tunnel. “Rocky agrees with me,” you said.
“Rocky thinks eating metal is a personality trait.”
“Is it not?”
Rocky suddenly emerged from the tunnel opening, carrying what looked like three wires and half a wrench. His carapace clicked thoughtfully.
“Question,” Rocky said through the translator.
Ryland pointed dramatically at you. “They’re in charge of questions today.”
“You are both in charge,” Rocky replied.
“Terrifying.” Rocky tilted his body slightly, which you’d learned meant curiosity. “Human mating question.”
The room went still. Ryland froze with one hand halfway to his tablet.
You blinked once. “Oh no.”
“Yes,” Rocky said cheerfully. “Oh no.”
Ryland coughed into his sleeve. “Buddy, that sentence has historically never ended well.”
Rocky ignored him completely.
“You two are not mating pair,” he said matter-of-factly. “But you behave like mating pair. Explain.”
Your face instantly went hot.
Ryland made a noise somewhere between a choke and a laugh. “Rocky—”
“You share food. You sit near each other always. You become distressed when one is hurt. You make many stupid jokes only for each other. Mating behavior.”
“That is not—” you started.
“It kind of is,” Ryland muttered at the same time.
You turned toward him so fast you nearly drifted into the console. “Whose side are you on?”
“I don’t know! Rocky came prepared with evidence!”
Rocky’s claws clicked against the floor in satisfaction. “Correct. I observe.”
“Please stop observing,” you said weakly.
“Cannot. Scientist.”
Ryland pressed both hands over his face. “I’m going to eject myself out the airlock.”
“You would die,” Rocky informed him.
“Thank you, Rocky.”
“You are welcome.”
There was a horrible, awkward silence. Then Rocky asked, completely serious: “So why not mating pair?”
You stared at him. Ryland stared at him. Rocky waited patiently.
“I—” Ryland started, then stopped immediately.
Your heartbeat felt embarrassingly loud. Finally you pointed toward the tunnel. “Rocky. Go work on your thing.”
“But—”
“Now.” You said in that demanding tone that Grace would never admit turned him on.
A disappointed trill echoed through the room, but Rocky eventually disappeared back into the tunnel, muttering something in Eridian that the translator refused to interpret.
The second he was gone, silence crashed over the room again. Ryland still wouldn’t look at you.
You focused very hard on a random bolt in the wall. “So. That happened.”
“Yep.”
“Cool.”
“Super cool.” Another pause. Then, quietly: “I mean… he’s not completely wrong.”
You looked over.
Ryland was staring at the floor now, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. Nervous. You realized suddenly that you’d almost never seen him nervous around you before.
“What part?” you asked carefully.
He laughed once under his breath. “You really wanna make me say it out loud?”
“Maybe I do."
That finally got him to look at you.
And the expression on his face made your stomach flip unexpectedly—soft around the edges, uncertain in a way Ryland Grace almost never was.
“I think,” he said slowly, “if we weren’t trapped together millions of miles from Earth, I probably would’ve asked you out a long time ago.”
The air suddenly felt too thin.
"So why didn't you?" You asked with a quirk of your brow.
That sure got Grace to shut up. His eyes widened, looking around to make sure he wasn't hearing things.
"Why, did you want me to?"
"Yes."
Now his face was as red as a lobster. You wanted him to ask you out?
"Oh. Well I– I just assumed you'd say no."
You let out a scoff, running a hand through your hair before standing up and walking near to him. You stopped just before his chair, his stupidly submissive eyes looking up at you.
"You're a scientist. I thought rule one was to never assume?"
Your tone and close presence sent a chill down Grace's spine. His hands hovered close to your hips, still not ballsy enough to actually touch you. You were right, just like you always were.
"Yeah.. yeah, no, you're right. Shouldn't have assumed." He sounded nervous now, like there was a lump in his throat due to proximity.
Your finger hooked under his chin to keep his eyes on you. "What're you thinking about right now?" Of course you had some sort of idea as to what his answer would be. You'd been on the Hail Mary for a month now, no sex, no touching yourself, and now you were teasing him and you can yell he was pent up.
He let out a low groan before talking, his words shaky. "You... here, on my lap. On my lips, on me... please." He was breathing hard now, so needy and pathetic it caused you to chuckle a little.
Instead of teasing more (because God were you needy too) you sat down on his lap, knees on either side of his thighs but not putting all your weight on him yet.
"Is this okay?"
"Yes, yes, more than okay," he nodded frantically.
Suddenly he crashed his lips into yours, his hands apparently having a mind of their own as they found their way to your face, cupping your cheeks to keep you from pulling back.
You kissed him with equal intensity, grinding down onto him just once to be cruel, making him whimper under you.
"Can't wait. Waited too long, please, ride me, something."
He was begging.
It was adorable, really. And you would've made him beg further if you hadn't been so wet for him already. You couldn't wait it out either.
Since words were too hard to form right now, you lifted your hips and unbuckled the jeans you had on, letting them fall to your ankles.
Ryland watched with a burning intensity, his eyes locking on the wet spot on your panties that made his throat go dry.
While there was still space between you, you quickly unfastened his pants too, tugging them down mid-thigh.
He was bulging through his boxers, the dark blue ones with planets all over them. They were so him it was endearing but Grace's face was flushed pink when he saw you noticed.
And because he couldn't take it anymore, he pushed down his underwear so they were met with the pants he wore dangling from his legs. His cock bounced from them, his tip hitting his stomach.
You, ever the impatient, looked up at him just once like asking for permission. It didn't take a verbal response. When you saw the need in his eyes your head darted to his neck, sucking and kissing while you pushed your panties to the side and guided him to your entrance.
Grace's bottom lip with bitten in so hard he thought he might break skin, trying to keep quiet due to Rocky's annoyingly impeccable hearing.
When you sunk down onto him, he couldn't hold it in anymore. A loud moan erupted from him, his head falling back onto the headrest of the chair. You bit his neck hard to stifle your noises.
His hands went to your waist, lightly moving you back and forth on his dick. You released your teeth from him and whined when his girth rubbed against your gummy walls just right.
You looked at him, jaw slack with endless huffs coming from your mouth. The sight was one Ryland wanted to keep forever and one that made his groans all the more prominent.
"Fuck, fuck, sweetheart–"
His words were cut off with your fingers in his mouth. He immediately folded, sucking on your digits lightly.
"Sound so pretty, baby, but you gotta be quiet, okay?"
He just nodded, his hips jerking up instinctively making his tip hit your cervix hard. You hiccuped a moan, instantly shutting yourself up by biting your lip at a bruising strength.
Rolling your hips down onto him made you further and further reach your climax. "I'm so close. Need you to come in me, please Dr. Grace."
And that title was all it took for him to spurt his seed into you, leaking white, sticky liquid dripping out of you. You came after, so hard you practically saw stars. You couldn't help but whimper, the sound high pitched that made Ryland bite your fingers harder, but not enough to silence the groan that erupted.
"So good.. you did so good for me, baby." He whispered to you, letting your hand fall.
Once both of you had caught your breath you removed your fingers from his mouth and looked at him with attention for the first time since having him inside you.
"Next time... we're going to the back and I'm gonna hear all those beautiful noises you make, yeah?"
"Next time?"
"What, you don't wanna do that again?"
He shook his head ferociously. "No, no I absolutely do. Need to."
"Good."
After giving him a quick peck to the cheek, you rose up from his slick cock, whining when his length slid out of you completely. Your legs were wobbly but you found your balance, kicking your panties off and wiping yourself with them because of lack of material and water for a shower.
"God, you're hot."
The words made you giggle a little, throwing the underwear at him. He caught it, shocked just a bit. Pulling his pants up now and shoving your intimates in his pocket.
Grace stood, standing behind you with his hands on your waist and kissed your neck once. "Fuck, you even smell like sex. Damn irresistible."
And of course, because God forbid you have a good moment, Rocky pushes through the door of the shuttle. Ryland immediately fumbled back, one hand scratching his neck nervously.
"Hi Rocky," you said awkwardly.
"Why Grace make noise when mate, question?"
"What?!" He turned a bright pink at the accusation, only making you laugh harder than you were.
"You laugh. You make noise too."
Well. That shut you up.
Of course Grace chuckled, to which you reached your hand behind and slapped his torso and he instantly zipped his lips.
"You two are mates now, question?"
"We haven't talked about that yet, Rocky." You sighed, running a hand along your face.
"You are."
Ryland huffed loudly, stepping a little closer to you again. "Well, if Rocky says..."
“You look nice,” Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”
“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.
“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.
“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.
Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”
He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.
He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.
‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.
“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”
“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.
“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”
“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”
“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.
“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek.
“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.
“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”
Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”
“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom.
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.
“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”
“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”
“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish.
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”
“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!”
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”
“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”
It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.
“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays.
It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all.
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.
“I’ll go with you.”
He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.
“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.
“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.
His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too.
You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.
“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.
“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.
He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.
So navy it was.
You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though.
Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.
“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”
“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.
“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.
Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.
He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.
It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.
Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.
“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.
You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.
It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”
“It’s fake satin. I think.”
“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”
“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.
“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.
“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.
“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.
“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”
“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”
“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool.
Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber.
There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.
“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”
“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly.
It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.
He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.
“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”
“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.
Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.
With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.
“Enjoyed it, probably.”
“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in.
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.
“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”
“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.
“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.
Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment.
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.
“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”
“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval.
“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”
“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up.
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”
You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”
“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.
“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected.
“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.
“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.
Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be.
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”
“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option.
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.
It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”
He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”
It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer.
“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now.
Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family.
“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.
“What?”
“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”
“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”
“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”
You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”
It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”
“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”
“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”
“If it’s with you.” He amends.
“And slow kissing? You like that too?”
“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head.
“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.
“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.
“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.
There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it.
“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”
“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.
“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”
“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”
“Science, opposites attract I guess.”
“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons.
Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”
“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.
“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little.
“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.”
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”
“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?”
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”
You scoff. “A little?”
“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”
“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking.
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself.
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.
It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of.
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful.
It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.
It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”
Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”
“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you.
For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.
“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips.
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”
“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.
He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back.
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left.
Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.
The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night.
You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination.
“Presumptious.” You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”
“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.
“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”
“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”
“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”
“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.
But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”
“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”
“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”
“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”
He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late.
Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.
“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous.
“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon.
“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you.
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
“It has.” You lick your lips.
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.
It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.
“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”
“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for.
“Just me?”
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.
His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.
There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”
“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”
“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.
The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.
You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.
“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.
“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly.
“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight.
“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.
His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.
It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.
It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”
With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.
Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”
“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.
You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear.
“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.
Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.
Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.
“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.”
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”
He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.
“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.
“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.”
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.
It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”
“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.
“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”
“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.
“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.
“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.”
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know.
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”
“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”
“Deal.”
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
Summary: After you and Ryland almost die, you can't seem to sleep in separate beds anymore. For safety purposes. Have to make sure the other is breathing, definitely.
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Ryland and you have been… close… since getting the Taumoeba, mostly because you both would’ve died if not for Rocky, somewhat because the lack of human touch is starting to make you both antsy.
To say you both have been clingy would be an understatement. You’re always closer than necessary to each other in the lab, filming your videos for Earth as pairs now, never apart for long before one of you searches for the other.
You’ve also begun sharing a bed.
The “logic” you both have used to explain this is you’re now following Rocky’s logic of resting together to monitor each other's health. You have to make sure the other is breathing, obviously. No other reasons. No other way to do that in a ship made with humanities best technology.
So it’s not too strange at this point when you wake up to Ryland’s arms tight around you. You usually wake up first anyways, waking him up after a little to make sure you guys have an early start.
This all has been platonic, obviously. Well, as platonic as cuddling can be with a very attractive man can be. What? You have eyes. To say Ryland Grace isn’t easy on them would be a lie. And sure, you’ve thought about him a bit, it would be disingenuous to say otherwise, but you don’t have a crush.
Okay, so that’s a lie too. You have a crush on Ryland Grace, how could you not? He’s funny, charming, and witty, and he’s all of these things without even trying. It’s almost frustrating how he pulls you into his orbit without trying, his gravitational pull so strong you can’t help but become another moon revolving around him.
So maybe, maybe, you’re a little more than happy at your current situation with him.
There’s no one awake to chastise you for staying in his arms a little bit longer then needed.
There is, however, a bit of an interruption to your fantasizing when you hear Ryland mumble a bit next to you.
He’s saying your name.
That’s… new. Ryland has never really been a sleep talker, but it’s not strange. He could be dreaming of anything, he’s probably thinking of working.
That thought is quickly cut off when you hear a moan come out of his mouth.
…Not work.
You can’t gauge if you’re happy or mortified in this situation yet. Your mind switches between “Ryland is dreaming about having sex with you!” and “Ryland is having a wet dream while you’re stuck in bed with him…” quickly, thinking of every possible outcome that usually ends with Ryland being horrified and never talking with you again.
Which you, obviously, don’t want.
So, you try and get out of Ryland’s arms without him waking up to save the embarrassment and over explanation he is sure to go into.
You don’t get that chance, because as soon as you try and sit up, he pulls you even closer, and you can suddenly feel something hard against your leg.
Okay.
Cool.
Maybe you can still get out of this. You push away from him, and just when you’re almost free-
He opens his eyes. Shit.
Ryland sighs as he wakes, eyes blearily blinking to focus on the situation. It’s only when he sees you sat straight and realizes the situation in his boxers does his face turn a flush red.
“Oh my gosh- I- I didn’t- I swear I wasn’t- I didn’t mean to-” he’s sitting up now, staring at you with panicked eyes and messed up hair. If you didn’t feel so badly for him in this situation, you’d call him cute.
You hold up a hand before his spiral can fully launch.
“Ryland. Stop talking.”
That works better than it should. He actually freezes mid-ramble, mouth still open like his brain just hit a system crash.
You exhale slowly through your nose, trying very hard not to look anywhere that would make this worse. “It’s okay.”
“It is not okay,” he says immediately, then winces like he wishes he could swallow the sentence back whole. “I mean… I just… I was sleeping”
“I noticed.”
“And dreaming.”
“Yes.”
“And humans sometimes-”
“I am begging you to stop talking.”
That finally does it. His mouth snaps shut. A second passes. Then another. The silence stretches, thick and radioactive with mutual embarrassment.
Ryland looks anywhere except at you, which unfortunately means he’s staring at the wall like it personally betrayed him.
“I should… probably move,” he says carefully.
“That would help.”
He nods way too fast, scooting back like the mattress has suddenly become a live wire. The loss of contact makes the whole situation feel even more absurdly loud, like the ship itself is now aware of what just happened and is judging both of you.
You sit there for a second longer than necessary, because your brain hasn’t fully caught up with your body’s decision to survive this.
Then you clear your throat. “For the record.”
Ryland freezes. “Oh no.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“You’re insane.”
“It’s literally just biology doing what biology does.”
He groans, collapsing backward onto his pillow again. “I hate biology.”
“You are a molecular biologist.”
“Molecules don’t have wet dreams of their crewmates.”
That one shuts you up, and you look down at your hands. You can feel the heat crawl up your body as your face grows hot. What do you say to that? You’re talking before you can think.
“I don’t mind.”
That makes Ryland pause, but not for long, “You don’t have to lie, I know it’s-”
“I’m not lying. I don’t mind. I mean, I really don’t mind. Like the opposite of minding? That’s me.”
Ryland stares at you for a beat, one or two, before tilting his head, “You mean…”
“Yes- obviously. Sorry, I just- I’ve been thinking about you for so long and then this happens and you keep wanting to apologize but all I can think of is how I wish it was real and not a dream and if this is freaking you out or you’re actually not into me like that please feel free to sh-”
He’s kissing you. Ryland Grace is kissing you. His hands are on your cheeks and he’s kissing you and it feels so right and you’re starting to think you didn’t know what right meant before this moment.
It ends all too soon and you frown at that, which Ryland takes as you not liking it, “Oh my Gosh- I am sorry- I thought-”
You kiss him, pushing him back onto your shared bunk and leaning on top of him. His hands find your hips, and he positions you on top of him with a disgusting amount of ease.
The first thing you notice is how warm he is, in his disposition and temperature. The warmth of his hands at your hips feel like flames, as does the heat that radiates from him under you, giving you goose bumps all over. Looking at him now, with his dilated pupils and kiss marks still visible on his mouth, has you feeling as if you’ve plugged yourself into an exposed electrical socket. And that’s even before he’s even touched you. A little too much thinking about that wet dream that he had probably hasn’t helped matters either.
The desire to witness him in this state, flushed and flustered, leaves no room for thought whatsoever. Already your hands are on his shirt, pulling at it as you plant your lips on his neck. Ryland groans, making your task easier.
"You-", he breathes heavily, "You're behaving as if you've wanted to do this for quite a while now."
"I have," you reply without a thought.
After that, Ryland breathes shakily and there is silence for a bit. You assume he is going to kiss you but instead he squeezes tighter at your hips. "How long?"
