Hello, and here is a little to know about my blog; what what I'm usually doing, what I do & don't do, etc.
The Records.
I am never not writing… but I am new to this entire thing, and thus will be stumbling through it all and clumsily posting & then running away screaming. Author is a loser everybody... booo!! booo!! tomato tomato tomato!!
Entirely a Male-reader [maybe gender neutral] blog, and I am a subtop/top male reader truther.
I can and probably will write for other fandoms, of course. Any I'm into, or for any character I have similar feelings for. Author is all over the place, everyone. Who's shocked?
I can write smut, I've just never had sex, so It will not be the best or the realest— and neither are something I've done just yet… BUT I am very self aware, so If I do, I doubt it to be too clunky; just embarrassing. This author is a freaky virgin, please keep that in mind.
I will NOT write; Rape, Sexual assault, or anything of the like that is Illegal or harmful. Do not expect that here, and if you end up requesting, I will not respond to anything the above in this passage.
I try to post regularly/semi-regularly, just for the fun (and the attention.. wait, who said that?) of it. Posts are not promised, of course, because I post the same day I write.
Synopsis: Ryland misses you so much it hurts, much to his own hopeless chagrin. Of course, when he can't have his boyfriend fuck him brainless and soothe his (sexual)frustration, comes the next best thing; jerking off to you… and missing you the whole time.
WC: 4k.
AN: The smut monsters got me you guys... gulpgulp. "It's ok, Author, we love your filthy Ryland smut!!!" Awhh,.... thank you anonymous, body-less voice!! (PS: Not proofread).
Anyway. Male Reader.
Ryland's keys jingle weakly in his hand as he walks up the stairs, letting the loop of the key-ring hang limply from his index finger as he steps up to the landing, continuing on towards his apartment. Each step is careless, lacking the idle, comfortable laziness they usually hold— he feels wound tight, his insides coiled together and too hot to be pleasant.
So far, his day had been awful.
Nothing big, nothing dramatic— just… bad. He spilled his coffee this morning two sips in, he used the wrong key twice to get into the School Building, embarrassed himself in front of a parent, and missed you so much he was re-listening to the voice notes you'd sent weeks ago in the teacher lounge.
Yeah. Just bad.
Sighing lowly, he stops before his apartment door, ignoring the longing in his gut as he shoves the key in and turns. The moment the lock clicks in its release, he turns the knob and shoves it open, closing it immediately behind him before he slumps back into it and closes his eyes.
It didn't help his body was sending signals you weren't here to soothe; both frustration, and… well, a different kind of frustration. The kind that made his groin ache and his shoulder tingle with the memories of the kisses you laid there.
But you weren't here.
Nope. You were two freaking states away, fixing some stupidly-rich guys "collection car." Because, apparently, knowing models before the seventies and how they work is impossible for anyone other than you to care about.
He had a love-hate relationship with that. On one hand, it was awesome that you specialized in something that made you happy and that you were great at it. On the other, it meant that, sometimes, some drowning-in-money jerk would fly you out to Gosh-knows-wear for a week and he'd be stuck eating take-out and wishing you were here.
Now his apartment just feels empty. No you in the kitchen making dinner so he'd stop spending so much on take-out, no you looking jaw-droppingly sexy in just sleep clothes, no you for him to stick to and bury himself in your after-shower scent.
No you at all.
It feels like punishment, but he knows it's not.
He misses you anyway.
Sluggishly, he pushes himself off of the door, tossing his keys over to the table by the door and beginning to, rather roughly, pull his jacket off and set it on its hook. It falls off right after, and for a moment, all he does is stare at its limp, defiant form.
He's going to lose his mind.
But, instead of doing so, he leaves it there for another more patient day, toeing his shoes off by the door and kicking them next to where yours typically stayed. The spot was empty now.
He pulls his Teacher ID tag from its place around his throat as he steps further inside, setting it down on the island next to where the sticky note you'd left him was.
"I'm leaving now. Sorry for not waking you up— yeah, I know you'll be annoyed, but you needed the sleep. I'll text you when I land to let you know I'm safe, okay? I love you. See you next week. :)
PS: don't forget the laundry from downstairs. It's in the third dryer on the bottom row, our usual one went out of service."
He's read it about a hundred times now— before he'd leave for work, when he'd come home, and whenever he was in the kitchen. You'd talked a lot since then, of course, but he'd still read it anyway. It was a habit now.
Sighing, he steps back, moving on towards the bedroom as he undoes his belts clasp; the noise, even though it's his own, makes his brain recall every time you'd roughly undo your own in times of… certain desperation.
Stop it, brain, He grumbles internally, pushing his bedroom door open, he's not here. You need to shut up.
The room still smells faintly like you, even though it's been three days since you'd left. As he gets undressed, he mindlessly wishes your scent would stay longer— he misses being able to stick to you whilst in bed, to be able to hear your heart and smell you from the source rather than from anything lingering.
Is that a little pathetic?
Maybe.
Is he ashamed?
No, not really. You're his boyfriend. He's allowed.
He unbuttons his shirt first, shrugging it off and throwing it in the general direction of the clothes hamper before he continues with his jeans, holding a hand to the wall to keep him balanced as he gets the last pant leg off.
Letting those stay on the floor, he steps over to the bed, tossing himself down onto your side and groaning, rather loudly, into your pillow. His arms come up, circling around it and pushing it closer to his face as he shifts and inhales— the bunched-up blankets rut against a very sensitive place at the movement, and he stills like he was struck by lightning, his groan muffled from the fluff of the pillow.
It felt good, but… not as good as he's sure you could make him feel with just a single touch alone.
Nothing compares to how you do it— he can't ever mirror the way your rhythm falls, or replicate the feeling of your calloused hand around him (or holding his hand). Nothing works but you. Since you've come around, he's only been able to get himself to cum… what, twice? With a lot of time and patience.
And you double that in a single night with half the effort.
It was unfair, your absence. He's stuck here like a longing, painfully-hard house wife, while you work hard over twenty hours away. Probably sweating, and covered in various grimes and greases, and grunting whilst you fight to get a bolt off—
He flips over onto his back, yanking the pillow from his face and letting it drop to lay across his stomach. If it didn't feel disrespectful to use the same pillow you slept on most nights to jerk himself off, he'd be clambering on top of it and rutting into it like a freakin' dog, but... It does, so he won't.
Tonight, anyway. He's not sure if he'll have the same restraint another night, if he stays this worked-up and without you. He'd be one-hundred percent okay with buying you another pillow case if that ends up occurring this week.
For a second, all he does is lay there, half-panting and staring listlessly up at the blank ceiling— he wants you, so bad it hurts. Everywhere. His shoulder where you'd kiss (and sometimes bite, when you'd cum), his hips where you'd keep him steady, his hands where you'd tangle your fingers together (and where he'd bury his hands in your hair and pull, just to hear the broken groan that'd spill from your lips like honey).
He needs you. Like, now.
Shoving your pillow off of him, he kneels over to the side of the bed, hanging off the edge as he grabs his jeans and digs around in his pocket for his phone. The moment he has it, he's pushing backward to lay down, scooting back to rest half propped up against the headboard.
He's panting as he fumbles to unlock his phone, mis-inputting your birthday once, then twice, finally steadying his hands enough to get it right on the third time. His teeth sink into the fat of his bottom lip as he reaches over, his glasses slipping down his nose as he presses your pillow against his chest.
He wants to call you, to see your face, to hear your voice talking to him, to have your attention.
It's not rude to interrupt if I say it's an emergency, he thinks, staring down at your contact photo, is it?
Calling someone just to jerk off is weird.
No, it's not… when you're dating, anyway, right? This is totally normal. People do this all the time.
Nevermind, yes, it is.
He's unsure— so, to distract himself, he scrolls upward a little and re-reads the last messages you'd sent.
"Yeah, it's not going too bad. You'd like it here. Very cute geese. One of them squints like you do when your glasses are off. Anyway, I miss you. I'll call when I'm done and we can talk tonight, is that alright?"
That one was around lunch, but you'd sent one more before saying bye— just asking about work, if he'd eaten, that stuff. Caring stuff.
Stuff he would've enjoyed hearing you say in person.
His chest aches.
Dipping his head down a little, his glasses shift as he squishes his nose into your pillow and inhales the left-over scent of your soap. He does it again, and again, before locking one of his arms around it and bringing his legs up— it's not warm like you are, and it doesn't have the body he likes to mindlessly trace with his fingertip late at night, or the heartbeat he falls asleep fastest when listening to.
But it smells like you, and, for the moment, it'll work.
After a minute, he pulls back, his tongue poking at the side of cheek as his thumb slips down the screen of his phone. He exits the Messages app, instead going to his gallery; the photos there are random. Some science memes, random pictures of the pond with all the geese he likes to feed, more pictures that'd either you'd sent of yourself or he'd taken of you.
After scrolling back a few weeks, he stops, clicking on the video there before adjusting his grip on his phone to have it laying sideways. He presses his face into your pillow again, feeling his groin throb when the edge of the pillow shifts with his movement and grinds against his dick.
The video starts with darkness and some noises of shifting, before you finally pick the camera up and steady it.
"Okay, uh… I think I've figured it out." Video-yous nose scrunches, the sharp points of your teeth just slightly visible behind your lips. His attention latches onto it immediately, before shifting to pay some focus to your face.
Video-you is filthy, slick with sweat in a way he can recall a few moments about during a separate time. Your breathing is heavy, too, no doubt from just crawling out from under the car you'd told him about then. It was, apparently, a difficult one.
Not that he cares. He'd thank that friggin' car any day now for this video of you alone.
"Um… Yeah, okay. Anyway," The cameras point of view shifts as Video-you moves, and his heart-rate ticks up a little— he's watched this video of you showing him around your shop way too many times. He knows what's coming.
"Let me take you somewhere I can talk first without getting droned out from all the noise, yeah?"
He huffs lowly as he shifts, moving forward to lay back completely as the video continues. He brings the pillow with him, circling his arms around it and making it more comfortable for it to hold his phone.
"This is the 'Main room.' Just put quotes around that— meaning, it's the only room with AC that everyone crowds like bees. 'M a little surprised it's empty now; my day is finally getting lucky, hah."
Finally, the camera view picks up again as Video-you shows him the room in an idle, lazy movement. He knows the room by heart— a small table in the corner with four chairs around it, two of them broken, the only window filled with an AC unit, a few lines of counters with a few cabinets above them, a fridge tucked next to the end of it.
"Moving on," Video-you announces, moving over to the little thing of shelves out of camera view, "Gonna prop you up here for a sec, Ry. My hands are grimy 'n my phone keeps slipping." Your voice is slightly muffled when your hand covers the mic, but his stomach heats up at the nickname, however covered.
Ry. No one else calls him that; only you.
As the camera view changes again, the sharp points of his teeth dig into the side of his cheek, his breathing picking up a little as your expression shifts to focused again. This point of view is lower, giving full view of grease-covered you from your thighs and upward, and a full shot of your stomach when you grab the hem of your shirt and bring it up to wipe the sweat off your face.
God, you were hot.
Enough so for that one shot to be why he watches this video again, and again— your voice, too. It always got a little more raspy when you were tired, a little more ragged. Closer to what you'd sound like when you'd cum; enough so to get him heavily distracted, anyway.
This was a piece of an immortal heaven. As long as his phone was charged, he'd be able to watch this, and get to see you all worn out and dirty and gorgeous.
His tongue runs over his bitten lips, a shaky exhale following right after as he pauses the video and sets his phone aside. As much as he loved this video of you (he's watched it three times yesterday), he hadn't ever… well, jerked off to it. He'd thought about it — way too many times, actually — but never had really done it, since you were always there to climb all over.
You're his boyfriend, so it's not like it's too creepy, right? It's not even weird. Couples record "Home Videos," (cough) and do all sorts of things with those, so, morally, he could jerk off to this and be okay.
He wished he didn't have to. He wanted— needed, you here, all over him and fucking him until his brain turned to mush. Just you here in general would be nice. You didn't have to be on top of him, or behind him, or in him…
He shifts, grumbling lowly at himself.
He can remember last Friday like it was yesterday.
How your lips felt against his, how you groaned into his mouth every time he'd pull at your hair, how your fingers would curl inside of him and make his vision go white… He pulls the pillow from his chest, breathing through is mouth as his hand wanders down, taking the teasing path yours would always take.
His stomach twitches beneath his own touch, sensitive to the trail from his hip to his dick.
How your hand felt when your fingers would dig into his thighs to keep his legs open, the feeling of his side pressing into the edge of your knee when the bed would dip from your weight as you'd loom over him, peppering soothing, warm kisses from his jaw to his collarbone.
His imagination is so vivid he can almost feel you hear— your breath against his neck, the callouses of your palm against him, the heat from your hand around the back of his thigh.
He swallows, sucking in an unsteady breath; he gasps as he palms himself through his boxers, his head tipping back against his pillows. Aimlessly, he tries to replicate your touch. How you'd press the heel of your palm into him and run your thumb over his tip through the fabric, how you'd say something silly just to get him to relax some more and get comfortable.
That latter part is something he can't get right.
What would you say this time, if you saw him? Would you gently tease him, say something softly like Just can't wait for me, huh? Or would you say nothing and just let him try to, hopelessly, get himself off?
It's alright, Ry, He settles on, imagining your voice in his head as his hand presses down a little firmer, I get it. Put on a show for me, yeah? I wanna watch.
His heart-beat stutters as he groans, his eyebrows drawing together when he shifts, pulling your pillow close again just to inhale needily.
Well? Your voice continues, Don't be shy, Ryland. We can stop whenever you want.
He drags the heel of his palm over his tip, his jaw settling at the pleasure of the fabric grinding against the sensitive, positively-flushed place— and, rather quickly, he lifts his hips up just to snag the hem of his underwear and yank them down, kicking them off to lay uselessly somewhere on the floor.
For that, you'd probably soothe him; make sure he was alright, that he wasn't too antsy to the point of being overwhelmed. He'd say something like, No, just in a hurry, or something silly and bratty like, What, I can't want my boyfriend?
But you aren't here, and he's pinned fantasizing desperately. It's better than nothing— imagining you rather than lamenting your absence is more pleasurable.
The tip of his tongue pokes his top lip as he lifts his head up, watching his own hand as it carefully wraps around himself; he sucks in a breath, his groan grumbled and muffled within his throat. His doesn't look the same around him as yours does— not stained enough, lacking the little scars littered across the flesh there.
His eyes slip shut as his thumb teases the crown of his dick, this time without fabric in the way. He can picture how you'd look; legs crossed, leaned back on your palms as you'd watch him work himself up, eyes half-lidded and shadowed as you'd stare at his hand.
So, this is how you do it, huh? You'd implore, voice strained by arousal, head tilting. Maybe you should let me watch you more.
"I— I wish you were here," He gasps, talking to no-one but himself and his imagination of you. "I hate this… I want you."
His fingers curl around himself, tightening just slightly as he huffs, shifting in his place on your side of the bed. He draws your pillow closer again, breathing in a short, quick, unsteady rhythm of your scent— desperately, he reaches up with his free hand, his other stilling idly as he yanks his glasses off and tosses them over to the bed-side table.
As soon as they're off, he buries his face in your pillow, panting into it as his hand starts up again, trying to find the rhythm you'd always use.
Unsurprisingly, he can't. Every attempt is just a weak, pathetic mimicry. He just couldn't get it right— every spot you'd hit almost seamlessly every time to make him see stars, he seemed to miss with skill.
It's frustrating.
Still can't get yourself off? You'd tease, but, he could imagine you wouldn't let him give up yet; no matter how obvious he could picture your want would be then. Want me to help you?
"Please…" He whines, his hand curling into a fist around your pillow, voice muffled by the very thing he's clinging desperately to; it's lost some of your scent due to the fact he's been cuddling it to sleep every night, but some is still there, buried beneath his own.
His jaw sets as his hand shifts in rhythm yet again, his hips jerking instinctively when the edge of his thumb bumps into the sensitive spot below his tip— he whines loudly, his inhale shaky and broken as he tries it again.
There you go, You'd ease, voice softening, that's it, Ry.
"I miss you," He moans, running his hand up, down, then up again, the side of his index finger bumping into the sensitive spot almost every go. "I— I don't want to do this myself, I want—- hmmg, I want you."
He breathes through his mouth, letting his head tip back into his own pillow so he can get more air. His pace slows just slightly to give his forearm a break, the pad of his thumb nudging against the underside of his tip, just to tease himself like you would.
You're doing so good, Your voice rings out in his head, guiding his hand. So, so good.
His teeth dig into his bottom lip so hard it stings, and when he runs his tongue over the ache, he tastes metallic. He adjusts again, wiggling in his place and letting his legs stretch out, only to spread to give himself some more room.
Starting up again, he tucks your pillow into his side, his fingers curled into a fist around the shirt covering it— he may or may not have stolen a shirt or two from the dirty clothes hamper to put on it that still thickly held your scent.
His hand isn't as calloused, or as worn as yours, but if he tries hard enough, he can picture you behind him, keeping his back pressed against your front as you guide his hand. Your thighs would flank his hips, one of your arms circled around his chest to keep him in place, your hard-on pressed against his spine with your warmth and your scent swallowing him whole.
He spreads his legs a little wider, moaning open-mouthedly— he'd squirm just to hear your groan and your shaky breathing when the friction would press against your dick, then proceed to act like he wasn't doing anything on purpose.
You'd laugh and pretend to believe him, only to litter punishing kisses and little bites around his shoulder and tell him, We've only just started, Ry. You can't come just yet, yeah?
"Mnngh—" He swallows, feeling that coil start to heat up in his lower tummy, pulling taut.
You're so lucky you're not here, he thinks, tightening the grip of his hand when he gets closer to his tip, Or I'd be jumping your darn bones right about now.
Whining, his head pushes back into his pillow, bearing his neck; if you were here, you'd take the invitation and mouth at his neck, graze the points of your teeth over his jugular in a way that has his thighs shaking now.
His stomach tenses as the string of his insides pull taut, not yet snapping— he drags the heel of his palm over his tip as he drags the pillow up and over his face, forcing it downward and inhaling.
He cums.
He keeps up pace, slowing as his hips fuck up into his hand, easing himself down; he can feel his cum landing on his stomach, pooling in his bellybutton. The pad of his thumb runs over the underside of his dick as he welcomes the after-shocks, panting desperately into your pillow before reluctantly pulling it away from his face.
After a few moments, he pulls his orgasm-slick hand away from himself, dropping it lazily to rest on his stomach until he works up the energy to care about the fact he's covered in his own cum and the remnants of agonizing need.
His dick still throbs in a heart-beat adjacent rhythm, timing loosely with his ragged panting and the twitching of his stomach.
He jerks at the sound of his phone ringing— his head lifting up immediately to look for it, only to spot it with your name and contact photo splayed across the cracked screen.
He reaches for it with his filthy hand, only to decide better half-way and switch, snagging it shakily off the bed and swiping to answer. He stares idly at his hand, making a slight face at the cum covering it.
"H—Hello?" He croaks, still recovering from his orgasm.
"Hey, Ry. Finished up over here for tonight. Your day get any better?" You question, your voice slightly worn, yet still soft, gentle.
The same voice he was imagining talking him through his own masturbation.
Synopsis: Ryland makes a beach day out of teaching the Pebbles about Buoyancy and how Ammonia is less dense than water or air--- but they, like Rocky and Adrian, can't let him do anything around you without making his heart-rate and flushed cheeks terribly obvious.
WC: 3.4k
AN: Teacher Grace... mmgnnn... Teacher Grace... save me Teacher Grace... AHem. Author getting freaky in the AN... sorry!!! I got possessed. Totally yeap. Anyway! The beautiful artist that inspired this post: @nocek
Gender Neutral Reader.
"Okay!" He claps his hands together, humming lowly as he glances over the gaggle of tiny Eridians grouped together before him, each in their own little spheres. "I think we're all here— now, who wants to go learn about water?"
A chorus of tunes emit from the group, and he can't help the smile that pulls onto the edges of his lips; Sue him, he missed this. The teaching, kids, being able to be a stepping stone in a younger ones life, to help them learn about their world. It was awesome.
Erid was awesome.
Clearing his throat, he steps over a little Eridian as he makes his way away from the house, over to the water— the kids sing happy tunes as they follow him, the sounds of their spheres digging into the gravel a welcome company in lack of your own.
You weren't dead or anything. Gosh, no. You were just inside, and, well, he favored being a little dramatic.
Only a little.
He takes another step, and at the feeling of something brushing his ankle, he pauses; on instinct, he glances southward to make sure he wasn't going to step on anyone (and to make sure they weren't getting too close whilst he was walking)— they'd nearly tripped him twice before, so he'd tailed a class with how it was dangerous for both them and him if they ended up doing so and getting hurt.
Of course, they listened, but some had a hard time.
Ronald — a tiny, adorable pink Eridian — pushes his xenonite sphere against him again, jumping in his bubble in a way he knows that alerts he'd missed something. Ryland shifts on his feet, pushing his glasses back up from where they'd slid down his nose from his heads angle.
He frowns. "What's up, buddy?"
"Where Grace friend, question?" Ronald pushes himself into his sphere, making a faint clinking sound as he does so to make sure Grace understood he was curious (and slightly miffed at your absence).
"They're inside getting changed— they'll be here soon, I promise. They won't go back on their word."
A cacophony of angry, annoyed tunes ring out from the bunch at what he's said, successfully muting the noise of more of them bumping themselves into their spheres unhappily. He winces, his mouth parting slightly before he steels his expression, clearing his throat again.
…Okay, then.
"Alright, um— how about we wait for them instead? How's that?"
The tunes that come out are happier this time.
"Why friend take so long, question?" Tola muses, pushing herself out of the gaggle to run over the top of his shoe, only to slip down between his feet. She stays there. "Take too long, statement."
He flits his gaze downward, watching Tola shift around in her ball— the rest are doing similar movements; some swaying, some bumping their xenonite into anothers (just to hear the noise of contact, he's found), some just sitting or rolling around atop of the gravel.
"Oh, well… They wanted to eat before they came out, so they wouldn't be peckish at you guys. It won't take much longer, I'm sure."
"Peckish, question?" Barrole asks.
"Hangry, correction." Carl answers.
They're not wrong, he thinks, tilting his head idly and looking back over to the door of the house. They do end up hangry. Your face would scrunch and your eyes would narrow every time something didn't go your way when you were hungry— your voice would get strained, too, but you'd always try your best to not get too snappy at him.