And now, you find yourself having to get up to meet his gaze. His eyes seem glazed and his hair is disheveled. He looks… well, hot. Really fucking hot.
"Awhile"
And still, it won't work on him. He pushes back with the words, "Be more specific." You are surprised by how passionate his tone makes you feel at that moment.
Reaching out to rub circles with your hands around the region above his sweatpants, you say, "Not specific enough for you, huh, Grace?"
He almost lets himself moan in pleasure due to how you're touching him but he's determined to let you speak before doing so, because right now, his attention is entirely focused on you. "No, definitely not enough," he says with a low voice. "Tell me a number."
Your fingers move a little bit further down, getting nearer to the waistline. Ryland lets out a soft noise that might as well be a plea to touch him. This causes you to bite your lip.
“A number can mean anything,” you finally say, your fingers brushing against the waistline of the pants. "Do we mean weeks, months, years-"
"Years?" asks Ryland sharply, his voice rising. "Did you ever like me when we were still on Earth?"
Oops, that cats out of the bag. You take off your shirt, hopefully to distract him. Ryland breathes out softly as you strip, his gaze flickering from your skin to yours again.
"Years?" he asks once more, holding onto your hips a little tighter. "You really have- you’ve liked me for that long?"
Damn it all, no luck there. You sigh and lean down to kiss him, saying, "Yeah. I have…"
He makes a soft sound as he returns the kiss, his tongue entering your mouth. His hunger is insatiable, desperate; he’s waited as long as you have for this. Grinding your hips against his, Ryland breaks the kiss, his head throwing back in a moan.
“God dang it. That’s not fair.”
"Why not?”
“Because,” he groans in your ear as you grind against him again, his hands on your hips, pulling you closer than before. “I’m having a very important conversation here, and you’re distracting me.”
“Aren’t we having sex?”
That shuts him up. Ryland stares at you for a moment, his mouth hanging open, mind obviously unable to process this is actually happening.
"Right," he says after a second. "Right, of course."
Shaking his head, Ryland grabs hold of your hips and flips you over. Now you're on your back, looking up at a very eager Ryland Grace between your legs.
Ryland looks at you with this intense stare. His hair is all messy and his face is flushed. Wow.
"Can I touch you?" he asks after a while, his hand sliding up your leg and giving it a squeeze.
You nod, your eyes get wide. You bite your lip. His hand moves up higher to the edge of your shorts. He looks at you like he is checking if you are okay with this. You lift your hips so he can pull your shorts down.
Ryland takes your shorts off, throwing them away while still looking at you. For a moment you just stare at each other, then he leans over. "You are beautiful, " he says.
You take a breath, your hands grab his shoulders and you feel his mouth on your skin. He kisses you again a little higher this time. Then starts kissing down your leg. It is like he is trying to drive you crazy, taking his time making you feel all these things.
You start breathing fast, your fingers are in his hair and your hips are moving off the bed. You want him to go faster. Rylands fingers are on your leg touching the skin.
"Ryland... Please baby..." you say.
He looks at your face, sees how much you want him and loses control.
He moves your leg and gets between your legs. He touches your skin and looks at you like he wants you so bad.
"I have wanted this for a long time " he says. "You have no idea how."
"I think I have an idea, " you say. "Please, pretty boy?"
He puts his head in your leg and hides his face for a second. It is really cute.
"Stop... it makes me sound like a teenager."
"You’re really pretty, can’t I say that?”
You can hear him making this noise against your skin, his fingers holding you tighter. He looks up, his eyes are full of need and desire.
"I want to make you feel good, " he says, touching your hip. "It is not fair when you say things like that."
"You want to make me feel good, Ry?."
The way you say his name makes him shiver. He really wants to do this.
"Yes I want to " he says, kissing your leg moving up higher. "I will do anything you want."
When Ryland gets to where he wants to be he stops, looks up at you to make sure you are okay. You nod and he starts kissing you. His mouth is hot and it feels amazing As he touches you you feel your body getting hotter, your heart beating faster. You start to lose control.
Then he starts to lick. Suck with his tongue, swirling and it feels so sweet, like nothing you have ever felt before. Your brain stops working. All you can think about is how good it feels. You are completely at Ryland’s mercy. Ryland is focused like he is on a mission to make you feel as good as possible. His hands hold your legs and his mouth keeps going. He stops and looks at you to see how much you are enjoying this and it seems to turn him on even more.
Ryland is just so extremely gentle. He wants to make sure that it's good for you, he doesn't have much experience with what he's doing. Every time he does something, you can feel how nervous he is. You can feel it from how he touches you that he wants to make sure you feel good.
You look down into his eyes and he catches you looking at him. His eyes seem so soft and sweet and he looks at you in a way that makes your heart rate speed up. It dawns on you that you never want to miss out on a moment like this again. You reach out to touch his face and pull him close to kiss him.
"I want you, Ry... is that okay?"
"Uh-huh.." is the only thing he manages to whisper back with a nod. His voice sounds a little deeper than usual, as if he was trying his best to hide the anxiety in his chest. But he's still hugging you tight to himself. He moves, making sure you’re comfortably sitting on his lap, kissing you on the face.
Ryland finds himself whining softly when he feels your body on top of him, he's trying really hard to keep himself together and take everything slow. He cups your hips, his hold tightening as you kiss him all over the face.
"You're such a good boy... you're doing much better than what I imagined, Ry...
Ryland lets out a low whimper as you talk to him, his head falling back as you start placing kisses on his neck. "You imagined this?"
"Of course I did... you're so handsome, how couldn't I?"
Ryland moans as your words and your touch make him shiver. "Dang it, you need to stop talking," he mutters, his hands on your waist. "You're making it very hard to focus."
"Mmm, you feel very hard."
Ryland groans as you say that, his hips moving up to meet yours instinctively. "Oh man- you better stop talking for real now. You're going to be the death of me."
"Need you... that okay?"
Ryland swallows, nodding slightly. Even though he’s still holding back, his body seems to be pushing against yours, trying to get as close as possible to you. “Yeah, yeah, I’m fine- I’m fine- I’m- I’m getting… I feel like- you’re driving me crazy.”
You kiss him, your lips touching every inch of him as you descend into him.
As you meld your bodies together, Ryland chokes on the breath inside of him. He holds you around the waist, gripping so tightly, as if afraid that you would vanish right out of his arms when he lets you go.
He restrains himself, stopping himself from giving into the emotions welling up within him. He holds himself back as best as he can, wanting you so badly that it hurts- but god, he could barely breathe because he wanted to take things slowly and make this perfect for you. He is drowning, and you are the only thing holding him back from being completely swallowed by the dark abyss. He shivers under your touch, whimpering softly and mumbling praise.
"God, you are beautiful. Look at yourself, you are so beautiful. Please, you need to know that-"
Even though he’s this mess, he wants to remind you how gorgeous you look to him. He struggles to keep himself under control, but it is quite obvious what he wants - you can tell from the way he is shaking and all of the heat that comes off of him. You can feel his heavy breathing and the sweat beading on his forehead. You have never seen Ryland like this before, but it makes you want him even more.
"Please-" he murmurs, "God, please- I need you, I need you to-" He doesn’t get to finish, because you are leaning in and pushing yourself against him, and he emits another desperate groan. There is no use in trying to hide how badly he wants this. It’s impossible. Every part of him is trembling, and he is shaking underneath you like he will fall apart at any moment.
He grips your hips so tight that you’re afraid there will be bruises later, but you don’t care. You move closer, leaning down and brushing your mouth against his neck. Ryland makes another soft noise, completely giving into you.
You nod, and his hand moves lower down where your clit lies. Then, suddenly, the coil snaps.
There is nothing left for Ryland to hold back now that he has allowed himself to surrender to the passion that burns within both of you. He trembles and shivers as he breathes in hard gasps. There is no single thought remaining in his mind, all he can think of is how badly he needs you.
Over and over again, he calls out your name as he gazes up into your face. Nothing could ever be more beautiful than you above him.
"You're so good, you're so good, you're so good," he's whispering under his breath as he touches you everywhere. "You're so beautiful, so gorgeous, so unbelievably beautiful... I can't believe any of this is real. Am I dreaming still...?"
You two are finally able to cool down, taking drawn-out breaths, while exhaustion overtakes you both.
You're lying on top of him, resting on his chest. Ryland pulls you close to him, embracing you. His heart is still pounding away, but he's slowing down. His hands run softly up and down your back, trying to soothe himself and you after everything that's just happened. It's silent for a little while as you lie there.
After a few moments, Ryland sighs happily and plants a kiss on the top of your head. "Mmm… You alright?" he asks you quietly, running his fingertips lazily up and down your back.
You nod against him, getting more comfortable against his chest. You shut your eyes, letting yourself enjoy the sound of his heartbeat and his breathing evening out.
Ryland holds you, his fingers making lazy circles across your spine. You can feel how reluctant he is about letting you go. You wonder if he’s afraid that all of this is going to vanish in an instant, only to have him wake up and discover that everything that just happened was nothing but a beautiful dream. Minutes pass before he finally opens his mouth, his voice hushed and just above a whisper.
He sighs, taking another breath and seeming to hesitate for a few seconds before starting. "Was..." he pauses once more, his fingers stalling momentarily before returning to their slow circling pattern. "Was this- I mean- this wasn’t just-" More hesitation before he finally blurts, “This wasn’t just a one-time thing, was it? I hope... I hope it isn’t a one-time thing.”
You sit up, gently frowning before giving him a kiss. "Not just one-time. Like I said, I want you… if you'll have me."
Ryland lets out a shaky sigh before cupping your face, staring at you with those soft eyes. You can see how he calms down once you say what he wants to hear.
"Of course I'll have you… of course. I've actually wanted this for years now. I would literally be an idiot to not have you now."
You chuckle at that, letting yourself lean into his touch. "You’re such a nerd… You know that?"
He gives you an amused scoff, but you could tell that he's joking. "Excuse me? I am not a nerd, I'm a-" you raise your eyebrows playfully at him, stopping him. "Alright, alright. I am a nerd. I admit it. But you are too."
“Guess we make quite the pair.”
You chuckle again, leading to both of you lying in bed and falling asleep after some time.
And for the first time since you both got hurt, you sleep peacefully.
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A/N: i might rewrite this later idk just wanted to finish. no ideas otherwise rn might take a break unless i get requests maybe so we'll see. enjoy!!!
in which Dr. Grace uses the wrong vocabulary, and the Hail Mary gets a lot hotter
part one - part two
word count: 2,9k
requests are open!
The vast, endless expanse of interstellar space was, frankly, a little monotonous.
When you first boarded the Hail Mary, the sheer, existential terror of the mission had been enough to keep your adrenaline spiking every hour of the day since you woke up. You were on a one-way trip to Tau Ceti, carrying the weight of the entire human race on your shoulders, surrounded by technology that was experimental at best and completely suicidal at worst. For the first few months, every creak of the hull, every fluctuation in the life support systems, and every minor error code on the monitors had felt like a harbinger of imminent death.
But the human brain is remarkably adaptable. After millions of miles, the terrifying isolation of the cosmos had slowly morphed into a strange, domestic routine. You knew the exact, comforting hum of the centrifuge spin drive. You recognized the faint, metallic scent of the air scrubbers working overtime. And, perhaps most dangerously, you had memorized the exact way Dr. Ryland Grace’s brow furrowed when he was lost in a complex mathematical equation.
Living in a tin can hurtling through the dark abyss of space meant that personal boundaries were a luxury you had both abandoned long ago. You had learned to navigate around each other in the cramped, utilitarian quarters of the ship, sharing unappetizing nutrient paste rations, recalibrating the atmospheric controls shoulder-to-shoulder, and existing in a constant, comfortable proximity that would have felt suffocating back on Earth.
But out here, with only each other - and an incredibly intelligent, five-legged alien space spider - for company, that proximity was the only thing keeping you sane. Ryland was brilliant, relentlessly optimistic, and possessed a deeply ingrained, nerdy charm that made the crushing weight of the mission feel survivable. He was a good man.
Lately, however, that comfortable proximity had started to feel a lot heavier. The accidental brushes of his arm against yours in the laboratory, the way he looked at you when you managed to decipher a new string of Eridanian vocabulary, the warmth of his presence when you were both exhausted and staring out at the uncaring void - it was all beginning to build a quiet, simmering tension in the pit of your stomach.
Currently, that tension was being tested as you sat strapped securely into the pilot’s seat in the main control room, running manual astrogation drills.
The ship’s automated systems were robust, but Eva Stratt’s paranoia had dictated that every single crew member know how to fly the Hail Mary in the event of a catastrophic computer failure. Well, except the two of you. You were scientists, not pilots. The dizzying arrays of vectors, velocities, and orbital mechanics were entirely outside your wheelhouse. But Ryland, ever the patient educator, had taken it upon himself to teach you - in theory, that was. You liked to consider the both of you as clueless as any other human down on Earth.
"Okay, let's run through the parameters one more time," Ryland said.
He was hovering just over your left shoulder, anchored to the hard plastic back of your pilot's chair in the zero-gravity environment of the control cabin. Because there was no 'up' or 'down' without the centrifuge spinning, he was floating at a slight angle, perfectly relaxed in the weightlessness.
"If I want to adjust our attitude to point exactly at that specific star cluster in the Tau Ceti system," you murmured, keeping your eyes locked strictly on the glowing telemetry screen in front of you. You raised your hands, hovering them over the manual thruster controls. "I can't just fire the port thruster like I'm turning a steering wheel."
"Right. Why?" Ryland prompted. His voice was close. Close enough that you could feel the ambient heat radiating off his standard-issue jumpsuit, a stark contrast to the slightly chilly, sterile air of the cabin.
"Because of Newton's First Law," you replied, reciting the lessons he had been drilling into your head for the past three weeks. "An object in motion stays in motion. In the vacuum of space, there is zero atmospheric friction to slow down the spin. If I fire the port thruster, the ship will just keep spinning along that axis forever, or until we make ourselves incredibly dizzy."
"Exactly," Ryland beamed. The pride in his voice was palpable, vibrating right near your ear. "You are your own friction. You have to be your own brakes."
You swallowed hard, forcing your focus away from the warmth of his arm, which was currently hovering a mere millimeter away from the shoulder of your flight suit, and forced your brain back to the math. "So, I fire the port thruster to initiate the turn, let the momentum carry our mass, and then I have to counter-fire the starboard thruster at the exact right millisecond to arrest the momentum and lock us into the new trajectory."
"That's the theory. Now let's see the application," Ryland encouraged softly. He was watching your hands over the console, entirely focused on your progress.
You let out a slow, steadying breath. You disabled the autopilot interlocks, the console flashing a brief yellow warning before yielding full manual control to your joysticks.
"Alright. Manual control engaged. Firing port attitude thruster for zero-point-two seconds... now."
You tapped the left control stick. The ship didn't shudder - the attitude thrusters were too small to feel inside the massive hull - but the starfield out the reinforced viewport slowly, lazily began to drift to the right. It was a dizzying sensation, watching the universe spin around you while you sat perfectly still.
You glued your eyes to the digital degree marker on the main astrogation display. It ticked up with agonizing slowness. Ten degrees. Fifteen degrees. Twenty degrees.
"Wait for it," Ryland coaxed.
He leaned in a fraction closer to check the monitor over your shoulder. You could faintly smell the sterile, unscented ship soap they provided in the washroom, mixed with the distinct, warm scent that was just fundamentally him. It was intoxicating in a way it had absolutely no right to be. His presence was a massive, grounding anchor in the middle of nowhere.
"Twenty-eight... thirty-two..." you counted aloud, your fingers tensing over the starboard control stick. Your heart was thumping a rapid rhythm against your ribs. If you overshot the counter-burn, you'd have to waste precious fuel correcting the wobble.
You tapped the starboard control with as much precision as you could muster.
Out the viewport, the spinning starfield instantly stopped drifting. The sudden halt was almost jarring to the eyes. The nose of the Hail Mary locked into absolute stillness. You checked the telemetry screen. The digital crosshairs were sitting exactly on top of the coordinates you had calculated. Dead center. Zero drift. Zero wobble.
"Yes!" Ryland cheered.
In a completely natural, unfiltered burst of scientific triumph and pride, he shifted his grip.
His large hand moved from the hard plastic back of the pilot's chair to rest warmly and firmly on the curve of your shoulder. His thumb pressed right into the dip of your collarbone through the fabric of your jumpsuit, an anchoring, heavy weight in the zero gravity. He leaned down, his face dipping into your peripheral vision, his cheek almost brushing yours as he grinned at the perfect alignment on the screen.
"Perfect pitch and yaw," he praised.
The sheer, relieved approval stripped away his usual nervous, rapid-fire energy. His voice dropped an octave, settling into a low, breathless rumble that vibrated right through the shell of your ear.
"Textbook execution. Good girl."
The ambient, ever-present hum of the ship’s life support systems seemed to vanish entirely from your awareness.
The praise had slipped out of him on pure, unadulterated instinct. It was a leftover relic from his previous life, from his days of leaning over lab tables, grading middle school science fair projects, and offering gentle, authoritative encouragement to students who finally figured out how to balance a chemical equation.
But floating in a tiny cabin in the dark abyss of space, millions of miles away from any school or civilization... it didn't sound like a teacher.
Delivered with the heavy, possessive weight of his hand on your collarbone, the close proximity of his body, and the low, rough timbre of his voice, it sounded like something else entirely.
It sent a searing, electric jolt straight down your spine, pooling hot and heavy in your stomach. Your breath hitched audibly in the dead quiet of the cabin. Your hands froze over the manual controls, your fingers curling inward. Every single nerve ending in your shoulder seemed to hyper-focus on the exact shape and heat of his hand gripping you.
It took Ryland Grace exactly one and a half seconds to hear the echo of his own words replay in his brilliant, analytical brain.
"Oh, my gosh," he gasped.
He yanked his hand off your shoulder as if your flight suit had just been doused in liquid nitrogen. In his sudden, blind, overwhelming panic, the man completely forgot the very laws of physics he had just spent half an hour teaching you.
He pushed back away from you with entirely too much force. Without any gravity to anchor him, the violent push launched him backward across the control room. He flailed wildly, his arms windmilling in the air as he sailed across the cabin, completely out of control, until his back slammed into the main science console with a loud, painful thump.
You spun around in your chair, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs, entirely unsure if you should be concerned for his safety or absolutely entirely amused by his panic.
The brilliant, world-saving biologist - the man who had figured out how to harness alien microbes for interstellar travel - was currently tangled in his own zero-G socks, gripping the edge of the metal console for dear life. A furious, agonizing, painfully bright red blush was crawling so fast up his neck that his ears practically looked radioactive.
"I- I didn't mean-" Ryland stammered.
His eyes were wide, round, and completely horrified behind the lenses of his glasses. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air in front of him, fingers twitching, as if he didn't know what to do with his own limbs anymore.
"My brain just- it cross-wired!" he blurted out, his voice cracking horribly. "I was looking at the telemetry and I was just so proud of the math, and my brain just reverted to grading eighth-grade science fairs! I swear on my life, I swear to gosh, I do not think of you as a seventh grader! That was incredibly inappropriate, I am so, so sorry, I didn't mean it like- I didn't mean to sound-"
He was rambling at the speed of light, his chest heaving under his jumpsuit as he hyperventilated.
But despite his absolute mortification, despite his frantic attempts to rationalize the slip of the tongue as a simple, harmless pedagogical error... the tension in the room had irreversibly shifted.
It was thick. It was electric. You could practically cut it with a scalpel.
He was panicking precisely because he was suddenly, acutely, and overwhelmingly aware of the fact that you were definitely not one of his students. The realization was hitting him like a freight train, crashing through the comfortable, platonic barriers he had built around himself for the duration of this mission. As he stared at you from across the room, his eyes darted nervously from your gaze, down to your slightly parted lips, down to the curve of your throat, and quickly back up to the ceiling ceiling panels, swallowing hard enough that you could see the apple of his throat bob from across the room.
You bit down hard on your lower lip, trying desperately to suppress the smile that was threatening to break across your face. Your own cheeks were burning hot, a flush that you knew matched his completely. You could still feel the physical ghost of his thumb pressing into your collarbone.
"Ryland, breathe," you managed to say. You tried to sound reassuring, but your voice came out a little softer, a little huskier than usual, betraying the fact that the slip-up had affected you just as much as it had horrified him. "It's fine. Really. I know what you meant-"
Thump.
A soft, hollow impact echoed in the cabin, cutting off your reassurance.
A large, perfectly clear, pressurized sphere of xenonite drifted lazily through the open doorway of the control room, gently bumping against the upper doorframe before floating into the space between you and Ryland.
Rocky was inside his custom-built bubble. The Eridanian engineer had likely been in his workshop, heard the loud crash of Ryland slamming into the science console, and pushed himself down the zero-gravity corridor to investigate the commotion.
"Observation. Human female face is red. Internal temperature elevated."
The deadpan, entirely emotionless robotic monotone of Ryland’s custom translation program filled the room instantly. Because the software was completely hardwired to intercept Rocky’s frequencies and translate them in real-time, there were no musical chords to soften the blow - just the immediate, blunt observation echoing from the laptop speakers strapped to the console.
Ryland groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated suffering. He let go of the console and pressed both hands over his flaming face, hiding behind his fingers.
"Oh, heck," Ryland muffled into his palms. "Please. Kill me now. Just vent the airlock and put me out of my misery."
Inside the floating sphere, Rocky shifted. His carapace scraped slightly against the xenonite, his five little articulated legs tapping a rapid, curious rhythm against the clear wall of his bubble. He was a scientist at heart, and a new, unexplained biological phenomenon was entirely too fascinating to ignore.
The laptop speakers instantly spoke again, delivering the translation with zero tact.
"Query. Grace also turning red. Heart rates for both humans are currently fast. Biometric sensors indicate endocrine systems are actively producing large amounts of adrenaline, cortisol, and oxytocin."
Rocky’s bubble slowly rotated in the zero gravity, his eyeless carapace seemingly tracking between the two of you.
"Are humans in physical danger, question? Or is this typical Earth mating behavior, question? Please explain."
"It's not mating behavior!" Ryland yelped, dropping his hands from his face.
His voice was an octave higher than normal, bordering on hysterical. He pointed an accusatory finger at the floating glass ball, looking like a man who was fighting for his life against his own ship's computer.
"It was a linguistic error! A vocabulary slip! I used a colloquial phrase in the wrong context and triggered an inappropriate psychological response! Rocky, I swear to gosh, turn off the biological monitors right now! Stop looking at our oxytocin levels!"
Inside the sphere, Rocky tapped a few more times.
"Linguistic error causes mating response, question?" the robotic voice stated deadpan. The xenonite ball slowly bounced off a wall panel, lazily drifting back toward the center of the room. "Earth biology remains highly confusing. I will take notes for future reference."
You finally let out a shaky laugh. You couldn't hold it in anymore. The sheer absurdity of the situation - arguing about mating responses and oxytocin levels with a highly intelligent, incredibly blunt alien space spider who was rolling around in a hamster ball - was exactly what you needed to break the suffocating, heavy sexual tension that had gripped the room.
You unbuckled your complex pilot's harness, the straps floating away from your shoulders. With a gentle, practiced push against the footrests, you floated up and out of the pilot's seat, letting the zero gravity carry your momentum smoothly across the small room.
Ryland watched you approach. He looked entirely paralyzed, his back pressed flat against the science console. His eyes tracked your every movement, the dark rings around his pupils blown wide, the furious blush on his face stubbornly refusing to fade.
You reached out and caught the edge of the science console, arresting your momentum and stopping just a few inches away from where Ryland was currently trying to merge his molecular structure with the bulkhead. Up this close, you could see the rapid pulse beating at the base of his throat. You could feel the heat radiating off him again.
He looked up at you, his breath catching audibly in his chest for a second time.
"I'm going to go to the galley and get a drink of water," you said softly, holding his panicked, entirely captivated gaze.
You let a slow, deliberate, teasing smirk tug at the corner of your mouth. You didn't back down from the proximity. Instead, you let the silence stretch for just a second longer than necessary, letting him sweat it out.
"But you know..." you added, leaning in just a fraction of an inch closer, dropping your voice. "My astrogation is getting pretty good."
Ryland swallowed, his eyes darting to your lips. "It... it is. Yes."
"So," you whispered, pushing off the console to slowly float backward toward the open doorway, "I expect you to keep up the positive reinforcement, Dr. Grace."
Ryland made a sound that was half-choke, half-squeak. His hands gripped the metal edge of the console so tightly his knuckles turned completely white.
Satisfied, you turned in the air and floated gracefully out of the control room, heading down the corridor toward the galley. You left the brilliant, awkward microbiologist completely flustered, entirely speechless, and very, very red as Rocky’s clear glass bubble lazily drifted past his head, the laptop speakers chiming one last time.
"Observation. Human female has retreated. Mating ritual concluded?"
I kovw your writing!! I'd love to see a smutty pt2 to good girl
good girl II - Ryland Grace
ryland grace x reader
part one - part two
warnings: smut
i love my men whimpering and needy with a little bit of worshipping on the side
word count: 6,1k
requests are open!
The ship had transitioned into its designated night cycle, plunging the corridors of the Hail Mary into a deep, moody blue. The ambient, heavy thrum of the centrifuge spin drive vibrated up through the floorboards, pulling a steady, comforting artificial gravity down on everything inside the hull.
You were in the laboratory, sitting at one of the workstations, idly reviewing some atmospheric data on your monitor. Or, at least, pretending to. In reality, you were just waiting.
You knew him well enough by now to know that Dr. Ryland Grace could not leave an anomaly unexamined. He also couldn't let a social faux pas go un-agonized over. It was only a matter of time before he tried to 'fix' it.
Right on cue, the soft hiss of the lab doors sliding open broke the quiet.
You didn't turn around immediately, letting the rustle of his jumpsuit and the soft, hesitant thud of his sneakers against the metal floor grating announce his arrival. He walked into the lab, stopping a safe, meticulously calculated four feet away from your chair.
"Hey," he said. His voice was a little too loud for the dim lighting, tightly wound with nervous energy.
You pushed your chair back slightly and turned to face him, keeping your feet planted on the floor. "Hey, Ryland."
He was clutching a digital tablet to his chest like a ballistic shield. His hair was slightly ruffled, and that betraying flush was still lingering high on his cheekbones.
"So. I've been doing some thinking," he started, launching immediately into his rehearsed speech before his courage could fail him. His words came out in a rapid-fire, heavily academic clip. "And some reading. I reviewed the ship's psychological medical files regarding long-term, deep-space isolation, and I think it's really important that we contextualize what happened in the control room."
You raised an eyebrow, staying perfectly still. "Contextualize it."
"Yes!" He tapped the tablet, not looking at you, his eyes locked desperately on the screen. "You see, in an environment devoid of external stimuli, the human endocrine system begins to aggressively seek out serotonin and dopamine. Furthermore, forced proximity combined with high-stress situations can cause an artificial spike in oxytocin, leading the brain to misinterpret standard platonic attachment as a... as a romantic imperative."
He finally looked up from the tablet, offering a tight, panic-laced smile. "So, the slip-up earlier, the vocabulary choice... it was just a neurochemical misfire. Entirely clinical. We can just log it as a symptom of space madness and completely forget it ever happened. Right?"
Instead of answering, you stood up.
The gravity felt heavy and grounding as you closed the four feet of empty space separating you with slow, deliberate steps. He took a sudden, panicked step backward until his shoulders hit the cool metal of the bulkhead with a soft thud.
You didn't stop. You stepped completely into his personal space, so close that the toes of your shoes bumped gently against his sneakers. Because of the height difference, you had to tilt your head back to look at him. The proximity forced him to look down, his posture stiffening as he tried to press himself as flat against the wall as physically possible.
"Clinical," you repeated, keeping your voice low and soft.
"Y-yes," he stammered. His eyes were wide, darting nervously across your face before dropping to your lips and quickly snapping back up to the ceiling. He swallowed so hard you saw the apple of his throat bob. "Very clinical. Textbook."
You let a small, teasing smile touch your lips. You reached up, lightly resting your palm flat against the center of his chest.
Ryland made a sound that was half-whimper, half-squeak. Beneath the thin fabric of his jumpsuit, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your palm. His fingers went completely slack. The digital tablet slipped from his grasp, hitting the metal floor grating with a sharp, loud clack.
"So, the isolation made you do it," you murmured, lightly tracing the zipper line of his jumpsuit with your fingertips. "The oxytocin made you call me a good girl in that exact tone of voice."
"Please don't say it back to me," he whispered miserably. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting his head thump back against the bulkhead. "I'm going to die. My heart is going to give out before we even reach Tau Ceti."
"I don't know, Dr. Grace," you murmured, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Your heart feels pretty strong right now. It's practically beating out of your chest. Is that the oxytocin, too?"
"It's the... the adrenaline," he choked out, opening his eyes. He was trying so desperately to keep his composure, but his gaze immediately dropped to your mouth again. "Flight or... or fight response."
"And which one are you doing?" you teased gently. "Because you're backed against a wall, Ryland, and you're definitely not fighting me."
"I..." His voice cracked completely. "I'm trying very hard to be professional."
You waited for a moment, letting your hand rest against his chest, giving him the chance to drop the act. But he just stood there, frozen in place, his breathing shallow and his eyes wide behind his glasses, completely paralyzed by his own over-analytical brain.
You let out a soft, slightly resigned sigh. You let your hand drop from his chest, taking a slow step backward.
"Okay," you said quietly. The teasing edge completely left your voice, leaving behind something far more gentle and a little sad. "I can give you space to be professional, if that's what you really want. Goodnight, Ryland."
You turned away from him, your sneakers scuffing softly against the floor grating as you started to walk back toward the lab doors.
You only made it two steps.
"Wait."
His voice wasn't a stammer this time; it was slightly raspy, sudden, and urgent.
Before you could fully turn around, his hand caught yours. His long fingers wrapped around your hand, halting your momentum instantly. The grip wasn't painful, but it was incredibly firm - the grounding, desperate hold of someone who had just realized exactly what they were about to lose.
You paused, looking back over your shoulder.
Ryland wasn't pressed against the wall anymore. He had taken a sudden step forward, closing the distance you had just tried to put between you. The panic was still there in his eyes, but the hesitation was gone, overridden by the sheer terror of watching you walk away.
"Don't," he breathed. He tugged gently on your hand, pulling you back around to face him. "Please don't go."
"Ryland..."
"I'm not trying to be professional," he confessed, the words tumbling out of him in a rushed, breathless whisper. He stepped closer, using his grip on your hand to gently pull you back into his space. "I'm just... I'm terrified. I don't know what I'm doing, and you're so incredible, and my brain is just short-circuiting because I can't believe this is actually happening."
He lifted your hand, pressing the back of your knuckles softly against his chest, right over his racing heart.
"The data is flawed," he murmured, a shaky, self-deprecating smile finally touching his lips as he looked down at you. "It's not oxytocin."
He didn't give his brain another second to overthink it. He let go of your hand, only so his arms could encircle you. He bowed his head, his shoulders hunching slightly to accommodate the height difference, and finally pressed his mouth to yours.
The kiss wasn't perfectly smooth or practiced, but it was overwhelmingly sweet, dizzyingly eager, and completely unguarded. He kissed you like a man who had been starving for years and had suddenly been handed a feast. You felt his rigid posture give way entirely as he let out a soft, shuddering sigh against your lips. His arms wrapped securely around your back, holding you close, his warmth chasing away the chill of the lab. You slid your hands up to his shoulders, tangling your fingers gently in the hair at the nape of his neck.
When you finally broke apart to breathe, he didn't pull away. Instead, he just let his forehead drop to rest heavily on your shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. His chest heaved against yours as he tried to catch his breath, and you could feel the furious heat radiating off his cheeks.
"So," you whispered into his ruffled hair, a tiny smile playing on your lips as you rubbed soothing circles into his back. "Still think it was just a neurochemical misfire?"
Ryland let out a breathless, muffled groan against your shoulder. He held you a little tighter, completely abandoning any remaining pretense of being 'just colleagues'.
"Okay," he mumbled into your collarbone, refusing to lift his head and face his own mortification just yet. "Okay, fine. I admit it. My hypothesis was completely wrong."
You let out a soft laugh, resting your cheek against the top of his head. The tension that had been suffocating the ship for hours finally broke, replaced by a warm, comfortable domesticity.
"I'm glad to hear it," you murmured.
He stayed hidden in the crook of your neck for a long moment, just breathing you in, letting his nervous system finally catch up to the reality that you weren't going to reject him. When he finally lifted his head, the furious blush had faded to a soft, warm pink across his cheekbones. His glasses were slightly askew, and his hair was an absolute mess. He looked incredibly handsome.
He didn't pull away. Instead, his hands slid from your waist around to the small of your back, resting there as he looked down at you. The panic in his eyes was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, overwhelming affection that made your breath hitch.
"You're going to get a crick in your neck," he murmured softly, his thumb gently stroking the fabric of your jumpsuit at your spine.
Before you could ask what he meant, he took a half-step forward. With a surprising, quiet strength, he gripped your waist, lifted you effortlessly, and set you down on the edge of the metal lab counter behind you.
The change in elevation brought you perfectly eye-to-eye.
Ryland let out a small, satisfied sigh at the new arrangement. He stepped between your knees, stepping completely flush against the counter. He reached up, his hands gently framing your face. His thumbs lightly brushed across your cheekbones, tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that made your heart ache.
"Much better," he whispered.
This time, when he kissed you, there was no hesitation. The desperate, frantic energy of his first kiss smoothed out into something slow, deliberate, and dizzyingly intimate. He tasted like the bitter ship's coffee and the minty toothpaste from the washroom, a bizarrely comforting combination. You wrapped your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.