That was always nice.
You were nice.
At a nudge to his ankle, he's pulled from his distraction.
"Hm?"
"Grace friend slow, Grace go check. Fast." Ronald pushes his sphere into his leg this time, slightly harder than before.
"Um…" Ryland clicks his tongue against his teeth, huffing slowly at the ache in his back as he lowers himself to sit down, being careful to check to make sure no-one's behind him first. "No, it'll be fine. It's rude to interrupt someone while they're changing— disrespectful, really."
"Rude why, question? Hurry along not rude, statement."
"Because—"
He's cut off mid-way as a bunch of pebbles perk up, making happy noises. About a hundred Grace friend here!'s are said, so he understands the reason quite quickly— their affections for you were, truthfully, very cute. They loved you as much as they loved him.
It was great; what only makes it cuter is the fact you were nervous that they wouldn't like you the first time you'd met all of them. He had to push you to come along to one of his classes, even just to get you acclimated first.
He still remembers the flush to your cheeks — and your breathless, relieved laugh — when they'd made it known they adored you.
As a handful rush over to you and bump into you for attention and to talk, Ronald pushes against his shoe again. "Grace heart-rate get faster while watching Friend, statement."
Laughing awkwardly, he swallows, looking away from where he'd zoned out watching you to tune in more to Ronald. "Oh— uh, it's nothing to worry about, buddy. It's very normal. Nothing worrying."
"It's nothing to worry about," He echoes, shyly running his hand through his hair to fix it… even though he's done nothing to ruin it. He does it anyway, even if it's an obvious self-soothing tick. "And I'm very sure about that part."
"Grace lie, statement. Ronald know, statement."
He huffs, slightly offended, slightly flustered— it's a horrible concoction, making a low heat of embarrassment warm the tips of his ears and the fat of his cheeks.
"I'm not lying," Ryland grumbles, pushing his glasses back up as you settle the group of excitable pebbles and finally start coming over. Attempting to calm himself down some, he exhales slowly, his tongue poking out to wet his bottom lip.
He'd rather you not see the flush to his face he's sure is still clinging like a bad cold.
"Friend get new shirt, question?" Tola asks, the gravel beneath her ball shifting with the quick movements she's taking to keep up right beside you; his gaze jumps up naturally at the question, his eyebrows raising faintly at the sight of you wearing a shirt he'd "made," you.
Really, all he'd done was take the older, more worn clothes aboard the Mary, and patch-work them into stuff the two of you could wear again. The one you were wearing now was a mis-match of a few things.
You look great in it.
Gosh, he wonders, inhaling slowly, how do you make everything look so good?
"No," You respond, and he watches as you carefully avoid bumping into Tola, then his attention flits back up to your face to watch your expression. You look focused. "Your Teacher Grace made it awhile ago… I just never come out in it. I mostly use it for sleeping. It's cool, though, right?"
"Very cool," Pablo muses, fumbling to keep pace with you, "Awesome. Feel nice, question?"
"Yeah, very nice. Thanks for asking."
"Yes, yes, yes. Pablo happy at Friend thanks."
Your laugh sounds nice, but your voice, softened by amusement, sounds worlds better.
"No problem, Pablo."
Ryland shakes his head to pull himself from the distraction you are (It's entirely his fault, not yours, but he'll blame you anyway) as his fingers dig into the gravel as he pushes himself to stand up, and he gasps at the feeling of your hand curling around his bicep to help him up— the touch startles him, and you notice it, too, because you pull your hand away almost immediately as he straightens out.
"Sorry," He mumbles, his nose scrunching in both embarrassment and guilt; he can see regret staining your expression. It only makes it worse. "I, uh, don't know why that startled me, that's all me. Sorry."
"Grace heart beat faster!" Carl announces proudly (and rather unhelpfully), jumping up in his ball a second after.
His face flames.
Your mouth opens like you're going to say something, but Tola pipes up first, circling your feet excitedly— he looks from her to Ronald as he runs over his shoe, to you, back to Tola, then to the others. They're sticking together, pulled into a tight bunch and saying stuff in a frequency he can't hear. He knows they're talking, because they keep giggling and swaying.
"Grace friend's fast too," Tola chimes, pushing her sphere into your ankle as she sings. "Grace friend star-tled too, question?"
"Yeah," You finally mutter, staring down at her. It feels like it's on purpose. "It's okay."
Clearing his throat loudly, he exhales, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt; it's a little too tight around his biceps, and it's slightly annoying when he's so hyper-aware of everything about himself… Like he is at the moment, face flushed and body hot.
"Okay! Changing topics now, who wants to go swim?"
They're all paying attention now.
"Well— actually," He continues, turning on his heel to walk and talk, "Swim is a rather broad term for this, as you all won't be able to actually go under-water. Since Ammonia gas is significantly less dense than air or water, it'll give your spheres a strong buoyancy. Like a balloon!"
"Do they even know what a balloon is?" You question, trailing a little behind him.
"Yes," He affirms, looking back to make sure they're all keeping up— at the sight of them doing just that, he re-focuses on where he's walking so he doesn't trip. "I made myself a similar-enough prototype, and I showed them that during class yesterday. Cool, right?"
"So that was your reason for wanting to finish the tequila the other night? Jeez, and here I was, thinkin' you just wanted to drink with me. I'm hurt."
Your tone is teasing, almost soft.
Heat crawls up the back of his neck as he abruptly stops, stilling just before the water-line. The noise of the waves against the shore and the pebbles stopping beside him keep it from true silence, and he's heavily grateful for it.
"I needed the bag," He defends weakly, scratching at the back of his neck as he turns to face you. "And I wanted to drink with you— it was a win-win!"
You snicker. "I was kidding, Ryland. Relax. I had fun; I don't care what your reasoning was."
I had fun. He's not sure what about that makes his brain halt in it's tracks. It feels good to hear.
"Well… I would hope so," He grumbles, "And I am relaxed. Completely. 100 percent… not tense at all. Like a cat."
"…Right."
He huffs, swallowing. The warmth in his face is still terribly there, and his arm buzzes with the remnants of your earlier touch.
"Can we get in the water yet Teacher Grace, question?"
Looking away from you, he runs his gaze over the excited cluster, searching to see who'd asked the question. As soon as he does, his tongue clicks against the backs of his teeth. "In just a second, Mallory. Let one of us get in first so we can help you all in after."
A choir of questions follow his response, but he can't hear almost any of them.
"Pebbles— we've talked about this. One at a time, please, or else I won't be able to hear all of you."
"Will it be difficult, question?"
"Swimming? Not at all."
In the corner of his eye, he catches you getting out of your shoes— then anything else you don't want getting wet. He follows, continuing to answer questions as he toes his shoes off.
"It will be fun, question?"
"Once you get the hang of it, yes. I'll make sure of it."
"Why Grace behave odd around Grace Friend, question?"
"Okay, uh, pass. Next question?"
"Grace Friend and Teacher Grace mated, question?"
"Wha—! No! That's not even related to the lesson— pebbles, please, for the love of science, stay on-topic. We can ask personal questions later."
"Why not, question?"
You're awfully silent. You're doing it on purpose, too, because you've got no problems answering their questions on other days. You're ditching him on this one, and it's a blatant choice.
Of course you leave me to answer the awkward stuff.
"On topic, Carl. The topic. Let's not forget it! How water reacts to different things is amazing stuff!" He reminds, pulling his socks off and shoving them to rest inside of his shoe, so he doesn't lose them… again. The rocks hurt the bottoms of his feet, but he carries onward anyway.
"Anyone else have anything to say that's related to the topic?"
"What 'topic' mean, question?" Barrole asks, rolling up to the edge of the water.
"Oh, it's just the main point of conversation. For example," He steps into the water, continuing, "science is often the main topic of our classes. Yesterday's topic was radiation poisoning."
"Barrole understand. Thank, Teacher Grace."
"You're welcome, Barrole."
The water is room-temperature— Rocky had made sure it wasn't too hot or too cold multiple times, and he was thankful for it. He was always very susceptible to even the slightest changes in temperature; when his ex-girlfriend was still living with him on earth, they had multiple arguments over her making it too hot or too cold.
"Tola want up, Statement. Up up up."
"Give me a second," You mutter, and he glances over his shoulder to get a split-second of view of you taking off your watch, before he stumbles and has to re-focus. "I'll pick you up in a minute. Think you can wait that long?"
"No, statement."
"That was a rhetorical question, Tola."
He grins. It was always amusing to listen — or watch — to you talk with the little pebbles; some of them could be a very needy (or very curious) bunch, and he wouldn't say it, but it was funny to have you fumbling to answer or pay attention to them all.
You always did well, though.
You'd make a great parent.
…What?
What the heck do you have him thinking?
"Can we get in, question?"
Now that yanks him back to attention.
"Hm—? Oh, yes. Just… do it slowly, okay? It'll be hard to keep balance at first, but you'll get it."
He stops once he's in about the mid-thigh length, nudging his glasses back up the slope of his nose as he watches the pebbles all rush into the water; they do so as expected, so he's prepared enough. His gaze flits over all of the ones floating atop the surface, making sure none of them are getting too stressed or are slipping too much.
The sound of Tola singing happily is louder than the rest of them— and, of course, when he looks over to see what she's doing, she's completely slumped against the side of her sphere that's pressed to your chest as you wade into the water.
Cute.
"How's everyone doing?" He implores, reaching out to steady Mallory when she slips.
The answers he receives are all happy, mellifluous tones.
"Buoyancy so fun!" Carl chirps, his ball bumping into Ryland's hip as he jumps upward in it. "Fun fun fun!"
"Okay, okay," He laughs, gently pushing him backward so he doesn't float off too deep, "Be careful, Carl."
"Water shaky," Barrole announces, "Difficult to stand on, statement."
"That's because you're not standing, you're floating. Buoyancy, remember? Ammonia is less dense than water, so you float on its surface. Very cool stuff!"
Slowly, he steps backwards, going in a little deeper whilst keeping an eye on everyone. They're all doing great— Carl is still bouncing, Mallory is getting the hang of it, Barrole is sticking close but getting it too, and Tola is… still singing happily against your chest.
"Other things are buoyant, question?" Mallory asks, her sphere rolling slightly as she steadies herself.
"Yes," He affirms, feeling his stomach twitch as the warm water envelopes his lower tummy. "Quite a few things are."
The artificial sun is warm on the back of his neck, and, faintly, he wonders about sunscreen. He burns easily— but he doubts there's enough artificial UV Rays to give either one of you sun poisoning, so he worries less about it.
He bumps into you when he takes one too many steps backward, and warmth blooms from the contact almost instantaneously. You don't care, because all you do is steady him and offer a lazy, careless grunt of acknowledgement… apparently too busy with Tola.
"Examples, question?" Carl pipes up, his ball clinking into Barrole's as he stops.
"Uh, Oxygen and water is one," Ryland offers, trying to recall others. "And Helium and oxygen. There's a lot."
"Grace breathe oxygen. Grace buoyant in water, question?"
"I am, yes."
"Example, example, example!"
"Example?" He gasps, dramatizing the question, just for fun. "I'll see what I can do about that. I'll need a willing, human puppet—" He glances over to you, a grin pulling onto his mouth as he watches you process what he's implying. "For this example. Anyone willing?"
Once your eyes meet, your eye-contact says a lot you don't. A silent conversation ensues.
Really? You raise a brow, head tilting.
Come on, it's for the kids!
Right… not for your enjoyment at all, got it.
Only a little, I'll confess. Come on!
You groan.
"Okay; willing puppet secured, let's do this."
Slowly, you pull Tola from your chest— she sings unhappily, saying something in a frequency neither of you can hear. It must be bad, too, because the other pebbles laugh.
"I'll pick you back up in a minute," You huff, gently settling her in the water next to the other awaiting, mostly-still kids. "I promise."
He snickers. "Willing Puppet, I want you to submerge yourself under-water for a second. Understood?"
"You can quit with the name-calling any day now, Grace." You grumble, inhaling slowly as you sink downward, then go under, blowing air out of your nose.
"That's no fun— anyway, do you guys see this? They don't have a lot of Oxygen in their lungs, so they're not as buoyant. They're still buoyant, just not as much as they would be, were there more Oxygen in them."
"Grace say Grace float, statement. Grace friend no float, statement." Carl says.
He looks back to you as you come up, only to glance back over to the pebbles. "We're not done yet, Carl. I'll show you the rest in a second. Patience!"
He looks back over to you, watching you surface and push your hair out of your face, then wipe the water out of your eyes— your shirt clings obscenely to you, but he tries not to focus on that.
"Grace heart beat faster again, statement."
Nevermind.
"Okay, Ronald, you don't need to point it out every time— pay attention to the lesson!"
"I think I got water in my nose," You announce, pointedly ignoring what Ronald said as you run your hand down your face, "I haven't done that in a long time."
"Rusty?" He muses, exhaling slowly. Your arms look awfully good; you in general look way too good. It could be a crime. "Me too."
[Name], sentenced to life without parole for being Too Hot, statement!
…He's going off topic.
"Ready?" He implores, idly steadying Tola and Barrole when they bump into him to get closer.
You nod.
This time, when you go under, you keep the air in your chest— and, of course, you end up floating at the surface, slightly dipping every time you exhale.
"See?" He points out, stepping a little closer to you. Gesturing to your chest, he glances between you and the pebbles, "Since their lungs are full of air, they're more buoyant; example complete. Oxygen is more buoyant than water."
He lazily pokes you in your side to alert you that your Willing Puppet℠ days are now over, but instead of you seamlessly coming up, your hand curls around his wrist— he yelps as you drag him under-water, instinctively reaching for you as he comes up gasping and soaking wet.
"What the heck?!" He breathes, pushing his hair off of his forehead, then pulling his glasses from his face.
"I'm ticklish," You laugh, wiping the water from your face. It's an awful excuse.
But the sound is pleasant; both gentle and slightly raspy at the same time, making an unwilling fondness bubbles in his chest at it. And… Well, he ends up laughing too before he can stop himself.
The pebbles are giggling too, soft, higher-pitched sounds as they wiggle in their spheres to come over to the two of you.
He smiles, squinting lightly now that his glasses are too wet to see through.
Elbowing you in your side, he tries to steady his voice, hoping to avoid letting the amusement show too obviously. "O… kay. I think that about wraps up this lesson. Back to shore, everyone!"
Synopsis: When observing a new plant species of Erid's goes awry, both you and Ryland get spores spewed all over you-- and they certainly have an… effect. AKA: Ryland's fib gets both you and himself covered in what has the same effect of sex-pollen.
WC: 5.3k.
AN: Baby's first time writing smut... I got carried away, can you tell? Hah. I also wrote this in one sitting-- sorry, everyone, I'm a repeat offender. Sue me.
Not proofread, we die like Commander Yao.
Male Reader!
"Huh— I think this is actually how they reproduce, rather than dropping seedlings," Ryland hums, shooting a glance over to you before he looks down at his notepad, jotting a few of his observations down.
This species of plant isn't one he's ever seen before on Erid; thus, when the little pebbles started singing about it, he'd gotten curious as any science nerd would— you two are the only humans to ever be on Erid, let alone live here! It's an amazing thing, and he enjoyed it quite a bit.
Even the Me-burgers were heaven compared to coma-sludge, or worse, starvation. It took a little getting used to, yes, but it was great.
"So it only looks like seeds," You pipe up, leaning back on your knees and resting your gloved hands over your thighs, "Quite fascinating. Maybe there was an evolutionary purpose to it?"
"I'm not sure," He admits. "Adrian did say it offered some… unique, functions to an Eridian system— it could be that they used it to achieve a bodily high?"
Tilting his head, he leans forward and runs the tip of his pencil over the underside of one of the leaves, watching the connected branch curl up and, seemingly, die immediately. He winces. "…Oops."
A second later, the branch turns almost a radiant pink, and falls down to rest finally on the rocks in the biodome.
It's strange— he's unsure how a plant so sensitive to touch survived this long on the surface — even moreso how it still lives in human conditions — where even the harsh winds of Erid made it difficult for it to thrive. Sure, yes, it was mostly found in deeper systems where movement wasn't as common as the surface, but the question still stands.
Erid biology was amazing.
"So much so to change its propagating system to be less farmable?" You question, and when he glances over, your nose is scrunched in confusion, "Maybe Rocky left some information out."
Shrugging, he moves to kneel alongside you, letting his gaze flit back over to the offending plant. Some of the petals around the bud of the flower have wilted, changing from pitch-black to a pretty, dead pink; proving how little time you both had before it'd completely wilt.
"Only one way to find out," He muses, feeling a grin slip onto his lips as he digs his gloves out of his pocket and gets them on, "I mean— Distant observation can only get you so far, and it hasn't killed us yet or proved to have a scale of toxicity to humans."
Handing his pen and notepad to you — and blatantly ignoring your faint, disapproving grunt — he shifts closer to the flowering plant, leaning down a little to glance over the underside of the leaves and the flower, before he straightens up.
He continues. "Is this a bad idea? Maybe. But we could also learn from it, so there is a light at the end of the tunnel!"
"Ryland…"
Your voice is low, and not exactly approving— but he shoulders on anyway, straightening his spine and wincing at the ache, spreading his knees to give him a wider sense of balance. Only a few bad things could happen, either way; One, he gets a face-full of poisonous spores and ends up kicking the bucket, and Two: the plant fights back and he gets ill for a few days, but is otherwise OK.
Two sounds optional, but he has some hope for nothing bad to happen.
Are those famous last words?
Maybe.
Is he going to continue anyway, for science?
Yes.
"I've got this, It'll be fine— we did survive space," He nudges his glasses back up with the back of his wrist as he peers over the flower, "Let's not forget that part. Space? Scary, but great. Alien plants? Awesome!"
Is he getting slightly nervous and talking to calm himself down? Also maybe.
Upon hearing your noncommittal grunt, he exhales slowly through his nose, carefully reaching over to the core of the life before him— he knocks into another branch with his elbow on accident, and it dies immediately. A little disheartening, but that's pretty normal for his life, so he continues.
Gently, he wraps his hand around the bud of the flower, softly prying the petals open—
He jerks back as spores shoot upward and all over his face, coughing up a fit as he waves his hand in front of his face. His other digs into the rocks below him, keeping him off of his back.
He starts talking before you have the chance; just to save himself from your impending I told you so. Even when he deserves it.
"Well—" He coughs, pulling his spore-ridden glasses from his face, "That was totally, one-hundred percent, completely expected! I did that entirely on purpose. You know. For science. Gotta test it somehow, right?"
Laughing awkwardly, he avoids looking over at you as he sits up, shaking his head to be-rid himself of the shock. In spite of his obvious embarrassment, he feels your hand curl around his shoulder, then the warmth of your body next to his— for some odd reason, it feels a lot more present than before.
Like, fever-adjacent warmth.
Was he getting sick already?
Your voice cuts through a haze in his brain he wasn't even aware was there— Yeah, he's totally getting sick.
Darn it.
"You alright? Ingest any? Get any in your eyes, your mouth?"
Blinking rapidly, he shakes his head again, humming a low mm-mm as your face comes into view, your eyebrows furrowed in concern. Your hands warm his already hot face as you brush some of the colored spores off, and all of a sudden, saliva puddles in his mouth at your touch.
You'd removed your gloves? When and why did you do that?
Sure, sue him, his mouth would water a little any time you did something remotely attractive— but not this much.
"That's…. weird," He mutters, swallowing, "I think I'm getting sick."
The rocks shift beneath your knees as you adjust, and he can't help but watch your expression, to stare at your face. The little scar that marks the flesh from below your jaw to beside the corner of your mouth, the way you huff and tilt your head when you're confused, the way your jaw clenches and your mouth curls back when you're angry…
Your mouth is moving. Are you talking to him?
Who is he kidding. You don't talk to yourself like he does.
"Ryland— Your pupils are blown to high hell," Your grip shifts down to his jaw, tightening as you turn his head however you please, "You're confident you didn't swallow any?"
…Wait a minute.
Oh, no.
"I— I think we were wrong," He gasps, quickly shoving you away the instant his brain makes the connection; not because the touch or your proximity hurt — quite the friggin' opposite, actually, because he already feels like he's dying now that you're not touching him — "It's contact triggered, not ingestion; I— uh, I already feel hot. Super hot. Not-Good hot."
You stumble to regain your balance, falling backward onto your rear into the rocks below next to the abandoned pen and notepad. Guilt pools in his stomach as he observes as it happens, but heat instantly suffocates it at the faint show of your teeths points from behind your lips, and the way your shoulders move as you push yourself back up.
He watches the unreadable expression leave your face in favor of something more restrained— he knows this one, though. You always look like this when you're focused, or you let your past training take the reins for a minute.
Now that he's staring, he finally notices the spores that are on you.
Shoot.
"Any other symptoms? Headaches, nausea, uh, loss of feeling or motor-function?"
You continue rattling off important questions, but he's not really listening. He should be, but it feels like he can't— his eyes stay glued to your mouth, then flick away only to land on your hands as you quickly get out of your spore-infested jacket.
You've got such nice hands. Very sturdy. Very masculine. Very reliable. Very—
Suddenly, his brain kicks back into gear; he's supposed to be doing the same thing.
"No, negative, not at all— I, um, I just feel kind of toasty, and…"
Well, he'll be honest — with himself, anyway — and think that he did not want to say that last part. Instead, he focuses on setting his glasses aside and getting himself out of his cardigan, of which has the most spores clinging to the yarn.
"And?" You continue, tossing your jacket over the offending plant to avoid any more spores escaping, "And what? Ryland— We know fuck-all about this plant, we don't have time to waste; hell, we could grow another goddamn limb and be utterly clueless to prevent it— so, I'd really like to know what the hell you're feeling before I feel it too!"
He swallows.
If he was a braver man willing to test your patience, he would've said something like, language, Captain! but, he knows he's not. And, well, he'd rather enjoy keeping his fingers. You threatened to cut them off the last time he royally pissed you off.
…But there really is no way to lighten up the word aroused, is there?
He opens his mouth once, then twice, only to close it shut right after. It doesn't help you're less than four feet away, gorgeous as all heck, breathing just as heavy as he is.
He can't bring himself to look at you; your silence was enough, and it only makes your out-of-sync breaths seem louder. It doesn't help his brain, which, if you were curious, felt like sludge that could leak out of his brain if he thinks too hard.
The symptoms must've finally kicked in for you, because your silence continues, where he knows you would've questioned his wording were you…. uninfluenced.