He let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, his hands sliding down from your face to trace the line of your neck, his fingers lightly brushing against your collarbone - a deliberate, lingering echo of the touch that had started this entire cascade. His lips trailed softly to the corner of your mouth, down to your jaw, pressing open-mouthed, heated kisses against your skin that sent a searing jolt straight down your spine. He wasn't dominant or aggressive; he was thorough, attentive, and incredibly observant, learning exactly what made you gasp and immediately repeating it.
The cool, sterile air of the laboratory seemed to evaporate, replaced by a heavy, suffocating heat. You tilted your head back, letting your eyes fall shut as his lips moved to the sensitive skin just below your ear.
"Ryland..." you breathed out, your voice slightly wrecked.
He paused, resting his forehead against your temple, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing. "Am I doing okay?" he whispered, his voice incredibly rough, still carrying that adorkable need for positive reinforcement.
"You're doing amazing," you managed to say, pulling him back in.
He smiled against your lips, a bright, genuine thing, and leaned in to kiss you again-
Beep.
The sharp, electronic chime of the PA system echoed through the quiet lab, instantly shattering the heavy silence.
"Observation. Human biological monitors are registering unprecedented spikes."
The deadpan, robotic monotone of the translation software blared from the ceiling speakers. Ryland froze instantly, his lips hovering a millimeter above yours.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Ryland groaned, his forehead dropping heavily onto your shoulder.
"Heart rates are highly elevated," Rocky's voice continued mercilessly. "Body temperatures have increased by zero-point-eight degrees Celsius. Respiratory rates indicate lack of oxygen. Are you experiencing a medical emergency, question? Or is this the continuation of the mating ritual, question?"
You pressed your face into Ryland's shoulder, your shoulders shaking with silent, uncontrollable laughter. Ryland let out a long, long sigh, resting his weight against you for a moment before reluctantly pulling back.
"I forgot about him," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "I completely forgot about the very smart, very nosy alien spider who has complete access to our biometric data."
You hopped down from the counter, smoothing out your jumpsuit while still biting your lip to suppress a grin. "We have to answer him, Ryland, or he's going to roll in here to administer first aid."
Ryland dragged a hand down his face, looking up at the nearest security camera. He hit the comms button on the lab console.
"We are not having a medical emergency, Rocky," Ryland said, trying to inject as much calm, teacher-like authority into his voice as possible. "We are... we are fine."
"Understood," the robotic voice replied. "Then it is the mating ritual. Does Earth biology require privacy for mating, question?"
Ryland's entire face burned a spectacular shade of crimson. He looked at you, utterly mortified, but you just nodded encouragingly, gesturing for him to continue.
"Yes," Ryland said, his voice cracking slightly. "Yes, Rocky. Human... human bonding requires a high degree of privacy. It is a very strict cultural imperative."
"Fascinating. Eridanians sleep in large piles to maintain temperature and security. Isolation is illogical. But I will respect Earth customs."
A series of musical chords filtered through the speakers, the raw audio of Rocky humming to himself, before the translator kicked back in.
"I have disabled the biometric alerts and audio-visual feeds for the human sleeping quarters. I will remain in the engineering bay. Have a good mating ritual. Words of encouragement.”
The comms clicked off, plunging the lab back into the low hum of the centrifuge drive.
You stared at the speaker for a moment, letting the sheer absurdity of the conversation wash over you, before you finally let out a loud, genuine laugh.
Ryland buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. "I am a respected scientist," he mumbled into his palms. "I have published papers. And I just asked an alien for permission to have privacy with my crewmate."
You walked over, gently prying his hands away from his face. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, a sheepish, hopelessly fond smile breaking through his embarrassment.
"Well," you said softly, linking your fingers through his. "He did turn off the cameras in the sleeping quarters."
Ryland looked down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The nervous energy was entirely gone now, replaced by a quiet, deep anticipation. He looked back up at you, the dark intensity returning to his eyes.
"He did," Ryland agreed, his voice dropping back down into that low, quiet register. He gave your hand a gentle tug, pulling you toward the lab doors. "We should probably go verify that his modifications to the security system are fully functional."
"Very clinical of you, Dr. Grace."
"Extremely," he murmured, a completely smitten smile on his face as he led you out into the blue-lit corridor.
The walk down the corridor was a study in sensory overload.
After months of navigating the Hail Mary with careful, professional distance, the simple act of holding his hand felt completely grounding. His palm was warm and slightly calloused, his long fingers interwoven tightly with yours. The ship’s night cycle bathed the narrow hallway in a deep, sapphire glow, and the only sound was the steady, heavy thrum of the centrifuge and the quiet scuff of your shoes against the floor grating.
When you reached the door to your quarters, the keypad glowed a soft green. The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and you stepped inside, the door automatically sealing shut behind you.
The sleeping quarters were not designed for romance. They were small, utilitarian, and dominated by the narrow bunk built securely into the bulkhead. The air in here always felt a little cooler, stripped of the residual heat from the laboratory equipment.
But as the door clicked into its lock, isolating the two of you completely from the rest of the ship - and from the universe at large - the sterile room suddenly felt incredibly small, and incredibly charged.
Ryland let go of your hand, only to reach up and gently cup your face again. In the dim light of the cabin, without his glasses slipping or his scientific brain frantically trying to categorize his emotions, he looked incredibly soft. The adorkable, frantic microbiologist was still there, but beneath it was a man who was looking at you with a reverence that stole the breath right out of your lungs.
"I can't believe we're actually doing this," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. It wasn't a question of hesitation, but a statement of pure, unadulterated awe. "I've spent the last months terrified that if I looked at you for too long, you'd figure it out."
"Figure what out?" you asked softly, leaning into his touch.
"That you are the absolute center of my gravity right now," he breathed, his voice rough and incredibly earnest. "And we are currently in a one-g spin."
You let out a shaky, quiet laugh, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. "That was a terrible physics pun, Dr. Grace."
"I'm a desperate man," he murmured, a smile curving against your lips just before he kissed you.
The gentle, tentative exploration from the lab vanished, replaced by a deep, aching certainty. He stepped fully into your space, backing you slowly until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. His hands slid down from your face, moving with a careful, deliberate focus to the heavy, industrial zipper at the collar of your standard-issue jumpsuit.
His fingers worked the zipper down, the metal teeth separating with a soft, rhythmic rasp. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the small cabin, punctuated only by the low thrum of the centrifuge and the quick, shallow rhythm of his breathing.
You could feel him trembling - just slightly - as he pushed the jumpsuit off your shoulders, letting the fabric fall and pool at your feet. The cool air of the cabin raised goosebumps along your arms, but the heat radiating off his body, pressed so close to yours, quickly chased the chill away.
"You're shaking," you whispered, your hands coming up to rest on his bare forearms.
"I know." He didn't deny it. His eyes met yours, dark and earnest in the dim blue light, his glasses slightly askew. "I know I'm not- I haven't- It's been a very long time, and I want this to be good for you. I want you."
You pulled him closer, your fingers working at the zipper of his own jumpsuit now. "So stop trying to hypothesize and just ask me what I like."
A shaky exhale escaped him. "What do you like?"
"This," you said, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And this." Another kiss, softer, to his jaw. "And when you're confident. When you stop second-guessing and just take what you want."
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat, the curve of your breasts beneath the thin tank top you wore underneath your jumpsuit.
He reached for the hem of your tank top, his knuckles brushing against your stomach as he bunched the fabric in his hands. You lifted your arms, and he pulled it over your head, discarding it somewhere on the floor. His breath caught audibly as his eyes traveled over you - your bare skin, the way your chest rose and fell with quickening breaths, the flush spreading across your collarbone.
"God," he breathed, the word barely audible. "You're so beautiful. I've imagined this - l've tried not to imagine this, because it felt invasive, but-" He swallowed hard, his hands hovering just above your hips, not quite touching. "Can I-"
"Yes," you said, pulling him closer. "Ryland, yes."
His hands finally made contact, sliding around your waist, spanning the curve of your hips. His palms were warm, slightly rough, and they left trails of fire in their wake as they traveled upward, tracing the sides of your ribs, the underside of your breasts. He was looking at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever asked.
You reached up, your fingers gently removing his glasses and folding them carefully, setting them on the small shelf beside the bunk before tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth down to yours.
The kiss was deeper now, hungrier. His tongue slid against yours, and you tasted the desperation there, the months of suppressed longing finally unleashed. His hands grew bolder, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped against his mouth, arching into his touch, and he made a low, rough sound in response.
"Bed," he managed, his voice wrecked.
"We should - the bed is right there-"
You nodded, letting him guide you backward until your knees hit the edge of the narrow bunk. You sat down on the thin mattress, looking up at him as he stood over you, chest heaving, his pupils blown wide.
"You're wearing too many clothes," you observed.
A shaky laugh escaped him. "Working on it."
He reached for the zipper or his jumpsuit, pulling it down with a steady hand that belied his nervousness. The fabric parted, and he shrugged it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, he wore a black t-shirt-and across the front, in block letters, it read:
I had potential.
You burst out laughing. "You wore that. Under your uniform. On a mission to save humanity."
His cheeks flushed crimson, but he was grinning. "It was a gift from my students. It's lucky."
"It's terrible."
"And yet," he said, tugging the hem of the shirt, "you're smiling."
He pulled the t-shirt over his head, and the laughter died in your throat.
Because beneath the nerdy exterior, Ryland Grace was jacked.
There was no other word for it. His chest was broad and sculpted, pectorals so defined they looked carved from stone. His shoulders were massive, capped with muscle. His arms were thick, biceps straining against nothing, veins tracing along his forearms.
His abdominal muscles were a ridged, symmetrical washboard, the kind you saw on fitness magazines, not on microbiologists. And trailing down from his navel was a dark line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers, drawing your gaze exactly where he clearly wanted it to go.
You stared. You couldn't help it.
He caught you looking and his flush deepened, but something else flickered in his eyes. Confidence. Heat. He flexed slightly - unconsciously, or maybe not - and his pecs shifted.
"See something you like?" he asked, his voice lower now.
"You've been hiding that under a baggy jumpsuit for months?"
He shrugged, and the movement made his shoulders roll impressively. "Didn't seem professional to walk around shirtless."
You reached out, trailing a finger down the center of his chest, tracing the line between his pectorals, then down each ridge of his abs. He shivered under your touch, his breath catching.
"Definitely not professional," you murmured. "Definitely a problem."
"I can put the shirt back on-"
"Don't you dare."
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down, stepping out of them with an awkward haste that made you smile. He was hard - clearly, obviously hard - and the sight of him, completely bare and utterly vulnerable in the dim blue light, sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs.
"Your turn," he said, his voice dropping into that lower register that made your stomach flip. He knelt in front of you, his hands finding the waistband of your underwear.
"Can I-"
"Yes. Please."
He tugged them down your legs, his knuckles brushing against your thighs, your knees, your calves. He paused when you were bare, his hands resting on your knees, his eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs. His breath came in short, uneven bursts.
"You have no idea," he whispered, "how many times I've thought about this. About you. About what you would sound like. What you would taste like."
"Then stop thinking," you said softly, reaching down to cup his face, tilting his chin up so his eyes met yours. "And find out."
He needed no further encouragement.
He leaned forward, his hands sliding up your thighs, parting them gently. You let your knees fall open, making space for him, and he settled between them with a quiet sigh of relief - like he'd finally found where he belonged.
His first kiss was pressed to the inside of your knee. Then higher, to your thigh. Then higher still, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his breath hot and damp against you. You shivered, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he let out a low hum of approval.
"You're so responsive," he murmured against your skin. "I love that. I love that I can feel you react to every single thing I do."
His mouth found you - finally, finally - and your head fell back, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. His tongue was tentative at first, exploratory, the same careful, methodical attention he gave to every experiment. But he learned fast. He always did.
He learned exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly where to focus, exactly when to circle his tongue and when to suck gently. He learned the sounds you made - the little whimpers, the sharp intakes of breath, the way you moaned his name when he did something particularly devastating. And every time he discovered something that made you gasp, he did it again, and again, until you were trembling beneath him, your thighs shaking around his shoulders.
"Ryland," you breathed, tugging at his hair.
"Ryland, I'm close-"
He didn't stop. If anything, he doubled down, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady as his tongue worked you through the rising tide of sensation. Your back arched off the mattress, a broken cry escaping your lips as the wave crashed over you, white-hot and overwhelming, your entire body shuddering through the release.
He stayed with you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, the curve of your stomach. When you finally opened your eyes, he was looking up at you with an expression of pure, unguarded wonder.
"That," he said, his voice rough and raw, "was the single most incredible thing I have ever experienced. And l've seen a supernova."
A breathless laugh escaped you. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm honest." He crawled up your body, bracing himself above you, his forearms planted on either side of your head. His hair was a disaster, his lips were slick, and his eyes were burning with a heat that made your heart stutter. "I want to be inside you," he said quietly, no stammer, no hesitation.
"Is that okay?"
You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him down so your foreheads touched. "Yes. Ryland, yes."
He reached down between your bodies, positioning himself at your entrance. You could feel him there - hot, hard, pressing against you - and the anticipation alone made your thighs clench around his hips.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he said. "Tell me if you want to stop."
"I want this." You reached up, cupping his face in your hands. "I want you, Ryland. Every overthinking, beautiful, brilliant inch of you. Now stop talking and fuck me."
The word hit him like a physical blow. His hips jerked against you, and a sound escaped him - half laugh, half moan - that vibrated through your chest.
"Yes ma'am," he breathed. He didn't push in immediately. Instead, he rocked against you, teasing, letting the friction build until you were arching up beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Ryland, please-"
He pushed inside you slowly - agonizingly slowly - inch by inch, his jaw clenched, a low groan vibrating through his chest. The stretch was exquisite, a fullness that made your eyes flutter shut and your nails dig into his shoulders.
"You're so tight," he breathed, his voice cracking. "God, you feel- I can't- fuck-"
"More," you demanded.
He gave you more. Another inch, then another, until he was buried to the hilt, his body pressed flush against yours. He stayed there for a moment, trembling, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
"You feel..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
You clenched around him experimentally, and he swore - a sharp, bitten-off curse that would have made his academic colleagues blush.
"Move," you whispered against his ear.
He did.
The first thrust was tentative, almost shy.
The second was deeper, harder. By the third, he had found a rhythm - slow and deep, each stroke dragging against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"That's it," you breathed, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Right there. Don't stop."
He didn't stop.
His hips snapped against yours, the rhythm deepening, quickening, each thrust driving him impossibly farther inside you.
"Like that?" he gasped, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and trembling. "Is this- fuck- is this what you wanted?"
"Yes," you managed, your voice breaking on the word. Your hands clawed at his back, nails raking across his shoulder blades, and he groaned - a raw, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest.
His hips never stopped moving, but the frantic edge softened into something deeper, more deliberate. He was making love to you now, not just fucking, and the shift made your chest ache.
"I'm not going to last," he admitted, his voice muffled against your skin. "You feel- God, you feel incredible- and l've been imagining this for so long, and I can't-" His voice broke, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. His forehead pressed hard against yours, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a wire about to snap.
"Don't stop," you commanded, your voice breathless but firm. Your legs locked tighter around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. "I'm close too. Don't you dare stop."
His eyes flew open. "You're-"
"Yes. So close. Please, Ryland-"
Something shifted in his expression. The desperate scramble for his own release transformed into fierce, focused determination. He wanted this for you.
Needed it.
"Okay," he breathed, adjusting his angle.
"Okay, tell me what you need."
"Harder. Right there-"
He obeyed. His hips snapped against yours with renewed purpose, each thrust deliberate, aimed, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. His breathing turned ragged, his control clearly fraying, but he held on. For you.
"That's it," you gasped, your nails raking down his back. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't-"
The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding toward its breaking point. He was trembling above you, sweat dripping from his temple, his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping.
"I can feel you," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "I can feel you squeezing me- fuck, you're so close-"
And then his voice dropped. Lower. Darker.
That tone - the one that had started this whole thing back in the control room.
"Come for me," he murmured against your ear, his hips never slowing. "That's it. Be a good girl and come for me."
There.
The words hit you like a live wire. Your back arched off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm crashed through you - white, hot and all-consuming, radiating from your core to your fingertips. Your inner walls clenched around him in pulsing waves, and the sensation of you coming undone around him, triggered by those two words, was the final thread holding his control together.
"God-" he choked out.
His hips snapped twice more, three times, and then he buried himself to the hilt and shattered. A raw, broken sound escaped him - half your name, half a sob-as he spilled inside you, his body shuddering through wave after wave of release. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his entire weight pressing you into the thin mattress, and he gasped against your skin like a drowning man finally breaking the surface.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The ship hummed around you. The centrifuge spun. Somewhere in the engineering bay, an alien politely pretended not to have heard any of this.
Ryland's breathing slowly steadied. His heart hammered against your chest, wild and out of sync with your own. You could feel the dampness of sweat on his back, the fine tremor still running through his thighs.
"That was..." He lifted his head, looking down at you with glassy, adoring eyes. His hair was a disaster, his lips swollen. He looked utterly wrecked. And utterly happy.
"Clinical?" you offered, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.
He snorted, burying his face in the crook of your neck again. "If I ever use that word to describe this, you have my permission to space me."
You laughed softly, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his sweat-damp back.
"Noted."
He shifted, pulling out of you with a gentle slowness that made you both wince. The loss of him left you feeling strangely empty, but he didn't go far. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, rearranging your bodies until you were curled against his chest, your head tucked under his chin.
"We should probably clean up," he murmured, his hand stroking up and down your spine.
"Probably," you agreed, making no move to get up.
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. Then, softly, almost hesitantly: "I meant what I said. About you being the center of my gravity. That wasn't- I wasn't just trying to be clever."
You tilted your head back, looking up at him. In the dim blue light, his face was open, vulnerable.
"I know," you said softly. "You're terrible at lying, Ryland. It's one of the things I like about you."
His lips twitched. "One of the things?"
"There are many things," you allowed. "We have a long flight to Tau Ceti. I'm sure I'II discover more."
He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "We have a few years," he said quietly. "Give or take."
"Plenty of time for research."
A laugh rumbled through his chest. "Is that what we're calling it now? Research?"
"Very rigorous research," you confirmed, your hand splaying across his heart. It was still beating fast, a steady thrum beneath your palm. "Peer-reviewed, even."
He propped himself on an elbow to look down at you, his nose brushing affectionately against yours. In the dim blue light, the earlier panic was completely gone, replaced by something steady, warm, and profoundly certain.
"Well, as a man of science," he whispered, a bright, hopelessly fond smile breaking across his face, "I'm going to need to replicate the results. Multiple times. Just to be absolutely sure the data is sound."
"Get some rest, Dr. Grace," you murmured against his lips. "We will still be here tomorrow."
He let out a soft, contented sigh, settling his weight back down beside you and wrapping his arms securely around your waist. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing finally falling into a slow, even rhythm.
The ship hummed around you, the centrifuge spinning you both toward a star you might never reach. But as you laid there in the dark, surrounded by his warmth and the steady beat of his heart against yours, the vast, empty expanse of space didn't feel quite so lonely anymore.
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.
Summary: Fic inspired by this prompt: Natsu invites Lucy out for a “normal” day of fun, but everyone else keeps assuming they’re on a date. Lucy brushes it off - until Natsu starts rolling with it.
Notes: happy belated valentine!
Ao3 - FF.net
***
Natsu wasn’t the romantic type. She didn’t expect him to be; strictly speaking, he’d never come across someone he wanted to court. To Lucy’s knowledge, he’d never even had a crush on anyone, save perhaps on Lisanna back when they were kids. Sometimes she couldn’t help but wonder how he’d react to a romantic situation at his current age. Would he get nervous around his person? Twirly, giggly or shy? She somehow doubted it. If she knew him, which she believed she did, he’d probably be honest and bold. He wouldn't jump around, fiddle with the person of interest’s heartstrings, but rather face them directly. Maybe to lay out a complete confession, or maybe just to tell them his honest intentions; that he wanted a relationship with them, starting from this moment on.
This was why she couldn’t help but to feel discouraged regarding her own crush on the man. As far as she could tell, her feelings weren’t reciprocated. Not that she particularly minded – they’re still young, and Natsu didn’t seem to have his eyes on anyone else. But the nagging feeling of what if still permeated her heart.
Her thoughts were abruptly interrupted by the man in question.
“Whatcha thinkin’ ‘bout?”
He sat down beside her, leisurely throwing an arm over her shoulders. How would this natural action change if he fell in love with someone else? Lucy shook her head, ridding herself of the thought.
“Nothing important. What have you been up to? You stink…” She made no effort masking the look of disgust on her face. Natsu chuckled mischievously.
“I pranked Happy. Messed around with the plumbing in the bathroom, you shoulda seen his face!” His teeth gleamed in the daylight as he threw his head back in laughter. Lucy would have found him insanely attractive, Adam's apple bobbing as gleeful chuckles escaped his mouth, if she wasn’t suddenly very aware of what it was she was smelling on him. He smelled like feces…
“God, Natsu!” She shoved him away. “And you didn’t wash up afterwards? We’ll both get sick!”
Natsu gave her a nonchalant shrug.
“The plumbing is ruined, I couldn’t shower even if I wanted to. That’s why I came to you!”
“What, so you could rub poop on my new shirt?!”
“No,” he scoffed. “To tell ya’ I’ll borrow your bathtub.”
Lucy, who was now standing up, felt a shiver run down her spine. She didn’t want to touch a single object at this state, and even less touch Natsu, but she grabbed his scarf and started walking towards the guild door.
“We’re taking a bath, now.” A faint whistle from one of the guild mates was met with a deadly stare from Lucy. “God, all the times you’ve invaded my apartment without asking, but this is when you ask? This stench has got to be killing you and your bloodhound nose.”
“Meh, I got used to it pretty quickly.”
Lucy gave him a puzzled glance. With the wind blowing away the worst of the stench she didn’t find the same fiery energy as before to scold him. Instead she dragged him all the way home, and immediately drew him a bath.
As she took off her shirt to throw it in the washing machine with Natsu’s disgustingly damp clothes, she remembered the victim of the prank.
“Hey, where’s Happy? You didn’t leave him in poop-city, did you?” She lifted up her left bra-strap that had fallen down her shoulder.
“He jumped in the lake to wash himself. Then I reminded him that we eat the fish from that lake, so he ran away crying. He’ll be back sooner or later.” Natsu was sitting on the bathroom floor in just boxers, as Lucy forbade him to sit on any furniture. The tiles in there were easy enough to clean, so she allowed him to wait there. As she looked at him, he seemed to be staring intensely at something south of her face. “Is that a new bra?”
Lucy’s face became warm, and according to the bathroom mirror, glowing red.
“Why do you keep an inventory of my bra-supply?” She clipped back, sounding angrier than she intended to.
Natsu just sheepishly smiled, pointing to his head.
“I like the colour, it kinda matches my hair!”
Lucy felt a vein pop out of her forehead. She suppressed the urge to hit him for his insensitivity, and instead redirected him to the hot bath.
“Okay, fashionista, how about you like cleanliness instead.”
She pointed to the tub and then left the room so he could do what she’d brought him to do. In the meantime she washed her hands in the basin in the kitchen, and went and picked out some clean clothes for them to wear. She’d called him a fashionista, and she really meant it. That man was so peculiar with the clothes he wore that she sometimes wondered why he wore that open vest when they first met. She understood the appeal, as she didn’t exactly reject the straight view to his abdominal muscles, but she was attracted to him. Natsu didn’t seem attracted to anything, other than maybe food and fighting. Still, he was picky with the clothes on his back.
A few minutes passed, and she heard the water sloshing around in the bathroom, followed by a loud sigh of relief. Natsu must have finally submerged himself. Just as she sat down on the couch, a muffled voice called from the bathroom.
“Oi, Lucy!” She sighed.
“What now?”
There was a brief pause before he answered.
“I think I dropped my soap.”
Lucy groaned, rubbing her temples.
“Then pick it up, genius.”
“No, I mean… it went flying. I think it’s under the cabinet.”
Lucy squeezed her eyes shut. Why is he like this?
She stood up and stomped over to the bathroom door, cracking it open just enough to glare at him through the gap. She picked her field of vision carefully.
“I’m not helping you unless you cover up. Spin around or something.”
“Prude,” he muttered under his breath. Lucy ignored him. Some social rules were important to adhere to – friends of different sex weren’t supposed to see each other naked. The fact that this rule had been accidentally broken multiple times before didn’t have anything to do with it.
She exhaled sharply and opened the door wider to enter. Natsu had obediently spun around to face the window, allowing Lucy to step in without any worry. She crouched down and peered under the sink cabinet, spotting the rogue soap resting just out of reach. With a huff, she stretched her arm underneath, fingers just grazing the edge—
Splash!
Lucy froze. Slowly, she turned her head, feeling the cold trail of water drip down her lower back. Natsu was half-sunken in the tub, grinning like a mischievous imp.
“…You did not just do that,” she gasped, her voice a mix of disbelief and amusement.
Natsu snickered, completely unrepentant. He eyed her up and down, so fast Lucy thought she might have imagined it, but then he quickly gulped, proving that he had, in fact, ogled her. Before she could swiftly take her leave, Natsu spoke up.
“It was an accident?”
A playful fury rose in Lucy’s chest. Oh, he was so dead. Without hesitation, she grabbed the soap and hurled it straight at his head. It smacked against his forehead with a satisfying thunk. Natsu flinched, then burst into laughter, clutching his head.
“Okay, okay! I surrender!” he wheezed, hands up in mock defeat.
Lucy crossed her arms, scowling – though the tiny smirk tugging at her lips betrayed her.
“You better be squeaky clean when you get out,” she warned, turning toward the door. “Or you’re sleeping outside.”
With a huff, she spun on her heel and marched out, leaving Natsu’s laughter echoing behind her.
When Natsu finally stepped out of the bathroom, he was dressed in the clothes Lucy had picked out for him. A couple of months ago, she’d reached out to his tailor to get him a new set, something close to what he usually wore. The result was an outfit not unlike the one he had during their fight against Tartaros. She had always liked that look – it suited him – but it was a shame when those clothes were destroyed in battle.
Then again, the same could be said for her own. That green top and vest she’d chosen specifically because they reminded her of Natsu’s had met a similar fate. But unlike him, she could never wear that outfit again. Too many painful memories were woven into the fabric, especially the ones tied to Aquarius. Just thinking about it made her chest tighten.
She could only hope Natsu didn’t feel the same way about his clothes. Or at least that the subtle differences in design would keep any bad memories at bay. Maybe the fact that it was a gift from her could be enough to soothe the wounds. But that might be wishful thinking.
The original plan had been to give them to him as a birthday gift, but given the state of his old outfit, he might as well start wearing them now.
“Where’d ya’ get these clothes? They fit me perfectly.” Natsu was tugging at different parts of the fabric to correct the position. “Like they were tailored or somethin’.”
Lucy let out a chuckle.
“They were. I was going to give them to you at a better time, but you needed something wearable now, so…” She crossed her arms over her stomach and smiled at him. Natsu smiled back, flashing his teeth.
“Thanks! They’re great!”
“Spin for me.” Lucy let a mischievous glint in her eye show.
“What. Why?”
“I just wanna…” She tried to pick her words. “Fulfill the vision.”
To her surprise, he actually did as she asked. Not the pretty ballerina version like a small part of her had wished for, but still; a slow couple of steps that gave her the full view. Lucy almost barked out a sit command too, but the dog-resemblance would be too big for her to keep from laughing. So instead she just nodded in approval.
“He did well.”
This time it was Natsu’s turn to look at Lucy. It wasn’t anything new that he stared at her; he’d done it countless times before, sometimes what felt like hours at a time. She didn’t usually care, as she was too deep in books or too busy writing to notice, but when she stood in front of him, facing his longing gaze, she couldn’t help but cower a little. She didn’t understand what he was thinking about. So many thoughts were swirling around in that head, yet the silliest words made it out. Once he’d stared at her for 2 hours, practically begging for her attention, and when she finally gave in and looked at him, he had just said “Hey look at this” and farted.
But she knew he wasn’t as unserious as he wanted to seem. He was smart, thoughtful and kind; his mouth just filtered all intelligent words out and let the goofy ones out. So when he finally opened his mouth, she didn’t know what she expected him to say.
“Are you going out like that?”
Lucy blinked.
“Like what?”
“Ya’ know… You’re not wearing a whole lot.”
A brow scrunched up in confusion. She never wore a whole lot, yet he’d never complained about it before?
“What are you trying to say?”
Natsu stepped closer, only stopping when their chests were practically touching, and Lucy could feel his hot breath against her face. He leaned in and whispered straight into her ear;
“You’re just wearing a bra.” Lucy’s entire body shivered when she felt his finger curl into one her bra strap, letting it go with a light smack against her shoulder. She was certain her face was the deepest shade of red.
Natsu laughed and goofily put his hands behind his head as he took a step back.
“You shoulda’ seen yer face!” He cackled, clumsily stepping out to the kitchen to search through the cupboards for something quick to eat. Lucy let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding, and then sent him an angry look; a look sent in vain, as he already had his head deep in a drawer with different boxes of cookies and bags of flour.
She shook her head. Whatever mood there had been earlier was long lost. Instead she grabbed the nearest clean shirt, a pink tank top, and then entered the kitchen to take back the food that was getting stolen.
“You’re getting crumbs all over the floor. Sweep it up, lick it up, I don’t care – just make it clean.” She didn’t hide the irritation that lingered from his prank, letting it lace her voice as well as her facial expression. She was irritated. He smeared her with sewage-water, made her draw him a bath, annoyed her while in said bath, took a gift early, didn’t thank her for said gift, then played her feelings like tangents (unknowingly, but still), and now he was eating her food and leaving a big mess to top it all off.
“Yer crabby,” Natsu mumbled, crumbs flying out of his mouth like they were fleeing from his stinky breath.
“You’ve been annoying,” Lucy simply stated. “Look, I’ve cleaned you up, you’ve had some food, let’s just go back to the guild. I’ll…” she already regretted what she was about to say, “... clean this stuff up later.”
She rested her hand on her hip as she let out a tired sigh. If she stayed in this mess she’d get a headache, no doubt.
“Nah. Let’s take a walk.”
Natsu sprung up from his seat and was standing in the hallway, putting on his sandals, before Lucy even had time to blink. Still, when her brain caught up with his words, she didn’t bother protesting – she didn’t mind taking a walk. The guild was just an excuse to get him out of her apartment after all.
“Alright. Sure, let’s walk.”
The air outside felt nice and crisp as they stepped out from the front port. Lucy had thrown on a jacket, thinking that the February weather would make her temperature drop too quickly otherwise, but she didn’t have to worry about that. Natsu was plenty warm for both of them. She took a deep breath in, finding more pleasure in the air now that Natsu didn’t stink of poop.
“Hey, look! The sun is out.”
Winters weren’t harsh in Magnolia, but there came years where the sun rarely peeked out from behind the clouds at all for months. This year had been like that; the snow had started falling late in November, continuing to mercilessly pack on during December and January. Sure, the sun might have blessed Magnolia with its warm rays a couple of times, but Lucy must have been away on missions, because she could swear that this was the first time she’d felt the sun against her skin in months.
“One day I’ll taste it.”
Hadn’t Natsu said it so dreamily, Lucy would have laughed. For some reason though, she actually related to his words – in a much less literal sense of course.
“Yeah, one day.” It was about as realistic as finding out if fairies had tails, but dreaming didn’t hurt. She hooked her arm to Natsu’s and started walking. “So where did you want to go?”
“I dunno…” Natsu thought for a second. “Just wanted to walk around. We haven’t done that in a while.”
While he said he didn’t know where he wanted to go, he still decided on the direction to take. They walked through new blocks, some that they rarely went through due to the lack of shops. The estates in that area were beautiful – somehow Lucy felt like she had been missing out. She really wasn’t enough of a tourist in Magnolia. Today was the perfect opportunity to make up for that though, as the sun still stood high in the blue sky, and Natsu and Lucy had what felt like all the time in the world to stroll around, looking at the small wonders around them.
When the alleys between apartment blocks disappeared, the shops appeared in their place. All kinds of shops – some with beautiful, delicate looking pastries, some stands selling little bars of soap, the smell of which spread out over the entire street. They passed flower shops, street food stands, a couple of coffee shops, and near the river the most beautiful handmade jewelry shop. Lucy, who insisted she’d been good to save money on all the previously mentioned stands, couldn’t resist stopping at this one.
“Oh, Natsu, look at this necklace… It’s beautiful!” She pointed to a necklace, delicate with a gold coloured chain and a gorgeous pendant in the shape of a star. It was simple, but had clear marks that showed its handmade quality. Rough, almost raw. Only when Natsu pulled away Lucy’s hand from his arm, did she notice the hard grip she held him with.
The woman in the stand smiled warmly.
“I made that one many years ago, to an old friend of mine. She passed away before it was finished, and it’s never sold since then. You remind me a bit of her. You have the same eyes.” The wrinkles around the lady’s mouth made her seem kind – like she’d spent so much time smiling that her joy had made a permanent mark in her face. Lucy was starry eyed. So filled with awe that she couldn’t make out any words. She was glad to hear her partner speak up for her.
“It’s nice. It would fit ya’, Lucy. How much do ya’ sell it for, Granny?” Lucy didn’t bother telling Natsu off for his impoliteness. The shopkeeper didn’t seem to mind the nickname, and it was rare for her to hear compliments from Natsu. A beautiful piece of jewelry like that, fitting Lucy? Flattery took him far.
“Normally I’d try to get 30’000J for it, as it carries too much emotional value to let it go too easily… But for you, my dear? 10’000.”
Lucy’s mouth fell open.
“No, ma’am, you couldn’t possibly give it so cheap. Let me pay full price, please.” Her protest was made in respect for the handcraft, but the woman shook her head firmly.