At the sound of your throat clearing, his gaze flits over to you, and instantly, it's obvious you're feeling the same things he is.
Which, truly, helps his brain avoid functioning altogether.
"Shit," You finally announce, panting through your mouth— sweat slicks the front of your hair as you run your hand down your face, and his thoughts catch on the movement of your Adams apple as you swallow.
"It's kind of awful, right?" He breathes, laughing awkwardly; his voice cracks mid-way, not unlike how it often did when he was going through puberty. Embarrassing. "It's, uh, really bad for you too, huh?"
He wiggles in his spot, trying to get comfortable enough to calm down a little— but all it does is make his jeans grind against a rather sensitive spot he'd hoped to avoid. Quickly, he stills, trying to avoid a repeat offense as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip.
"Yeah," You mutter, nodding slowly, "We should…"
You pause mid-way, your voice trailing off like you'd either gotten distracted or completely lost what idea you had of what you were going to say; and, yeah, he wholeheartedly agrees. He was only trying to keep a brave face, but he felt so strongly he could cry— he wanted so badly it was painful.
"—You, you go inside. Strip before you enter and leave your clothes… outside, by the door. I'll, uh, I'll handle them while you shower and cool off."
"What are you going to do?" The question tumbles out of his mouth automatically, but its concern is true. "We don't— We don't know how long this stuff lasts. We can't be separated forever,"
He's unsure if that last part is him, or the spores' effect talking. Truthfully— he can't bring himself to care a freaking lick (God, if he could lick You…). Swallowing, he continues, "At least not without some difficulties."
"Doesn't matter," You wave your hand in front of your face as you shake your head, as if to brush him off, "Just— just go. I need… to log the— the symptoms, and get rid of the goddamn plant."
He listens, feeling his mouth curl back in slight distaste of the idea. He didn't want to leave; he didn't even want to be this far away from you, let alone so much more he couldn't even see you. It didn't feel right— the idea stung, like physical pain.
"Wha— You can't— you can't touch it!" He blurts, ignoring the fact his voice is in a higher pitch than it usually is, "—Not, uh, without gloves. It's dangerous. And we don't have any fresh ones out here. You should come. Inside. You know… to get new ones? It's bad to reuse them. Very unprofessional."
Why is he saying this?
Okay, yeah, his brain is practically screaming at him to crawl over to you and just do something so he'll stop feeling tether-less, but he doesn't mean to say it. Or imply anything. It just… slips out, on accident. Completely. A complete accident. Yeah.
Yeah.
inhaling slowly through his mouth, he swallows again, crawling backward to put some distance between the two of you, preferably before anything shifts and you both end up in the gravel. Also preferably with you on top of him, with your hands on the back of his neck and—-
"Then I'll figure something out— Ryland, please, just go. We don't know what this stuff… does."
…Right. He probably should get all the spores off of him, huh? They don't seem to be helping. At all. Like, any.
"I'm going," He finally announces, forcing himself to stand even when it's the last thing he wants to do; his knees feel weak, and so does his brain. His mind feels fuzzy when it's not thinking about you or anything to do with… well, he knows what. "I'm going. I, um, promise I won't take too long. Like last time. And the time before that."
"Grace—"
"Okay, okay, I'll stop talking now."
Will he really?
Probably not.
Nonetheless, he puts one foot in front of the other, unable to ignore the heat that gathers in his stomach as he walks past you— your breathing is wrecked, and the sight of your clenched fists and slight shaking do nothing to help his want to stay; for some reason, his brain finds wild comfort (And interest) in the fact you feel a similar, if not the same, way as him.
As he walks, he sucks in an unsteady breath, roughly wiping the spores off of his glasses and onto the bottom hem of his shirt; the further he gets from you, the more it all hurts. The heat gains, and it feels like an invisible iron against his every being, only mounting to the headache now clawing behind his eyes.
I can totally take this, he thinks, using a shaky hand to slip his glasses back on, If he can, I can, right?
Who am I kidding. He's, like, three times stronger than I am.
He runs the front of his palms down his jeans as he steps up to the front door, trying to wipe some of the sweat off of them before he reaches up to undo the buttons of his shirt— this doesn't feel good, either, so he sticks close to the wall and prays no one looks this way.
Even now, with his body temperature wildly higher than It needs to be and under the influence of some strange spores, the humiliation doesn't go away. The pain doesn't, either, instead running the opposite direction and only continuing to mount.
Dropping his shirt, he jerkily undoes the clasp of his belt, roughly yanking it out of the denim loops and letting it join his shirt. He can't decide whether the lack of fabric grinding against his skin feels better or worse— he's so sensitive it feels like he's on fire.
He toes off his shoes, kicking them off to the side before he reaches down to the button of his jeans; unable to help it, he shoots a look over the scars of his left shoulder, letting his gaze naturally find you. You're handling the plant now, moving it over to the entrance of the Bio-dome so Rocky or Adrian can take it out when they come over next.
Even from this distance, thanks to his glasses, he can see the ragged rise and fall of your shoulders as you breathe.
He has to force himself to re-focus. Peeling his jeans off, he steps out of them, quickly opening the front door and stepping inside— as the door slams behind him, he winces, slowly letting go of the knob and moving forward, past the kitchen, the screen room that Rocky refused to not add, and finally into the bathroom.
Stepping over his dirty clothes from yesterday he forgot to pick up, he sinks down to rest on the side of the tub to catch his breath, reaching over to turn the cold water on, and…
Nothing.
"You've got to be kidding me— Seriously, shower? Now is the time you decide to break? When I need you most?"
Dropping his arm, he hangs his head and squeezes his eyes shut. The shower had a habit of refusing to work; something about a hose kinking somewhere within the fresh-water system and here, both you and Rocky had explained. More than once.
He groans, but with how broken and defeated it is, it's more like a ruined whine or a grumble.
Deciding for the next best thing on the how-to-stop-overheating list, he, rather quickly, makes his way back to the kitchen and pulls the fridge open. And laying inside, limply against a frozen thing of Me-burgers, is his Holy Grail.
The bag of ice.
Yanking it from the fridge, the closest the fridge door, reaching up and pushing the coolness of the ice against his too-hot face— then, he steps over to the kitchen island, moving the thing of ice to rest on the back of his neck as he drapes himself over the cold counter-top.
It's heaven.
Pushing his forehead into the counter, he stretches his arms out in front of him, forming desperate parallel lines of cold-seeking embarrassment. Sure, the shower was dramatic and temperamental, but it doesn't mean he's screwed. At least for now— his tummy is still searing hot with want, even in spite of what he tries to do to prevent his brain from controlling him any more than it is.
He tilts his head, panting against the surface of the counter as he presses his cheek into the cold; the bag of ice slips, and he has to reach back and fix it before it falls. Before laying his arm back down, he lifts his head just high enough to pull his glasses off, setting them aside and returning to his earlier positions.
He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm himself down.
It does nothing.
All he can think about is you.
If your groans sound different when you feel good, if he could make you feel good, how nice it'd be if you just come back and fuck him sensles—
His head pops up immediately at the sound of the doors hinges whining as they open; he makes eye-contact with you just as fast, and you both pause. You're stripped down to your underwear like he is, panting like you just ran a marathon, face dusted pink in a blush he's sure he matches on his own face.
"I thought you were supposed to be in the shower?" You blurt, your voice breaking weakly.
He blinks. "It decided to… quit working."
"Again?" You question, leaning back against the door and squeezing your eyes shut, just like he was moments before. "Shit."
"Yeah," He nods slowly, straightening out and sliding the back of ice over the counter, a free offer. "The, uh, the ice helps. Some."
As you step forward, drop the pen and notepad onto the counter and snag the ice, his gaze slips southward, to your stomach. You've a few scars there; a jagged, wide one from your front to the side, a few smaller ones in clusters, a medium sized one that cuts down below your underwear's waistband.
You're still muscular, though. Where he'd, admittedly, gained a few pounds back after regaining access to food upon the touchdown on Erid, you still held yourself pleasantly— that, or he hadn't noticed much of a change, if at all.
You were good-looking. Always had been, really, but after years together on Mary — and the VERY close proximity that came with — and seeing you handle stressful situations with a sexy amount of control… well, you might as well be a Greek God.
An Adonis, if you will.
"My eyes are up here, you know. I can practically see the thoughts in your head."
He raises his gaze instantly.
"S— Sorry," He fumbles, his mouth opening silently, but he finds no valuable excuse to defend himself with. "…Sorry."
"I'm kidding," You laugh, but it's breathless, and not all there, like you didn't truly find anything funny. He knew, feeling like this, he couldn't. He watches you pull the ice from your throat, then as you slide it back over to him, rest your forearms on the counter, and sink down to rest your forehead against the tops of your arms.
Your voice is slightly muffled when you continue. "…Haven't exactly been an angel myself."
"What's that mean?" He questions, swallowing the saliva pooling in his mouth at the free sight of your scar-littered, muscular back— he presses his lips together, leaning against the cold edge of the counter to try to feel like he's regained Some control of himself.
He hasn't.
You say nothing as you straighten back up, instead, you wordlessly make eye-contact with him; but you break it as you look down to his lips, back to his eyes, his lips again, then down his front and over to the burn scars over his forearm and upward on his left side.
Heat blooms everywhere he can feel you look.
It should freak him out— he was under the influence of hormone-altering spores, he should be running away screaming and locking himself into the bedroom and keeping distance from you. So you could both rough this out on your own and pretend it didn't happen.
But… It's not.
Quite the opposite, really.
"What'd you do to the plant?" He questions breathlessly, pulling the ice away from his face and leaning over the counter to hand it to you— he's not sure what gets him more; the touch of your hand brushing his as you take it, or the cold lick of the counters edge right above his crotch.
He wants to grab you, to yank you over to this side and kiss you so hard it hurts, but he refrains.
It's a feat within itself, really.
"Put it by the door," You mutter, raising the ice to press against your cheek, "With a note for Rocky."
He nods, chewing on his bottom lip as he drops his hand, pressing the heel of it against the edge of the counter. His fingers curl, gripping it tight in an attempt to clear his head from the thoughts running rampant— What it'd be like for you to fuck him here in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bathroom, in the shower…
"And— And the clothes?"
"In a spare storage tub... 'Cept for your belt, and mine. They're still by the door."
He nods again.
Sure, it's wildly risky to just be conversing like it's a casual Thursday when you're both… like this, but the pain is gone— almost completely, aside from the ever-present inferno of his body temperature. He doubts that's going to go away today, but as long as it doesn't hurt, he'll try not to think about it.
He doesn't think you want to be in any more pain, either.
It really stings. Moreso than the ache in his gut, or the throbbing between his legs.
He glances up when he catches you move in his peripheral, accepting the bag of now-slightly-melted ice and watching you move around the island, over to the fridge.
God, your back is insane.
"How long do you think this'll last?" He murmurs, pressing the ice against his tummy— he twitches, sensitive. More than usual; it feels like every part of him has heightened receptors to touch, even his own.
Hm. He tacks it into his brain to record as a symptom, later.
You shrug, prying the fridge open and pulling two waters out from inside of it, "I'd have a better shot at getting back to Earth than figuring that out, G."