“You can try to give me more for it, but I won’t let you.” She picked up the necklace and put it in a small mesh bag. “I’ll simply give the money back. I wanted this piece to go to a good owner, and I trust that you’ll care for it.”
Lucy tried to protest more, but this time Natsu cut her off.
“Whatcha complaining ‘bout? You’re not the one payin’ for it either way. But Granny, I’ll give ya’ 15’000J, no less. Can’t be a proud Fairy Tail wizard if I’m rippin’ ya’ off.”
Before Lucy could stop them, the exchange had been made. Natsu was trying to sneak in another 5’000J, but the lady stood firm. Before the mood became unpleasant, Lucy gave her her deepest thanks and dragged Natsu along so they could make their leave.
“How nice to be young and in love… Lucy, was that your name? You’ve caught a good one.” This time Lucy’s protest fell out of her mouth before she could stop herself.
“Oh, no, he’s not-! We’re not… like that…” Her blush got deeper as she stuttered. “Natsu’s a friend!”
This time it was Natsu’s turn to drag them away. The shopkeeper only held back laughter as he and Lucy walked out of sight.
“It’s gonna be an awfully long day if you’re gonna explain that to everyone,” he pointed out.
Lucy looked at him, still tinted pink from the embarrassment. If a normal person, someone who wasn’t Natsu, had said this to her, they probably would have said it with meaning behind it. Something along the lines of ‘I don’t mind being in a ‘relationship’ if it’s with you’ or ‘I take offence at the insinuation that I’d be so terrible to be in a relationship with’. But as she tried to understand the face he made, she didn’t see any of that. He didn’t mind being ‘just a friend’. Of course he didn’t, being friends was the best thing they could be in his mind – and after all, they are friends. Best friends even. Still, a small part of her hoped that the small scowl that showed in his face was due to feelings deeper than friendship. Though, her brain told her it was merely the sun blinding him, so she just hooked her arm with his again and let him continue their walk.
For around 10 minutes they walked by the river. Lucy doubted Natsu actually wanted to take this way, but she wanted to do her little routine, balancing on the brick wall as the sun slowly moved closer to the horizon. A familiar voice made for a pleasant surprise.
“Hey miss Lucy! You better be careful today, the water's cold and the wall’s slippery!” It was one of the men that brought in smaller shipments of fish through their river boat that had made his voice heard. His friend chimed in.
“Better hold on tight to your boyfriend there! Catch her before she falls, would you, sir Natsu?”
His assumption made her slip as she once again tried to argue against the boyfriend-claims. Before she actually lost her balance though, she felt Natsu’s steady hand grab on to her.
“He’s not my boyfriend!” Lucy squealed. Though, she sure was happy he caught her before she fell. The clucking laughter echoed between the walls of the river bank as the boatmen enjoyed the self fulfilling scene.
“Have a nice date you two!”
“We’re not on a date!”
She tried to counter their claims again, but they were soon too far away to bother talking any sense to. Only the slight pull from Natsu’s hand brought her attention back to the two of them.
“Ya’ really gonna fall one day if ya’ keep this up,” he smirked. Lucy pouted a little – she just couldn’t help it. She liked talking to the sailors, and it was a creative way to make a long walk home shorter. But she usually did avoid it when it was close to freezing. The dangers of icy cold water weren’t something to just shrug off. But today? With the sun shining, the ground looking dry, and Natsu as a space heater right beside her? She supposed she got cocky.
Finally, she jumped off the ledge and got her feet back onto the street. She didn’t go out of her way to drop Natsu’s hand, and seemingly neither did he. It was a rare occurrence, but sometimes they ended up holding hands. A drunken walk home after a late night with the guild, or just a silent drop off at Lucy’s place before Natsu took a sleeping Happy home to their cottage. When she thought about it though, they’d never held hands in broad daylight before. To keep their intimacy secret, only having the mild moonlight revealing their tender touch, was one thing. But to show it off to the sun, to the world? Lucy couldn’t stop her heart from racing even if she tried. Unimportant worries filled her brain like annoying flies. Was her hand sweaty? Was her face blushing too red? Was he listening to her heartbeat? Was he aware of the level of intimacy this was? That they were displaying their oddly close friendship to the world, and that their touches weren’t only between them, the moon, and the fluffy sheets in her bed at night, when she pretended she was asleep as he cuddled close?
“Breathe.”
Lucy wasn’t sure she’d heard him at first, as the word was spoken so quietly it could just as well have been merely a breath. Then he tilted his head slightly towards her, tightened his grip on her hand, and said it again:
“Breathe.”
A big exhale followed by a slow inhale made Lucy realise that she, in fact, hadn’t been breathing. When had she stopped? Well, so many thoughts had been going through her head that she’d simply forgotten to. An easy mistake in her opinion, though it made her kind of dizzy. She was glad that she had Natsu to hold onto. Broad and steady, grounded in their slow stroll towards the park. If he were to drop her hand right now, she was sure she’d lose her balance completely, fall on her face even. But he held on to her, like a warm, unwavering anchor.
With oxygen making its way back in her lungs, Lucy dared to speak.
“Aren’t you getting hungry? I could go for a bite.” A well-timed rumble made itself heard from Natsu’s stomach, drawing out a hearty giggle from Lucy.
“Man, I could eat a horse.”
“Would a couple of hotdogs suffice for a while?” Lucy pointed towards the small cart in front of them with her free hand. It wasn’t the most nutritious option, but it was food and it was close.
“I’ll need at least 6!” He almost looked offended, but a smirk appeared in the corner of his lips before she took him seriously. Not that he’d been joking about the amount of hotdogs – those he really did need in numbers. He would probably need twice that amount to even begin to feel full, if this wasn’t just a snack.
At the cart, Lucy began to order.
“Hello! May we order 7 hotdogs, please? All condiments.” She showed him a polite smile. She didn’t always like how meak her voice got when she spoke as a customer, but with Natsu backing her up she knew she didn’t need to feel bothered by it. If anyone tried to rip her off he’d be quick to… negotiate.
“Seven? Yer sure a hungry one!” A hearty laugh boomed out from his chest. “And for the lad? Hoho!” Before Lucy could correct the man, he’d already started scooping up the hot dogs from the warm water bath they rested in. “A word of advice for ya’ son – don’t be givin’ the lass hotdogs on a date. Ain’t proper.”
What was with the residents of Magnolia today? The jewelry seller, the boat men, and now a hotdog vendor? Lucy didn’t want wizard-fame to go over her head, but surely they all knew the two of them? Lucy Heartfilia, celestial mage of Fairy Tail, and Natsu Dragneel, the fire dragon slayer, the Salamander? Sorcerer's Weekly had covered their relationship status for ages – sure, they always made sneaky remarks of ‘secret relationships’ and hopes for something more than just friendship, but they always debunked the same thing: that they were just friends. Dates and boyfriends? It still felt further away from Lucy’s reality than another visit to Edolas.
But before she had a chance to rebuttal, Natsu opened his mouth to speak.
“Yeah, tell me ‘bout it. I’ll take her on a proper date next time.” He rubbed his neck as he let out an embarrassed chuckle.
Lucy’s mouth was left hanging open as the two of them snickered. Was Natsu acting… bashful? Was he even acting? She knew better than to pretend like she could read Natsu’s mind by now, he was one of the most unpredictable persons she’d ever met, but surely she knew him well enough to understand if this was a joke or not? But a small spark of hope acted as a shield, hindering her from asking. Because if it wasn’t a joke, if Natsu really thought that the two of them going on this walk was a date – well, was she really ready to reject him?
She didn’t know how to answer that yet. So she closed her gaping mouth, hung on to Natsu’s big hand, and stayed silent. Natsu and the vendor were making idle small talk, but Lucy couldn’t find it in her heart to join in. Her mind was racing. Natsu wasn’t the romantic type; he smelled of sewage, his favourite way to pass time was to prank people, and his top three concepts in the world were 1. Food, 2. Fighting, and 3. A talking blue cat. He didn’t think about romance the way Lucy did. He found his emotional satisfaction from being with his friends, with the guild, and, well, with Lucy. So realistically, Lucy shouldn’t take this as a sign of anything. She had made peace with his lack of interest years ago – he had always just been her Natsu, and that was okay. More than okay, it was good: perfect even.
But there it was – the small glint of hope that had managed to keep Lucy’s fear of rejection at bay for all these years. This time in the form of a chatty remark at a hotdog vendor’s off-hand comment. Other times known as a rainbow cherry tree floating down the canal, the call of her name every time he feared that she was in danger, a hand helping her up to see the perfect views of the stars, the heavy arm leaning on her for support during his toughest times, and the small air of flirtiness that saturated the air between them when their faces were close enough. The sign that her hope had something to hang on to. That there was something more than just coincidental romantic gestures between Natsu and Lucy – that there was meaning behind it.
By the time Lucy came back from the thoughts swirling around inside of her, the hotdogs were ready to go, and already halved in numbers Natsu.
“He was nice! Funny old man.”
Lucy nodded.
“Yeah, he was great. Really kind.” She realised that her voice didn’t carry the same weight it usually did. She almost sounded shaky, like all the air had been pushed out of her. Before Natsu asked, she cleared her throat and spoke up again with more power. “So, what do you want to do now? We’ve seen half the town.”
Natsu had a puzzled face as he looked at her. Maybe Lucy couldn’t read Natsu very well, but Natsu could sniff out Lucy’s emotions before she even knew them herself. He read her like a book – ironic, when he was the actual book, in a literal sense.
“We could watch the sunset.”
Was she really being delusional for sensing something similar to romance between them today? A sunset. And then what, gaze at the stars? Kiss under the moonlight? The thought intensified her small blush.
“Yeah, sure. Let’s do that.”
She wasn’t sure why her first guttural instinct was to fight it, reject it. She wanted to do all these romantic things. Like, really wanted to. She just didn’t know what to brace herself for: the humiliation of rejection, her senses being wrong and Natsu not having any romantic intentions behind his actions at all, or the emotional vulnerability of a confession – that there was something more going on today. She didn’t know; and it scared her, not knowing. Life with Fairy Tail had never been predictable, but in a way, Natsu’s stoic, yet reliably silly character, was the one thing she could always lean on. No matter Lucy’s odd antics, freaking out at her chest being exposed, crying from thankful nostalgia, laughing at Natsu’s jokes, or getting angry when he trashed her apartment; no matter what she threw his way, he always reacted the same. He’d brush any embarrassment off and then tell a joke to turn her frown upside down. Reliable.
The park bench they found would have been cold and humid if it weren’t for Natsu’s magic. He had dried up the spot for them, even heated it up a little, and then they sat down to finish the food. The sun hung lower in the sky, and in Lucy’s peripheral she could see the moon sneaking a peak at the sunset itself, ghostly faint against the pale blue sky. She clung close to Natsu, as the longer shadows also meant cooler breezes. The temperature was dropping rapidly, and she briefly remembered that she should have brought in some wood for her stove.
“Nice day.”
“Poop-incident aside,” Lucy agreed. She hesitated for a moment, but soon found her head resting against Natsu’s shoulder. “Thanks for treating me today.”
“Oh, that’s right,” he dug through a pocket on his jacket that still smelled like her fabric softener, “I forgot to give you this.”
The mesh bag that the jewelry maker had given him was now hanging from the grip between his thumb and his pointer. The contours of the pile of gold-plated metal were strong in the backlight of the sun, but she could still clearly see the shine reflect through the mesh of the fabric. He dropped it into her open palm and watched as she carefully undid the scrunch. Holding the necklace up in the increasingly golden light of the sunset made it look like it was glowing. Like there was a fire within, waiting to burst out from the five points of the star pendant.
“It really is beautiful,” she breathed. “But I can’t accept it, Natsu. It’s too nice, what if I lose it or drop it or-” Natsu cut her off.
“Well who else is gonna wear it, weirdo? Ya’ won’t catch me or Happy with it. And as I said, it fits ya’. Take it.”
When she turned to look at him her breath got caught in her throat. Golden hour. Natsu was more handsome than she’d ever seen him before. Lips turned in a soft smile, dark eyes pointing all his attention to her. She wasn’t sure how long he’d been looking at her, but it seemed like ages. Like he’d admired her from a distance for centuries, like a human admiring a God. Her heart rate picked up, though not in the unpleasant way that made her prepare herself to fight off monsters on missions. It raced in a good way, the way that made adrenaline addictive and roller coasters exhilarating. She felt alive.
“Thanks.” She wasn’t sure if he noticed, but her voice was laced with love. Pure and whole, filling her chest to the point that she had to look away before it spilled over and she threw herself on him in a passionate kiss.
He took the chain from her hands and undid the clasp.
“Turn around.”
She obliged, knowing what he was about to do. Except, knowing didn’t help avoid the sparkly sensation that electrocuted her skin once his hot hands moved her hair aside though, grazing the nape of her neck in the movement. She wasn’t sure if she’d imagined her light gasp, as he didn’t pay her skittish reactions any attention. His focus seemed to be on the necklace, as he had to dry his hands against the fabric on his pants multiple times to get a better grip on the tiny hook. She knew the struggle, so she didn’t rush him.
When he finally managed to get the chain secured on her neck, he rested his hands on her shoulders. She was just about to sneak a peek at him when he rested his forehead to the dip right between her neck and her shoulder. Maybe she tensed up – it wouldn’t surprise her if she did – but her attention was tuned to Natsu only. The slow, long breaths that cued her in on the fact that he was smelling her, and the sensation of his hands clasping the fabric of her jacket. She wasn’t sure how to react or what to say, so once again, she said nothing. She just waited, hoping that Natsu would have figured out the words to explain what he’d been doing.
But as he picked up his head and Lucy turned back around, he stayed silent. Watching her, studying her face. Perhaps he was searching for any sign of rejection or disgust, none of which Lucy could muster up even if her life was on the line.
Then, finally, he spoke.
“You’re golden.”
Lucy almost thought it was she who had said it. Natsu’s skin in the deep, orange glow that was cooling by the second, the sunlit shine in his eyes, the reflections in his hair – but it wasn’t she who had said it. The words were Natsu’s.
“Your hair, it’s like a waterfall of liquid gold,” he clarified. Then he let out a small chuckle, and Lucy found herself joining in.
As the warm laughter faded, Lucy’s breath evened out, the moment stretching between them like a held note. Lucy carefully cuddled closer again. The sun had dipped below the horizon, and all that was left was a dim blue hue over the landscape. The dusk brought a gorgeous sparkle as the moisture in the air crystallised into frost, making the beige grass look dusted with sugar. She wasn’t fond of the cold, it brought back memories from her first year after running away from her father, when she still didn’t have enough money to sleep inside. The frosty winter nights were the worst, yet another night just like that was falling around them, and Lucy felt as warm and toasty as she would in bed at home. Natsu was a blessing in every sense of the word.
“Not too shabby for a date, eh?”
His words cut through the silence of the evening.
“It was a date?” She felt stupid asking, but she felt the urgent need to clarify. “You called it a walk before.”
His right arm took her into a tight half hug. She glanced up at him, and to her dismay he was looking goofy and playfully childish, like the sun had brought any overflow of handsomeness with it below the horizon. Was he messing with her?
“That was the plan,” he explained. “A walk to get your mind off of stuff. Ya’ seemed tense. Crabby.” She rolled her eyes, but he continued. “But then the mood got good, don’t ya’ think? So I rolled with it. Ya’ got a pretty necklace out of it. And a hotdog.”
He poked a finger in the side of her stomach to lure out a giggle, which he immediately succeeded at.
“So, what…” she got out in between the fits of giggles, “it was just an accidental date?” She was still smiling, but she raised a questioning eyebrow. Was it all just a chance? Would he have kept it as a normal hanging out session if the shopkeepers hadn’t been in a romantic mood? She wouldn’t feel offended exactly, just… disappointed. It might be selfish, but she wanted him to want her.
His finger became still and she watched as he looked away from her. It wasn’t light enough for her to properly tell, but his ears looked… reddish. Was he blushing? Her heart skipped at the small ray of hope.
“Well… if ya’ didn’t want it to be a date, it doesn’t have to be.”
Lucy poked her head forward, tilted it to see his face clearer. Was he giving her an easy way out if she wanted to reject him? If that was the case, didn’t that mean that Natsu actually wanted it to be a date?
“It was a date,” she decided, hurried before he took it back. He glanced back at her, boyishly happy with her choice.
“Yeah?” He gave her a sheepish, cocky even, smile.
“Yeah,” she nodded, “but next time you gotta tell me ahead of time. I would have picked a better outfit.” She chuckled. Natsu let an eyebrow raise as his lips crooked in a mischievous manner.
“The outfit with the bra was kinda good,” he teased. Lucy just smacked his arm playfully.
“Calm down stallion, I have a cheekier stash. For actual dates.”
“Wait, you do?”
Lucy stifled a laugh as she stood up from the warm park bench. She’d been half joking – the sexiest lingerie she owned was stuff he’d seen a long time ago, just tucked away in a box in the attic since dates weren’t a common occurrence. But it was tempting to buy some new stuff – you never know what the future might hold.
“Come on, let’s go home.” She reached out her hand to help him stand up, but when he stood on his feet he didn’t let go of her.
“Oi, how have ya’ kept that a secret?” He playfully leaned his weight on her, making her stumble as they slowly made their way home.
“Not. Telling.”
The path ahead was dimly lit, but with Natsu’s warmth beside her, Lucy didn’t mind the chill. His grip on her hand was firm, like he had no intention of letting go – she certainly didn’t want him to. A few minutes of silence passed, the only sound being of the low chattering spilling out from a rogue bar on the way, and the gravel beneath their feet. Then Natsu spoke again.
“Still not tellin’?” he prodded again, his voice teasing.
Lucy smirked, leaning into him just enough to make him stumble in return.
“Nope. Guess you’ll just have to take me on another date to find out.”
He huffed a laugh, his thumb brushing over her knuckles.
“Deal.”
And just like that, they walked home. The moon had risen high, yet the stirring of people on the street gave away that midnight wouldn’t arrive for some time. Playful banter made their laughter carry through the frost-kissed air as they took the leisurely stroll towards Strawberry Street. Between Natsu and Lucy, the only thing indicating that the night had turned cold was the clouds of breath escaping their mouths. She felt so comfortable.
Natsu might not be the romantic type, but being romantic and doing romantic things were separate. If she had to pick anyone in the world, pick between hunks and princes, she’d still pick him, because it wasn’t his smooth language or sexy aura that had drawn her in – it was Natsu. Everything that described him, the humour, the boyishness, the unwavering determination, the loyalty – but not as single aspects. Only when they mixed together into Natsu, did she find herself captivated. Lucy would always pick him. And judging by the hand squeezing hers, he’d pick her.
Summary: Natsu and Lucy have just reunited the guild, and now they all prepare for what's to come. While this is done, Lucy takes a short solo mission as she gets used to her old rhythm, leaving Natsu alone in Magnolia. As he paces her apartment on Strawberry Street, he comes across a box of unsigned envelopes, containing cryptic letters.
Notes: (At the end)
Ao3 - FF.net
***
Natsu wasn’t all that surprised when the first mission Lucy took since the guild fully reunited was a solo job. He felt left out, sure, but he knew he had no say in the thing. He had missed her tremendously, and these days he found himself wanting to soak up her presence like a parched plant longing for water. He wanted all of her, all of the time. But their dynamic had undeniably changed.
Everyone in the guild held stilted conversations, threading topics carefully, as no one wanted to step on a landmine. It was no different for Natsu and Lucy. They could talk about Lucy moving her things back in her old apartment, and they could talk about the deep clean Natsu’s cottage needed, but they could only keep to the surface. If any of them even dared to mention why Lucy had lived in Crocus to begin with, or why a thick layer of dust intoxicated the air in Natsu’s house, they would without a doubt start throwing accusations and angry impeachments at each other.
Natsu knew he was seen as the bad guy by Lucy. Probably by the rest of the guild too, but they didn’t get a say in it — how could they leave Lucy alone, all by herself, when no one could even get a hold on Natsu? The disbandment still felt fresh for him, as he only learned about it recently, so his disappointment in the abandonment of his partner weighed extra heavy on his chest. But he didn’t regret leaving for a year of training. The bandage on his arm strained as he worked his muscles, reminding him that it hadn’t been without reason. Of course it hadn’t — strength was the most important thing he could possess at this moment in time.
No, he didn’t regret his year away, but he knew he had betrayed Lucy. He had missed her every day, but he never made an effort to reach out again, because he knew that the second he allowed himself to feel homesick he’d run back to Lucy without a second thought. Even Happy knew — none of them mentioned her much; the guilt weighed too heavy. He wondered how he could feel so content in his choice of action, while also deeply regretting it at the same time. How could anyone know what was right when something felt so complex?
While Lucy was away at this mission — one that would only last a couple of days at most, she had promised him — Natsu couldn’t stop himself from breaking into her apartment on Strawberry Street. He needed something to remind her that she wasn’t going anywhere. If that something had to be staring at the milk in her fridge, a reminder that she was coming back, then so be it. But as he looked at the number of cardboard boxes in her living room, all filled with things that were meant to be on display on a shelf, or in closets waiting to be used in rotation as the season changed from summer to autumn, he noticed a cold, snowballing sensation in his chest.
It had already gotten dark out, and few lamps were plugged in so Natsu didn’t bother turning any on. The wallpaper wasn’t that warm, peachy pink anymore. Well, it technically was, but it all looked grey, dull, and it smelled dusty. He came here to ease the worries in his mind, but really, it seemed like the apartment was having opposite effects. Nothing was right. It didn’t smell like Lucy’s home — not one scented candle had been lit in almost a year, no meticulous scrubbing of the hardwood floor with that apple-scented dish soap had been done, the bathroom lacked that smell of her shampoo, fabric softener from her towels, and the minty toothpaste that Natsu hadn’t washed away in the sink after he’d brushed his teeth before illicitly spending the night.
Never had the scent of neutral stung so badly in Natsu’s nostrils. He hated it. He let his fingers drag across the fireplace. Dust, dust, more dust. That fireplace had been cold for so long, and it was his fault. He strained his brain trying to get himself to remember that he didn’t actually do anything wrong. He didn’t do anything wrong. It wasn’t like he had mated with Lucy; he was allowed to make his own life choices. That didn’t mean the sour sensation in his stomach lessened though.
With a heavy sigh, he sacked down into Lucy’s couch. Before long his leg started shaking, and he had to stand up again and pace around the room before it drove him mad. Did she hate him for leaving? He knew she wasn’t happy about it, but did the frustration root so deeply that it couldn’t be saved? Was that what she was doing now; taking her distance before Natsu fell into a normal daily rhythm with her again?
When his foot knocked over a stack of cardboard boxes he swore under his breath.
“Shit,” he mumbled, dropping down on his knees to scoop up the content. Stacks of paper had spread across the floor, and curiosity won before a battle against the thought of him respecting her privacy had even begun.
Letters.
What he had bunched together was letters. Sealed, but not signed. Could it be letters to her mother? Perhaps she had started writing them to her father too, now that he had died. Natsu felt like he shouldn’t intrude, but his hands moved on his own, warming the glue that held down the flap. If it was too private he could put it back without her noticing.
For some reason, his hands shook when he unfolded the paper.
February 17th. Take nothing for granted.
He turned over the paper twice. That was all it said. Nothing about who it was for, no context. Something felt wrong, compelling him to open another letter. He accidentally ripped a part of the envelope, but his heart raced too much to care. What had happened while he was gone? This was almost 7 months after he had left to train. Seven. Why was it always seven?
February 17th. I don’t count the days anymore, but yes, I often think about you. I have thought of a million things to tell you, but when I hold the pen in my hand, I can’t remember what they were. Do you think about me?
Natsu read the page over and over. Another letter that echoed a mostly empty page, practically blinding him despite the dim light. At least his legs had stopped shaking and itching. Now it was his brain that was working overtime, filling up with questions faster than he could even register them enough to begin to answer them. He saw that the letter had been written the same day though. Was it possible that this was the date Natsu had left, only seven months later? He couldn’t remember. Why had she taken time to seal two letters on the same day? And such short ones — did they carry so much emotional weight that she couldn’t continue writing on the same paper before she banned her writing to paper-thin concealment?
He ripped the next one open, no longer caring about hiding any traces of him invading her privacy.
February 17th. I wrote endless letters to you in my mind. It consumes me, so today I pour my heart out. Tomorrow I will wear my nice shirt and no one will see how you have infiltrated my brain, but today the ink will flow. I love you madly and miss you madly.
Natsu’s heart raced.
“I love you madly…” he repeated in a soft whisper, barely hearing himself over the blood rushing around in his body. Now, realistically, the letters could have been to anyone. Nothing in written text indicated that it was words specifically aimed towards Natsu — still, for once in his life he felt like he finally understood what that ‘reading between the line’s business was all about. He knew Lucy. He knew her a year ago, he knew her today, he would know her in a hundred years. If he one day layed with dementia on a bed in a sterile room, he would always know one thing: Her. Always, always her.
And that meant that he understood that this was about him. No name-dropping needed. He read the letters again, rearranged them in his hands. Which had she written first? Surely they weren’t written in the order he had read them. But perhaps it didn’t matter. Though, the first letter was undeniably the one that unsettled him the most. “Take nothing for granted”, sure, he could understand that on a personal level — but what was it Lucy couldn’t take for granted? Natsu? It would have made sense, but something told him that it wasn’t the only thing on her mind as she wrote it.
Maybe another letter would tell him the answer? He rummaged the blank envelopes, not sure where to pick from now that they all had mixed together. He grabbed a handful and ripped the top one open.
February 25th. You lost your way. I think I did too. It’s not terribly scary — I just wish we were lost together. How are you? Can I gather courage to contact you? I have paced the post office, clutched these papers until they wrinkle. The workers tried comforting me, and I left mid-sentence. I ran. But there is nothing else I can do; I have gradually lost sight of all other human beings, can only see you, and you are so distressed.
This solidified his theory of the letters being dedicated to him. She understood him, she always did — she knew what Igneel had meant to him, and she saw his reasoning as real and grounded. Kind, warm Lucy Heartfilia. He wanted to be comforted by her acknowledgement, but her grace brought just as much guilt as relief. If Natsu had stayed, he would have harmed himself — by leaving, he harmed Lucy. He swallowed hard.
When he turned the page over, he saw that it, to his surprise, wasn’t empty. It continued, as a separate entry.
February 26th. Better consciousness of myself. The beating of my heart more as I would wish it.
That was all. Natsu didn’t need to open more letters to know that this was her last entry. He wondered what she had thought about that week. 17th to 26th. It must have been tough on her. She had carried the entire guild on her shoulders, been so close to them, yet so far — his mind threw him back a couple of days, to when he saw her wall of maps and records of the guild’s whereabouts. All of that, and somehow there were only letters to Natsu.
“The beating of my heart more as I would wish it.” She must have been referencing how her heart had been breaking; perhaps racing in momentary panic, or slowing down, matching the snail-like ticking of her clock. Time passed too slowly when she was all alone. Natsu remembered his own experience with sorrow. Even during his year away he found his bones aching and moaning, waiting for the months to pass.
He leaned back on the still too dusty floor and let himself reflect on the letters again. February. The greyest, coldest month. Memories of colourful leaves on the trees and Christmas cheer, far, far away — and spring and all the signs of new life spring would bring, feeling unattainable. Did Natsu’s absence echo too loudly when his fire was too long gone for her to remember the sensation of it? Had she dried her hair after going home in a rainstorm and wondered where her happy days had gone? He didn’t know many details about her past, but the grey ceiling he looked up at must have been just as oppressing in the Heartfilia mansion. Empty from life, empty from death — Jude locked in his office, Layla six feet under cold wet mud. Servants would move in the shadows, and Lucy would gaze across the monochrome rooms. A fireplace in every room — none lit in years, maybe eons for all she knew.
Guilt. How could he make up for taking part in yet another abandonment in her life? He knew how soul-sucking getting deserted was, having lived it. He pocketed the letters he had opened and put away the mess as he thought about it. He had already brought the guild back for her, made them reunite so he could make her joyous smile return to her face. He had used his actions to convey that he had come back to stay — but maybe that was exactly it;
A vow.
He would vow to never let her walk lonely, never let her fight alone. He swore he would do everything in his power to let her apartment stay alive, the fireplace always lit, far from the reminders of an empty konzern from her past. Her tummy would always be full, her mind always creative, her memories full of adventures, and her heart would always be filled with hope and belief that she would experience many future ones. And he vowed to protect her, if he so had to die doing it. She loved him madly, and madly he loved her back.
He stood up and stretched, chest feeling lighter as he took a deep breath in. Glanced around the room again. It still gave him the creeps how little Lucy it felt, despite containing pretty much all her belongings, but at least now he could look past the suffocating atmosphere. He was going to beat Zeref, take down Acnologia, and create a world where Lucy could unapologetically live.
The letters crinkled in his pants as he hunched to get through the window. She had left it unlocked, despite only recently having moved back in. As long as she cracked that window for him, he would always make sure she knew he was there to take care of her. Her secret sign that she wanted him there. She accepted his presence, even after betrayal and being left behind. He was thankful.
The air was cool against his skin, despite it being mid-July. Somewhere flowers were blooming, filling the night with an intoxicating, calming perfume. He made a mental note to ask her which one.
Oh, and one more vow; to never write her another note. He would never let her relive this year; no more departures, no more abandonment. From now on he would always face her. That was his promise.
__________
Here's the original quotes I included in this fic:
“February 25-26. But there is nothing else I can do; I have gradually lost sight of all other human beings, can only see you, and you are so distressed” — Letters to Felice by Franz Kafka
“February 26. Better consciousness of myself. The beating of my heart more as I would wish it.” — The Diaries of Franz Kafka
“February 17th. Take nothing for granted.” — Anne Sexton
“17 February. Yes, I often think of you,” & “I have thought of a million things to tell you.” — The Letters of Vita Sackville-West to Virginia Woolf
“February 16-17. I wrote endless letters to you in my mind.” — Letters to Felice by Franz Kafka
“February 17. I love you madly and miss you madly.” — Letters to Véra by Vladimir Nabokov
Summary: A sky full of stars, and he was looking at her.
Notes: keep calm and love lucy. that's it that's the a/n
Ao3 - FF.net
***
It wasn’t that he disliked the stars. They were perfectly normal, pretty, and bright; everything he ever asked them to be. He had just found something more captivating to look at.
The stars illuminated her skin. Each pore purified, every cell in divine observation. She gazed upon the freckled skies, and the skies looked back at her in admiration. They fought to fit into the galaxies in her eyes, and for a brief moment he wondered how it would look when her life would inevitably end. Would her body turn into a sparkling dust, join her admirers in the dark night, or would her soul grow in size until she was big enough for the universe to fit in her pupil?
He begged that he would never live to see the answer. Immortality was certainly a curse, Natsu out of all people should know, but he couldn’t help but wish it on the woman that deserved life. To always watch over birth: of stars, suns, moons — lambs, foals, children.
She would grow into that omnipotent God that humanity for eons had followed, prayed upon, fought over. And once she had the universe in her pupil, power to rule and beckon life, all wars would cease. No more demons, no more curses, no more evil infesting the pulsing veins of existence, crawling, climbing, festering like thorny vines across souls.
But for now, she was human. Just Lucy, smile lines creasing around her mouth, lips and tongue forming around her perfectly imperfect teeth as she spoke of otherworldly wonders, pointing with a chipped nail across the empyrean heaven, drawing lines between swirling stars.
He never wanted to leave this moment. Chronological timeline in all honour, but endless hours, repeating the silent breaths between the two of them over and over again, seemed much more appealing. He would spend lifetimes observing her if he could. The limited time ahead of him was in no way enough — he wanted to memorise the map of her DNA, the way her cells divided and dedicated themselves to keeping her alive.
Natsu didn’t know the words to tell her. No words would suffice — she deserved perfectly composed lyrics, laced with the intoxicating ecstasy that she filled him with, and then some. But he barely had enough words in his vocabulary to call her pretty, and much less the patience to spell it.
He could still say things to her though. Nothing meaningful of course. A weak statement, a bare proposal of something earthly. But perhaps that was blessing enough.
Reining in the galloping heart in his chest, he swallowed hard and gathered courage to touch her — letting the palm of his hand lightly graze the impossibly soft skin of her arm, tracing it upwards to where she was painting the heaven with complicated constellations. He moved his head closer to hers, feeling the prickly grass poke at his cheek, lining up their eyes for more accuracy. Then he moved her hand upwards, and a bit to the left, landing on a big, almost orange-y flaming, raging star that looked like it was storming towards them in a fiery fury.
“And that one,” he whispered, so softly it barely counted as a breath, “what’s that one called?”
Lucy spoke with clear conviction when she answered. “It’s called Antares. It’s often referred to as the big ruby in Scorpio’s heart, though I’m sure the man himself aided that rumor.” The giggle that rang out could have healed the most life-threatening disease — Natsu was certain of it. “Its name comes from an ancient language, and an ancient civilization, where they considered the star the ‘rival of Ares’ or ‘Anti-Ares’, due to its reddish hue and brightness. Apparently the colours are reminiscent of the planet Mars, which one of the countries at the time named after their god of war, Ares. In some interpretations, Antares is also considered a rival to Orion, the hunter, as they are opposite each other in the sky.”
Lucy slowly brought their hands over the colossal firmament, pointing at the other constellation in question.
Natsu wanted her to talk about the stars all night, and the clouds all day. Then, if the heavens aligned, they could rinse, wash, repeat. But he didn’t know what to say right now — he could only let his eyelids weigh heavy as he repositioned their hands in the air, feeling her soft fingertips against his mortal skin. How he wrinkled compared to her, and how he dirtied her bright complexion, bringing mud, scars, and heavy moans of regret to the picture in front of them.