"Well…" He laughs awkwardly, licking his lips, "At least we're in it together, right? I doubt this whole… 'having odd reactions to an alien plant species that totally wasn't my fault' thing would be as fun if we weren't? I mean, that's a bright side?"
You shake your head, nudging the fridge door closed with your knee before you turn, handing him a cold water bottle as you push yours against your neck. "I don't think I ever want to have 'fun,' again in my life. I've had enough for one lifetime."
"Whaaat? You don't want to get sick on an unexplored planet in another life? That's awful, [Name]. A complete insult to me and my alien affections!" He accepts the water with a small nod of a thank-you, inhaling slowly at your proximity— it's the closest you've been since he shoved you off of him earlier, and he can't help but notice it.
But he's being sarcastic, of course. If he isn't, he doesn't think he could bring himself to look away from you.
Not that he can anyway.
"Oh, I'm so sorry, Ryland— I'd love to get stranded with you every lifetime, I was just kidding!"
Now it's your turn to be sarcastic; and he can't say it turns him off any. Actually, the mock sympathy only makes his heart beat a little faster— the way your mouth curves down into a pitying, fake frown, how your eyebrows draw together and your head tilts…
And the way you say his name?
Stick a fork in 'im. He's done. He's over his head.
Yeah, he can't get it out of his brain.
His lips part as he swallows, feeling the volcano roar in his stomach; he continues staring, influenced and suddenly shameless with need, staring so intently he watches your expression changes the second it happens.
You go from mocking, to curious, to unreadable.
He watches every single one of them have their turn.
He gets two seconds to gasp until you're crossing the kitchen and cutting it off with a kiss.
The warmth blooms upward from his stomach to his chest as you groan into his mouth, and he fumbles to set the ice down as he kisses back— it's clumsy, hot, and quick; it's a physical need rather than a want. He can barely hear the sound of the bag of ice slipping off the counter and onto the floor over the rush of blood in his ears, but he doesn't care.
You continue moving even as you're connected, forcing him to walk backward as he kisses you until a shudder wracks his spine at the cold edge of the counter bumps into his lower back, but whatever chill there was is instantly staved off the moment your hands find his waist, fingertips digging into his skin.
Kissing has never felt so fucking good.
It's like a full-body satisfaction— whatever warmth or pain he had before is synthesized into pleasure, then doubling that into euphoria.
He returns the passion as you tilt your head, making his head tilt back a little until he pushes back, feeling your chest rise and fall in an out-of-sync rhythm against his own; though it's instantly forgotten as his body shivers, his chest tightening pleasantly as you grind against him.
Whining into your mouth, he chases you as you lean your head back, barely registering as you pull his glasses off of his face and set them aside.
God, you feel good.
"This— This is," He pants, swallowing harshly, "Really, really unhygienic."
Your arms box him in as you pull them from his waist, settling them on either side of him on the counter as you pull back, slide a leg between his own, and come closer. An open-mouthed, choked gasp is yanked from his throat at the friction, and whatever care he has disappears.
It's not like you answer, anyway— you just duck your head down and kiss him again, nudging your knee further between his own to, apparently, give him more pleasure as you move your arms to coil around his middle.
And to heck if it doesn't work.
His hand slides up as he hooks an arm around the back of your neck, keeping you in place; if you moved away now, he'd cry. Literally. His other drops to grip along your hip, his fingers brushing a scar there— it must be sensitive, too, because you hum into his mouth and push him further into the counter.
It doesn't hurt; you'd moved your arm down, so your forearm pressed into the counter instead of his back. It didn't snake any lower, but it makes you lean down a little more; and when he grinds his hips again, it feels like heaven.
Actual heaven.
"Don't— Don't move," He gasps, panting into your mouth as his hand tightens around your hip, "Right there, please, don't move,"
He's never felt so sensitive in his life.
You seem to realize that, too, because you prey on it; as he ruts against your leg and yourself, your arm tightens around his lower back, pulling him even closer. You moan into his mouth as he kisses you back with fervor, and it only eggs him on— he arches his spine just slightly, making you chase him and lean over him more.
This feels even better. You do— whether it's the spores or you making him feel so good — like he hasn't ever before, with anyone else — he doesn't know, but he doesn't care about it much now.
"mmng— I—"
He can barely talk in-between kisses; sometimes they're deeper, sometimes they're more superficial but within rapid fashion— he doesn't care. They all work him toward that edge, tighten the coil in his tummy he's chasing—
"Don't stop—"
The moment you pull away to catch your breath and mouth at his neck, the coil snaps.
A broken whine is yanked from his throat as he ruts his hips, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning forward to nudge his nose into your shoulder. His hold on you tightens as he breathes in short, heavy inhales, continuing and tailed by ruined groans and whimpers, his thighs tightening around yours when you move.
You're panting against his neck, whatever noises you're making being muffled by the fact you've got your teeth in him— the sting feels better than he'd ever thought he'd be into, so he lets it happen, slowly relaxing in sync with you as he comes down from his high, but he still lets his hips roll experimentally.
You moan.
"Did y—?"
"…Uh-huh."
That's hot.
You're still breathing heavy by the time you retreat into his neck, not allowing either of you to come down completely or catch your breaths until your pushing your mouths together again, and he can faintly sense the feeling of your nose bumping into his as you tilt your head.
"Wanna go again?" You murmur, pressing a little kiss to the side of his mouth.
He nods, only to clear his throat. "Y— Yeah. The, uh, the bedroom this time, though? Please."
Is he going to last the entire night?
Maybe not. He's not the most… sexually active guy in the world, but God could you make him be.
Is he also sure you'll stop one-hundred percent the moment he's done?
Completely.
"I love you," He mumbles, leaning forward and dropping his face into your shoulder. "Love you."
Synopsis: Ryland wants to kiss you really badly. It's embarrassing-- but what sucks more than waiting for something is once he does get it, he doesn't have it for long without interruption. You're too good to pass up, though, so he'll take it with at least a little grace.
WC: 5k.
AN: Wrote this in one sitting... yes it took me all day... yes my brain is fried... yes I will do it again tomorrow.
No pronouns mentioned, but, like usual, it was written with Male reader in mind.
Whining lowly, Ryland rolls over onto his tummy, mindlessly reaching over to pull himself closer to you so he could leech from your heat— but all he palms are the empty blankets, devoid of both your body and your warmth.
He's not sure which he mourns more.
"[Name]…" He grumbles, his voice muffled from his pillow, but it becomes clearer and normal as he flips himself over onto his back. For a minute, all he does is lay there, stretching widely and groaning at the pleasant ache.
He disliked when you'd get out of bed before or without him. It felt alike a betrayal— moreso the fact that he couldn't cuddle up to you and attempt to convince you to stay in bed a little longer with him, than anything you'd actually done.
Calling your name again, he lets his arms fall onto the bed beside him as he yawns, letting the silence of the lack of response blanket the room. He can't hear the shower on, either, so he sluggishly lifts his head up, squinting slightly as he glances around the room.
What he notices first are your dresser drawers are still open — you had a habit of not closing them to avoid making more noise when he was sleeping — so you must've at least already showered… or changed.
Were you going out to do something? He can't recall you saying anything about doing so.
Kicking his blankets off, he climbs out of bed, stumbling as the comforter stays coiled around his leg— It takes a second, but he gets it off before tiredly snagging his glasses off of his bed-side table, finally making it over to the door without any further troubles.
Sliding them on to rest along the bridge of his nose, he pulls the door open, blinking slowly and letting his vision clear as he walks down the hall; he can hear music playing, so he follows that rather than just meandering destination-less.
So you hadn't gone anywhere.
At the thought, something in his chest eases, unfurling what he hadn't even realized was tense.
Jeez.
Maybe the "Always within close proximity of you for over a handful of years," truly did do more to him than he'd realized… aside from not being able to sleep unless he was near you, anyway, but he knew that was a normal side-effect of being in close quarters to someone, alone (mostly), for years. It was natural, but he held only a little shame over it.
Over how needy it made him feel.
Rounding the end of the hall, he peers around the wall and into the kitchen; and upon finally spotting you, his body stops him in his tracks without his permission, keeping him near the wall just beyond the threshold of the kitchen.
You've got your spine to him, blissfully unaware of his staring as you mess with something in a "pan," on the "burner." An organized mess lays spread out on the counter— the tub of butter with a butter-knife (not really, but it's one of the ones Adrian and Rocky created as a substitute) stuck in it, a cutting-board slick with cut "strawberries," (again, an Eridian substitute) and their juices…
"Are you making breakfast?" He blurts, feeling the words tumble tiredly out of his mouth before his brain even registered the fact he was talking.
Your shoulders lift just faintly.
When you quickly turn around at the sound of his voice, he's graced with your surprised but stupidly pretty face— his heart jumps in his chest as his gaze flits between you, a random object, and back to you, stuttering in its usual rhythm as he fights the urge to stare.
Just… you look great. Annoyingly great for the time of the morning; you look as if you could've been an ageless, celestial being, while he's just… him. Messy, exhausted, with a likely chance of sleep-lines still indented into the fat of his cheeks.
Just Ryland.
Just yours.
It takes him a minute to get out of his head so he can focus on the face you're talking.
"Mmn. Rocky 'n his cluster dropped some stuff off pretty early," You respond, and he watches the way your head tilts just slightly, then the way your eyebrows draw together in subtle concern. "I told them to come back later, so you could sleep. Did I wake you up?"
He swallows, breathing in slowly through his parted lips.
Does he look as ruffled as he feels? He can't tell.
"No— no, you didn't, so… don't worry." He fumbles, shaking his head as he adjusts on his feet, then he reaches up, running his hand through his sleep-tussled hair to try to straighten it out some. "What'd you get up so early for?"
As his voice cracks from left-over sleep, he winces.
After a second, he finally urges his feet forward and steps into the kitchen, lifting himself up onto his toes so he can see what you're making— and within the pan looks like a stranger version of pancakes… if they were dark, blue, and a lot thicker.
He continues. "Are those pancakes?"
My god, I haven't had any of those in forever.
Between Me-burgers and Rocky's Erid version of vaguely shaped coma-sludge, he'd almost bid anything that didn't taste slightly metallic good-bye.
"Maaaybe," You drawl, and his gaze flits quickly between your face and the pan— though it slows its switch when a smug smile pulls upon your mouth. "Robert, Balboa, Junior, and Rocky were knockin' on the door pretty hard this morning. Woke me up,"
"I'm going to take a guess and say this was why?" He pipes up, raising an eyebrow curiously as he shifts on his feet. "Seriously, this is amazing stuff— smells good, too, surprisingly."
You laugh as you turn back to what you're cooking, and he watches over your shoulder as you flip the make-shift pancake, feeling curiousity nag in his brain rather incessantly; he was eager, sue him.
"Bingo," You muse, "They were pretty excited to show me. They wanted to wake you up so you could see it too, but… I figured you could use the sleep."
"Yeah," He murmurs, stepping back to lean against the counter— the edge is cold against his back, so he pulls away pretty quickly and with a shudder. "You're probably right."
It's true; getting used to and settled into Erid has definitely taken some tolls on his general function. The gravity, the "food," the new-found space, the bio-dome (he always got jittery with excitement when he'd look at it, and their creations)…
He hasn't slept that well anymore lately, unless you'd…
Actually, he probably shouldn't think about that now. It was way too early.
Nonetheless, he did last night, and he feels pretty good— or maybe that's just the idea of trying this new formula of food.
Okay, listen…
He was going to try to wait, but he can't anymore.
The idea is too appealing.
Pushing away from the counter, he slips behind you and over to the plate of already-done pancakes, ignoring your snicker and the side-look you give him.
"What?" He questions (rather cheekily), before tearing a piece of one off, then tearing that into two, "Are you trying to say you're not just as excited to try this as me? I mean, come on, it's space pancakes! Who doesn't want to try space pancakes?"
"No, no," You laugh, shaking your head with a smile he catches even through the corner of his eye, "I didn't say anything. Continue, please."
"Uh-huh, that's what I thought."
Humming a low, confident noise, he hands you your piece before shoving his own into his mouth, falling quiet and trying to desipher the taste the moment he does so. You do the same, and for a moment, only the music you're playing keeps the room from true silence.
Until he breaks it.
"It's kind of sweet," He announces, his eyebrows furrowing curiously as he swallows, "In a weird, almost tangy way. It's also very thick. Do you know what they made it out of? Did they say?"
Lifting his gaze, he looks over to you, his focus roaming over your expression to see what you're thinking— of it, of the experience, of his opinion.
You nod slowly, swallowing. "Some group of stuff, but I don't know of what. They didn't have a word for it." You pause, running your tongue along the front of your teeth. "I agree, though. It's pleasantly odd."
"It's better than coma-sludge," He muses, snickering to himself. "Anything is better than coma-sludge."
Tearing another piece off, he tries it again, attempting to find anything he didn't the first time about it— whilst he does so, you turn the "burner," off, pulling the last pancake from the pan and setting it atop the others on the plate.
It's tasty, again, in a weird, unfamiliar way. It's enjoyable— he could get used to this pretty quickly.
You, breakfast every morning, trying new things…
"Coffee's back in stock, by the way," You pipe up, breaking the short bout of quiet between the song changing. "They dropped more off for you."
His eyebrows twitch upward, and he follows the rough gesture of your hand to the tub of the aforementioned Coffee, sat over in the corner counter-top. It wasn't quite like earth Coffee— in the way that he could only have very, very little. Any more than that, and he'd be up for two straight days.
He's speaking from experience here.
He'd rather avoid a repeat offense.
"Thanks," He murmurs, shoving another piece of pancake into his mouth as he moves across the kitchen, quickly getting himself some— at the sight of the leaves being radiation green instead of yellow, he pauses. "Why is this one green? I don't remember the last one being this vibrant. Or green."
"Different plant subspecies, I guess," You shrug, moving within the kitchen to get yourself your own drink. "You can ask 'em when they come back— they said they were supposed to, anyway. Robert really didn't want to leave the first time."
"Really? It's usually Junior that hates to leave."
"Mhm," Your voice softens just faintly, and a breath of a laugh tumbles from your mouth right after— his brain latches on to the noise, and he suddenly wishes you weren't playing any music so he could've heard it better. "Heard some notes from him I hadn't ever heard before when Adrian was nudging him away from the door. It was kind-of cute."
Picturing the image in his head, he nods slowly, feeling a small smile pull the corner of his mouth upward. "…Yeah, that does sound cute. Wish I could've seen it."
He moves on with a curious sound, pushing the little container a bit more back and away from the edge — he'd knocked it over twice just like this before — before he reaches upward, pulling the cabinet above him open and snagging a cup from inside.
And for a moment, neither of you say anything; the only reason he's not rambling and asking you all sorts of questions about what notes Robert made and what they could've meant was because he knew you liked the song playing; Lorraine, by The Excellents.
It was a good song. He liked it too.
Closing the cabinet, he exhales slowly, getting his coffee made as you hummed lowly to the song behind him— the sound kept him from getting too far within his thoughts, from soiling his own mood dwelling on things he knew he couldn't fix.
He had quite the habit of that.
Characteristically, he can't hold his tongue for long, even with his hands busy. "Did they say when they were coming?"
"Mm-mm."
Grunting a lazy form of acknowledgement, he closes the container of coffee, nudging it back into its typical spot before he grabs a spoon and his cup, moving over to the island counter beside you. You're idly eating one of the pancakes, fiddling on the laptop— as it was your day to have it. It got passed between the two of you and Rocky like a tennis-ball; you'd have it for a few days, then Rocky would come to the door and demand it was, quote, Rocky's day for the human technology again.
It usually wasn't.
He stirs his drink in a lazy, broken rhythm before lifting it to his lips, more caught up on staring at your hands as you type than anything else.
What you'd done with those exact hands; from fixing the Hail Mary on the trip here, to logging all of the little Pebbles' questions so he'd remember them for their next class, to sinking your fingers in his side while he'd—
He chokes on his sip, quickly pulling the cup away from his mouth like it burned. He covers his mouth with his other hand, coughing into his fist before bringing his arm up and continuing to into his elbow, turning away from you both to hide the heat in his cheeks, and protect you from his germs.
"Wha— Are you okay?"
Your voice, as concerned and gentle it is, helps nothing good at the moment.
All is does is remind him of how it sounds similar whilst doing other things, just more broken and out-of-breath— how he affected you then, that he could make you sound like that, how good you made him feel during…
Yeah? You're sure?
"Yes!" He blurts, voice raised and a lot louder than he meant it to be— he clears his throat, shaking his head rapidly. "I— I mean, yes. I'm okay. It was just… a lot, uh, warmer than I expected it to be. Sorry, hah."
He laughs awkwardly, keeping his gaze focused on anything but you, even when the heat of your hand seeps into his shoulder as you place it there. He has to wrestle the instinct to not sink into your touch, to lean back and stop pretending he didn't want to be all over you, all the time.
His cheeks have never felt hotter.
"Ryland," You call, the underbelly of your voice easing just slightly around the syllables.
His name sounds almost holy when you say it like that.
"W— What is it?"
Rocky and Adrian are coming later, he reminds himself, there's no time for anything. Focus on… quite literally anything else, for the love of science.
"You're sure? It didn't burn you or anything, did it?" You pull on his shoulder just slightly, and his brain crumbles almost instantly— finally letting you turn him to face you, even when he feels ashamed about the fact he's getting worked up over you just existing around him.
That's embarrassing— that's what teenagers do. He's passed that age twice over.
"…Yes," He mumbles, "I'm sure. It was just a common, humanly mishap. Everyone makes those… on Earth."
In his peripheral, he can see your eyes as they flit around his face, as if checking for any damage anyway. After your shoulders ease, your hand slips from his shoulder and to his bicep, making warmth bloom all the way down everywhere you touch and his breathing kick up a notch.
Now he's getting really distracted.
"See?" He continues, clearing his throat softly as he looks away, back to you, away again, then back to you. "Just clumsy, like always."
I want to kiss you so bad.
He wants to kiss you so badly.
Humiliatingly badly.
You seem to notice it, too— the inferno and the embarrassment in his stomach twist and tangle strangely as he glances up, catching the way your expression changes from worried to… something else. He feels like he needs to talk about something, anything, to distract himself from his own emotions; his want to touch you, his need for you to kiss him at least once right now, just to stave it off for a little while.
"You know, um, we— we should probably eat," He laughs, but it's strained and airy, almost shy. "You know, before Rock and his family get here?"
Attempting to force his brain to want you to let go, he steps back, and when your hand falls and the bottom of his spine bumps into the edge of the cold counter-top, he swallows. Loudly.
He misses your touch almost instantly, and he's the one who made you stop.
He was a coward.
You say nothing, but the amusement on your face is leaving enough hints that he can put together.
Your silence makes it all the worse; you're just staring, letting himself run around in circles like a dog chasing their tail. It makes him feel exposed, bare— though you make that feel good. Weirdly good.
Before the Hail Mary, when someone made him feel this way, he'd just shut down and run away screaming internally. But he doesn't want to do that with you, no. Instead, all he wants is for you to draw him closer, warm him up with yourself, make his brain turn off for a little while.
You don't make it feel like a bad thing.
"You, uh, you know how Rocky gets," He continues, each of his open-mouthed breaths coming in quicker and quicker the longer you stare— his heart is beating so fast, he can hear it in his own ears. "All annoyed and grouchy for how— how long we take to finish."
Again, you just raise an eyebrow, just slightly, and say nothing. Not even a single one of your typical hums, or casual grunts of acknowledgement.
He gives up.
Hanging his head, he presses the heels of his palms into the cool edge of the counter, aiming for a physical distraction from his own slew of embarrassment and shame; but his body feels so hot he barely registers it, his focus being yanked towards you and your presence no matter how hard he tries to pull it away.
You were like his North Star, constantly drawing him towards you no matter where he was or what he'd try.
"I give up," He announces lamely, picking his head back up and licking his lips. "I give up. Just—"
He doesn't even know what he wants to say; what he was going to say. Instead, he finally shuts up, looking at anything that isn't you. The wall, the cabinets, his shoes, your throa— the flooring, the pancakes sitting on the counter that are probably cold by now.
Sucking in a long, steady breath through his mouth, he glances back to you, staring at the expression on your face as you just stand there, fingers curled into your palm like you were waiting for permission to do something.
"Just…"
He still doesn't know— but something in his chest claws at the cage of his ribs, just waiting for him to figure it out, to say it.
You weren't the teasing type; playful, yes, but not in moments like these, where he was fumbling over himself. He's not sure if your silence or the teasing would be better now.
"Just…?" You question, giving him time to figure it out, but also trying to help him along to whatever that truly was.
He shakes his head, letting his gaze drop back to the floor. "I don't know what I was going to say."
He can hear your clothes ruffle when you reach up, but what you do is out of his peripheral. "Do you know what you want?"
Does he?
Does he really?
He thinks he does. He just never had the chance to really think about it— on Earth, he didn't want to. On the Hail Mary, he never had time, never thought he'd live long enough to ever figure it out. But here, with you, he's got plenty, and he still… has no clue. He was emotionally aimless.
He knew what he loved doing. Teaching his students, talking with them, helping them learn and figure things out. He knew he liked it when you'd lay in bed together and he'd just ramble his brains out. He knew he always felt the most confident about himself when he was around you, that you soothed his random bubbles of insecurity and failure. He knew being around you felt good, an instant gratification for whatever stress he was having then.
He knew that…
He's found it.
You.
He wants you.
"You," He says finally. "I— I know I want you."
In a bout of strange self-assuredness, he tilts his head back up and fixes his gaze to your face, bouncing between making very intimate eye-contact and staring off somewhere at your collarbone so he doesn't have to watch your expression shift in the ways he knows it will.
It's almost odd; you've been together (At least technically, saying so felt nearly awkward) for a good while already. You've gone through the hoops, the near-deaths of finally getting here, all of the scary parts, but… saying a complexly simple I want you felt more big a jump than anything else.
Maybe it's how plain and sure it is. I want you. It's blunt; it doesn't need to be pulled apart for him or you to know exactly what it means at its core, as it's just as deep at its surface.
"O… Kay," Your voice sounds almost unsure for a second, but he's not sure if that's of yourself or him. Either way, it doesn't feel pleasant, unlike what tumbles from your mouth right after. "You've got me. All the way. I'm yours."
Your response repeats in his head once, twice, trying and failing to catch and sink in multiple times— he can feel his heart beat in his throat, in his fingertips, in his tense stomach.
I'm yours.
Your words finally register completely, making the tangle in his chest ease as his shoulder droop.