Still, he wouldn’t remove his hand if he so had a gun pointed towards his head. The likeness of him, caressing the etherious of her — an event so unlikely that stars surely had been burned up to make it happen. He didn’t mind — he’d let the universe burn if it meant he could spend another minute beside her.
So, to honour the stars that had given their lives in order for him to meet her, he let his thumb caress the back of her hand. The bright pink emblem, painted on like a mural, made him beam with pride. Fairy Tail — the place she belonged before she even knew it existed. How many times had their paths nearly intertwined, before they met that fateful day? Ancestral intervention, all threads carefully spinned, then woven to create the cloth and canvas which they today painted with the most vibrant stories. Lucky Lucy Heartfilia and Etherious Natsu Dragneel, the products of thousands of coincidences aligned to, at the end of the day, make them simply Natsu and Lucy. Lucy and Natsu. Victorious sculptures, radiating the pinnacle of trust — a bond historians would study for eons to come.
Perhaps stars didn’t burn up for them to meet. Perhaps their interactions was what birthed new stars — little glowing balls of hope, snowballing into the otherworldly wonders that rivalled gods. Maybe, in some inconspicuous way, Natsu and Lucy were it. The meaning of life, the definition of paradise, the feeling of reaching nirvana. Mankind created wars, the concept of hell, all because the average person would never achieve this sensation. Lying on a bed of soft grass in the meadow with the moon a spotlight, highlighting the woman that was worth it all.
Soft against his calloused hand, cool against his burning touch. He caressed her fingers again. It was a comfortable, lukewarm sensation. Water in a lake, just cool enough to refresh an exhausted, dimmed mind, but plenty warm to want to linger. For her, this was just another Friday night. For Natsu, it might as well have been the day of creation — the most important moment of existence.
“You’re warm,” Lucy commented, voice softer now than when she was talking about the stars. Natsu watched as she laced their fingers together, giving his hand a soft squeeze.
“You’re… perfect.”
The words slipped out of his mouth before he even registered them in his mind. His heart started racing, jumping around between the walls in his ribcage like a nervous animal. Had it been weird of him to say? It was fairly unprompted from her point of view — though he hoped she somewhere deep inside always knew that he thought of her that way.
Slowly, he glanced back at her, only to be met by those huge doe eyes, her face so close their noses touched. She was smiling, eyes relaxed in an assuring expression. Beautiful. Their hands fell down in the small space between them, resting on the cool ground. The braided fingers stayed the same though — clutching on to the other in a desperate attempt to stay close. Then, Lucy reached out to him with her other hand. Softly, she cupped his cheek — one that was surely bright red under the tan — and felt the bulges and crevices that made out Natsu’s sculpted form.
She was observing him. It was dark out, so it was natural that she wanted to know him closer. See him in her mind, how the stubble of his beard prickled, how his scars gave dimension, how his muscles contracted and relaxed as he smiled under the touch of her hand.
The feather light touching on his skin was one thing. It was her way her eyes searched through him that touched his soul. Natsu had heard about the clichés so many times they had lost all meaning, but tonight he rediscovered what they meant. The eyes truly are the windows to her soul — a cosmic ocean, where cascading waves of thoughts and emotions formed the essence to her being. Not an ounce of apathy, not a crumb of anger. No lingering feelings of revenge, regret, dismay — completely without veils of any cloudy thoughts; her eyes told him about love.
Love, love, love. He had never understood the word. Not completely anyways. He loved lots of things, and he loved them deeply. It wasn’t that the other love he experienced wasn’t real — he just saw that the sensation that filled his chest, that spread out to his limbs and filled his entire nervous system with pure serotonin — it was something else. The truest form of it, pure and enlightening in the dark night that surrounded them.
His arm moved on its own. Mirroring Lucy’s actions, he allowed himself to touch the face of God’s masterpiece which laid before him. Moving a lock of that moonlit golden hair out of her face, fastening it behind her ear. She wasn’t wearing her earrings today, so he took the rare chance to roam the contours of it, to let his pointy finger and his thumb encapture the earlobe at the end. Soft like a lamb’s ear. Lucy’s delicate beauty was surreal.
As they breathed the same air, Natsu’s mind went dizzy in contentment. Smelling her sweetness, feeling the soft tissue on her cheeks, letting his finger make out the outline of her nose. Delicate, sure, but strong rang just as true. This face had withstanded wars that no human should have to go through — the tight skin over her old scars reminded him of that. How wondrous to be able to see her like this: pretty like a flower petal one day, and tough like tempered steel forged in fiery determination, the next.
In his daze his eyes flickered down towards her lips. Not the plumpest in the world, nor the softest. They too had scars — some from biting down mid-battle, others from chewing in concentration as she wrote the paragraphs in her novels. He traced them too with his thumb. Dead skin coming off as they were healing from last writing session, but nothing that disarrayed him. His lips were probably faring worse — though, he frankly never gave them a second thought.
With lips in mind, he found himself wetting his, only for Lucy to follow suit. Natsu’s heart, which had been flickering around in his chest for quite some time now, suddenly jumped.
He wanted to kiss her.
For some reason it hadn’t been on his mind this entire night — he was perfectly content just worshipping her until dawn, like he had done for so many years before. But with “love” still echoing in his mind, he realised that time would wait for no one. Feeling gratified with the limited access he had granted himself to this woman over the years was only acceptable for so long. Truth was, he needed her — craved her so deeply he wanted to taste every crevice in her mouth, feel every inch of her skin against his. And looking into the infinitely dark eyes in front of him, he dared to believe she would let him.
The pull between them was magnetic — Natsu wasn’t sure who closed in on who. All he knew was that he barely dared breathing, and that their noses pressed significantly harder against each other by the second. He slanted his head the smallest degree, and suddenly there they were — foreheads touching, noses parallel parked, and their hot breaths signalling that they were millimetres away from their first kiss. The briefest nudge forward, and their lips would be touching.
So that’s what he did. His mouth brushed against hers with a ticklish, feathery lightness — so delicate that they could still feel the wind weaving between them whenever it stirred. For a moment, Natsu let himself hover there. His eyes were already closed, so all that remained were the tactile impressions: the soft, barely existing contact of their lips. His senses were so heightened that even the smallest movement — the shaky breath, the motionless touch — sent electric jolts coursing through his veins.
The tentative restraint made him grow increasingly impatient. What began as something delicate and almost reverent, was shifting into tension, winding tight just beneath his skin. Stuck in a freeze frame at this moment of time. For a split second he considered pulling away, but he didn’t. He couldn’t. Her lips were right there, warm so close — but not enough. Not nearly enough. He wanted to move, deepen it, press in until the space between them was obliterated. The kiss hovered like a question mark, and Natsu suddenly hated how careful he was being. He never did things halfway. Not when it came to her. And this was starting to feel like holding his breath underwater. He needed more: he needed her so badly it made his teeth ache, made his bones writhe inside of him.
So he leaned in, just a fraction closer, and that was all it took. The world tilted on its axis, just slightly — not enough to throw him, just enough to make him feel like he’d finally entered the moment he’d been waiting for his entire life. A moment that had been in his prayers in coded subtitles — always there, resiliently and carefully asking the powers of fate to bring him closer to this instant. And that time was now.
Lucy’s breath caught, or maybe that was his. He didn’t know. All he knew was the way her lips yielded when he pressed in, how they parted like they’d been waiting for him. It wasn’t rough, but nor was it soft either. It was decisive, as they finally cracked the lock to the door they had been longing to open. It was the missing key, what etched their relationship into existence.
She moved with him so naturally, it might as well have been her second nature, her biological calling. Her hand continued the caressing of his cheek, but this time with more conviction — one that rubbed off on Natsu, who found himself pulling her closer by the neck. It almost felt wrong to kiss an angel like Lucy with such desperation, but on the opposing side was the intense feeling that nothing had ever felt so perfect, so aligned with fate’s woven threads.
His mouth moved slower now, not because the moment had mellowed out, but contradictory: this was the part that mattered. Her sweet, savoury taste, her breath that engulfed him as she lured him in, the tiny sound she made when he deepened it just enough to ask if she’d follow him there. Wet, warm tongues, dancing slowly between them, a temporary portal to a world where the two of them shared one mind, one soul.
Natsu hadn’t known he could kiss like this. It was slow, considerate as he finally released what he had been holding back. It was like this kiss was the only way to show her what had been lodged in his chest for years, stuck between instinct, naivety and fear. And now that it was finally rising to the surface, pouring out in the press of his mouth against hers, he didn’t know how to stop. Dear God: he didn’t want to.
When they finally parted they didn’t move far — just enough to breathe — and Natsu didn’t open his eyes right away. He couldn’t. It felt like blinking would shatter the fragile dreamlike state he was in. The moment was still suspended in the space between their lips, her breath was still brushing his skin. That alone kept him still.
His heart was a hammer now, loud in his ears and clumsy in his chest, and for the first time all night he wasn’t sure what to do with his hands. One stayed at her jaw, his thumb grazing the curve of her cheekbone, like he needed to convince himself she was still there. The other one still clinged on to her hand, as letting go of his anchor still felt unpredictable.
He felt dazed. Not in the way he sometimes got after a fight, with stars swimming behind his eyes — but in that way you feel when something significant changes and you know it, immediately, down to the bone. He’d kissed Lucy before, once or twice in dreams he barely let himself remember. But this? This was real. This was her, warm and close and kissing him back like she meant it.
He finally opened his eyes. She was already looking at him.
And god, if that didn’t undo him all over again.
Natsu noticed a faint sheen on Lucy’s lips as she parted them to speak. “You’re perfect too.”
He wasn’t sure if he dared to believe her. On one hand, he was painfully aware of the severe difference in attractiveness between the two of them. It didn’t bother him most of the time — it was simply thrown around between people’s mouths and ears as blatant facts. Lucy was the pretty one. It was as evident as the sun and the moon orbiting earth.
But on the other hand, questioning her would disrupt his entire faith — no one questions his Lucy. Her words were his law, so if she called him strong, he trained himself to move mountains, if she called him unpredictable he threw the choice of his actions to the fate of the dice, and so, when she called him perfect, what else could he do but allow himself to lean forward and press his lips against her forehead.
“Lucky Lucy in the sky,” he mumbled, his words barely audible as he moved his lips against her forehead. A giggle rang out from underneath him.
“I’m not in the sky,” she tried to counter, “I’m right here on earth. With you.”
Natsu brought some distance between them to look at her properly. Her bangs swooped to the side of her face, pink-tinted cheeks that had scrunched into balls of joy as she laughed. She probably thought he was being silly. Maybe he was silly. But if she saw herself in his eyes, she would understand what he meant.
He let his lips curl into a smile. “Yeah.”
Lucy rolled back to her previous position, returning her gaze to the stars above them. Natsu lingered though, continued taking in the contours of her profile, the soft sheen from the night sky illuminating the embodiment of beauty she was.
Natsu had all of eternity to look at the stars, but the rare moments like these was what he lived for. His otherworldly bewitching Lucy, his reason to live.
drunkenly, yours - nalu
work count: 966, sort of proofread
a/n: i miss u domestic nalu i miss u soooo much
Lucy stumbled through the streets of Magnolia back to her apartment, liquor clouding her vision and making her double-guess if she was going the correct way. At the moment, she had too much to drink and too little intellect. She had entertained Cana in what she thought would be “light drinking”, but after her fourth drink, she realized that wasn’t the case.
After multiple wrong turns, Lucy somehow found herself turning onto Strawberry Street, her apartment in sight. Now smiling and giggling with glee that she managed to find her way home, she not-so-gracefully skipped to the building, not phased by the fact that the lights in her apartment were on despite no one being home.
Tripping up the steps and fumbling with her keys, the blonde successfully found her way back to her abode. Lucy kicked off her shoes and wobbled through the lit apartment, oblivious to who was there.
“Hey Luce,” said a familiar voice, which nearly scared her to death despite the soothing tone. Looking over to find the origin of the voice, she noticed Natsu lying on her couch. He had a small ball in his hand, which she assumed he was tossing (even though she had gotten onto him multiple times about it), and his signature grin was written on his face. Something bubbled in her stomach, and she wasn’t sure if it was love or the liquor.
“Hi Natsu,” she giggled, not even bothered by the fact that he’d let himself in without her being there, “I missed you tonight.”
“I missed you, too,” he said.
Making her way around the couch, she stumbled onto it and fell right into him. Natsu instantly wrapped his welcoming arms around her, taking her in and making her feel at home. Lucy purred as she entangled herself in his warmth, nuzzling into his neck and peppering it with light kisses.
“You reek,” said Natsu, face contorting with slight disgust.
Lucy lifted her head and sniffed herself, letting out a pitiful groan as she realized she smelled like straight booze.
“Don’t worry,” Natsu reassured, rubbing her sides, “I can help you.”
“I’d appreciate it,” Lucy said as she lazily got up, Natsu’s arms flailing back to his sides.
He followed her to the bathroom and helped her get undressed as the steamy water ran in the tub. Now naked, Lucy entered the hot water with Natsu’s assistance and let out a sigh of satisfaction. Sinking herself into the comfort of the water, she smiled at Natsu as he sat in front of the tub with a bottle of her vanilla body wash in one hand and a loofah in the other.
“I know you want to get into the tub with me, Natsu,” she teased.
“Just turn around and let me wash your back, Luce.”
Lucy pouted as he blatantly ignored her teasing. Instead of complying with him, she hurled herself in his direction and smothered him with her wet body.
“C’mon, join me, Natsu!” she snickered, just inches away from his face. Their chests were smooshed together, along with her arms slung over his shoulders, not caring as she was actively soaking his clothes. He huffed as he removed both her from his body and his wet top. Lucy frowned as she was shunned by her boyfriend, not aware because of her drunken state that it was because she was indeed very much soaked, and not because he ‘hated her’.
“Fine then. I didn’t know my boyfriend hates me,” she whined, tears pricking at the corners of her chocolate colored eyes. He rolled his own onyx colored eyes at her dramaticism of the situation.
“I don’t hate you, Lucy,” he said, squirting the soap onto the loofah and rubbing it together to get it sudsy, “I just want to get you to bed as soon as possible. I know how tired you must be.”
Lucy stopped her pouting and looked at him, lips quivering and eyes full of a newfound affection. He was right, she was exhausted. She just wanted to spend as much time with Natsu before she would eventually succumb to slumber.
“Okay,” she said, turning and now complying with his previous request.
“Okay,” he repeated.
Natsu cleaned her from head to toe, making sure that there was no smelling evidence of her previous activities left on her. After, he helped her get dressed and took her to her bed. Before he let himself embrace her, he got her a glass of water and made sure she knew it was on the side table next to them.
Finally, climbing into bed, he wrapped one arm around her slender waist and pulled her into him as she adjusted her head to rest on his other arm. He sank his face into the back of her head and smelled her freshly cleaned blonde hair as she pushed her back farther into his chest.
“Natsu?”
“Yeah, Luce?”
“I love you.”
He felt his face heat up at her softly spoken words, even though she’d told him this multiple times before. Nonetheless, the words still made his heart flutter. He nuzzled his face into the back of her neck and left an open-mouthed kiss there while he rested his calloused hand on her stomach underneath her shirt.
“I love you more,” he said, rubbing his thumb against her tummy lovingly.
“Impossible,” she muttered, now dozing off.
All he could do was chuckle in response. He knew if he were to shoot a rebuttal back at her, he’d only be speaking to himself since she would soon be fast asleep.
As annoying as Lucy may be when she’s drunk, and as much as he hates hearing her vomit early in the morning, Natsu still appreciates these uncommon nights.
Hello! Mathiyu here! I haven't posted much here in Tumblr. But! I'm more active on twitter so come and check me out there! Also, I now have a Patreon. If ya guys want to support me and my art journey, come and support me there. Anyway, here is a Fairy Tail Nalu Doujin (Ongoing). Enjoy
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Summary:
El runs and she keeps running until she's about as far away from home as she figures she can get. And as the years go by, she manages to carve out a peaceful sort of existence. It's not a happy life, but she's content with the knowledge that the loved ones she left behind are safe and happy.
But while Mike's safe, he's not happy, not by a long shot. He's living a half-life, living under the shadow of the love he lost... of the love he knows is still out there, somewhere, waiting for him to find her.
And when Mike finally has enough of surviving without living and embarks on an aimless journey to find her, El knows her days of isolation are behind her. Because the longer Mike tries to search for her, the more attention he brings to himself and the more likely he'll put himself in danger. So she leaves a trail of breadcrumbs to guide him to her, as always willing to do anything to keep him safe.
And when they reunite in the sleepy village El has learned to call home, they'll learn if they can move past the shadow of the history they share... and if they can rediscover the love that once shone brighter than the sun.
so turns out I couldn't hold the words back
tagging people who might be interested based on my tumblr interactions over the past 24 hours (let me know if you want on or off the tag list): @thief-and-dragonfly, @the-paris-of-people, @hearts-keep-going, @subjectmiles, @elhoppers, @thesaunatest, @onmaplestreetagain, @lucascsinclairs, @larawrites