"Okay," He repeats, nodding once, then twice, like he was trying to convince himself of something. Of what, he's not one hundred percent in the know of. "Okay, okay, okay. Cool. Yeah, this is great, um… I should probably stop talking now— and preferably before I say something else really embarrassing… again. Sorry. I'm done now."
Instead of brushing him off, all you do is smile and step closer; steadily and slowly enough to give him ample time to decide what he wanted.
But he knows it now.
Standing up a little taller, he inhales shakily, looking down at your lips multiple times in the few seconds it takes you to be standing right in front of him. You're close enough he can feel your warmth, imagine the way you'll touch him next.
Should he be doing that? Probably not, but you don't look like you mind all that much.
You don't touch him like you do, either.
Your hand curls loosely, gently around his left wrist— he stares at you face, but you're staring at where you're touching, slowly dragging your fingers upward and ghosting your touch over the burn scars there. Your fingers press lightly into his underarm as you keep going, your thumb taking in a careful, rhythmic back-and-forth motion over the worst part of the scars.
He swallows.
"They, uh, they don't hurt anymore," He says, staring at your face, then watching the motion of your thumb. "If you were wondering."
You hum a low, affirmative sound, though your focus is clearly not pulled away from what you're doing with your hands. It feels strange— he couldn't sense the heat of your hand, or the feather-like pattern of your thumb, but his brain still acted like he could. It was more alike a phantom sensation, knowing he couldn't feel it, but his mind behaved otherwise.
What he feels almost completely is how intimate the moment is.
"I can't really feel anything there, either," He admits, voice lowered. "It's kind of weird."
"Should I stop?"
God, please, no.
He stops himself a split-second before those exact thoughts tumble from his brain and out of his mouth; a rare event for someone like himself. He's not sure if he should be grateful for this being the first time, but it takes the title nonetheless.
"No, you're, um, you're alright."
What's not alright is how badly he still wants you to kiss him— it's like it's all he can think about. Most days, the interest came sporadically, rather than any certain time (outside of the obvious), and rarely this intense. His brain tacked it as a physical need; like breathing, it physically ached that you weren't as close as he wanted.
It's half his fault, though. He knows it. He could man up, tell you himself, but he doesn't.
The feeling of your hand drifting upward pulls him from his thoughts, forcing him back into the present and to look at you. You look as focused as ever, but where a blank slate of an expression would typically lay, an intense, concentrated one takes its place this time.
"You look focused," He murmurs, a small, amused grin forming along the curves of his mouth. "Really focused. More than normal, you know."
Is he talking just to distract himself?
Maybe.
Can you tell?
Also maybe.
"Yeah?" You muse, gaze downcast and following the trail of goosebumps your hand carves into his skin— you slowly go up his arm, to his shoulder, then back down. Were you teasing him? He was unsure if you were doing it on purpose or not, but that mattered not to the slew of butterflies in his stomach.
"…Yeah," He agrees, swallowing quietly. "You do."
As your hand pulls from his wrist and slips over to the low of his hips, his breathing jumps almost instantly as your touch truly registers, making his stomach twitch and his mouth part. You caress him like he's something worthy, someone you're reverent of— at the thought, an unidentifiable emotion coils in his chest, suffocating his lungs like a disease.
"You, uh— You don't have to take your time or anything," He stutters, "You're not gonna break me… I think."
The jest comes out strained and slightly stiff, and the same goes for the shy, awkward laugh that trails it; he wasn't used to someone taking this much time just to touch him. It creates a strange but also pleasant concoction of emotions in his stomach.
Nerves, warmth, comfort, shyness, attraction…
You make him feel all sorts of funny ways, and most he's never felt before. At least not all at once.
"Mmn, I know," You mutter, your hands pulling his sleep shirt up as you splay them out over his ribs, "But rushing isn't any fun. Doesn't feel as good, either."
The cool air of the room laps at the bare parts of his stomach, a violent opposite to the blatant heat of your fingers as they curl around the curve of his side. You finally flit your gaze away from his stomach and up to his face, making him all of a sudden be aware of how hot his cheeks feel.
Is he blushing?
He's probably blushing.
You tilt your head. "All good?"
"Yes," He blurts, nodding almost immediately. "Yes. Absolutely."
"Can I kiss you?"
"Dumb question."
The kiss that comes after is heated.
He leans into it instantly, hands reaching out for your waist, his fingers tangling in the fabric of your shirt as he gasps into your mouth, letting his eyes close. You're so warm. And everywhere. His brain faintly registers the feeling of your hands tightening around the meat of the low of his hips, but what is accepted in full clarity is the groan that falls from your mouth and into his.
Tilting his head, he chases after your lips— getting what he's wanted has never felt so good. It's nearly euphoric, the need for more and more and more swallowing his shame and absorbing it whole. Even whilst he's losing oxygen and needs more, he doesn't want to move away.
And in doing that, you're forced to.
The second he senses you're about to pull back, his hold on your shirt tightens, wanting you close even as the burn of him losing his breath aches into his lungs, shooting warning signals to his brain he ignores until what feels like the last minute.
This time, he lets you move back without complaint, gasping for air the second your mouths disconnect— his brain feels almost fuzzy, like it's stuffed with cotton as you pant against him, your desperate breaths syncing for a split second before they fall out of rhythm again.
You nudge your forehead against his, the cold of the counter pressing into his back as you press against his front; he tilts his head back as you dip your head down, groaning as you mouth at his throat and press the tips of your teeth where you lick.
Your hands slide up his spine underneath his shirt, making a shudder drip down the notches of his spine as he leans into you more, wanting to tuck his nose into your pulse point and never move again.
"I love you," He breathes, resting his head against yours as he attempts to catch his breath. He only opens his eyes when he feels you plant kisses upwards, along his jawline and dotted around the corners of mouth— the way you do so, the way you kiss in general, is enthralling.
"I love you," You murmur, pressing your lips to the underside of his jaw as you catch your breath, too. "So much."
Before he gets to say anything else, the doorbell rings once, twice, three times…
He loses count after the tenth time.
He's never wished Rocky was late more in his life.
I'd just like to thank you for writing gn/male content for our beloved Grace. He has very quickly become a comfort character of mine, and I love the way you write him🥺🥺
Oh my god, thank you so much! I was actually pretty unsure of my characterization and waited awhile before posting anything.
As for the Gender Neutral/Male Reader, it's my duty to serve 💪
Synopsis: Ryland spends a lot of time around you, that's no lie. What's also not a lie is the fact that his students have a penchant for embarrassing him in front of his long time friend-turned-crush; especially when that friend is picking him up after work for a Not-Date.
WC: 2.2k.
AN: I was totally not cheesing whilst writing this. There's not enough Nothing Bad Happens To Ryland™ fluff out there for the amount of anguish this man went through-- though, why not make him go through the agony that is a crush instead?
(There's a pt.2 in progress, wink wink.) Again, I think I left Readers pro-nouns ambiguous, so I believe this can be read as Gender Neutral (though it was written with a male reader in mind).
Wiping the sweat off of his hands and onto his pants, he exhales shakily, feeling his leg bounce beneath his palm— it feels like his heart is in his throat, and not in a good way. Not exactly in a bad way, either. It was a good-bad-way. That's what he'll settle on.
He doesn't know why he feels so anxious — maybe the three cups of coffee he's had today are to blame, — but he feels it nonetheless, strongly. And everywhere. It was established that this was just a casual, completely normal, platonic dat—- hang-out, between two close friends. That's all. Nothing big, nothing loud, just you, him, dinner, and a Museum.
Just you and him.
He's not quite sure when his heart started kicking up in pace at the thought it— of you, or when he'd day-dream about you, or when he'd play your voicemails on repeat when he couldn't focus just to hear your voice. Really, he's not, but that's not important now as he sits here outside of school, waiting for you to text him when you arrive.
Of course, you picking him up wasn't new— you were a pillar in his life, and he felt you almost everywhere. In his shitty, messy apartment, his brain, when he'd wear the sweaters you got him…
Everywhere.
"Mr. Grace?"
Blinking rapidly, he breaks from his thoughts, humming a low "Hm?" Automatically before he even glances over— and when he does, his gaze lands on Spencer, one of his rather excitable but caring students.
He sits up a little more. "Don't worry about the late work, Spencer. It's alright."
They shake their head. "No, that… Are you okay? You look pale and you've been sitting here and behaving like a crazy person for the past five minutes. Yeah, I've seen you check your phone a million times, too. I won't pretend I didn't."
Crazy person?
Looking away, a breathy, shy laugh falls from his lips as blush crawls across his cheeks, heating his face and making him feel awkward. In front of his own student.
Embarrassing.
"What? Yeah, no, I'm, uh, completely on the OK. Just waiting for a friend," He clears his throat, reaching up to straighten his glasses; just to give his hands something to do once he focuses back onto them. He feels exposed. "Why aren't you at the bus stop? You'll be late."
Spencer's eyes narrow, and he watches the skepticism crash onto their face the moment they register what he'd said.
"Riiiight…." They mutter, slowly stepping back. "You're a really bad liar, but I honestly don't want to know whatever you've got going on— and you're lucky it was me instead of Janet, so you should thank me by giving me a couple more days on my paper. You know, for not spilling your secrets… and keeping your privacy intact."
"Wha— I already gave you, like, three extensions!" He gapes, jaw dropping just slightly as he watches them slowly retreat. "You're still having trouble? Why didn't you tell me earlier when I talked about the work?"
"Bye, Mr. Grace! Have a nice date!" They chirp, walking off, completely ignoring his concerned imploring.
"Date? Who said anything about a date?"
He gets no answer.
Sinking back, he huffs, staring down at the ground between his Converse, embarrassed.
Oh my God, he thinks, running a hand down his face to distract from the heat blooming across his cheeks. What the heck was that?
Adjusting in his spot on the bench, he pulls his glasses from his face, rubbing one of his eyes with the pads of his fingers— embarrassment still lingers, pulling an inner coil in his stomach unpleasantly taut.
That was slightly humiliating; he'll no doubt be kept up by that later tonight— if he's not already hogged by grading papers he thought he'd already graded (but completely forgot about).
His thigh tingles with the absence of the buzzing of his phone, drawing him back to the ever-waiting present. You didn't have a track-record of being late quite like he did — He'd argue he's fashionably late — so you're bound to be here any moment now, and he won't be a waiting duck.
No. Instead, he'll be pretending he isn't caught up on the way your necklace hangs pleasantly from your throat, or the way your voice makes his chest tighten… Or the way you both help him focus on work and distract him completely from it.
Exhaling slowly to steady his heart-rate, he runs his palms up and down the front of his thighs, checking the time again. Four twenty-two. You got off work at three fifty today, and you'd texted that you were coming to pick him up around sixteen minutes after that. He got out of his class at four thirteen.
You made nearly ten minutes feel like an eternity— actually, correction, his nerves made it feel like an eternity.
This was a self-inflicted agony, he'd admit it to himself.
Did you die on the way up here or are you just stopped at a red light? He wonders, fishing his phone from his pocket to check over your texts again— but the screen flashes in his hand a second before he turns it on.
Your name graces the screen.
"I'm in the parking lot. You said by the bus pick up, right?"
He swallows, clicking the notification and unlocking his phone. Chewing on his lip, he looks up, letting his gaze wander over the cars in the lot, and after one moves, he spots your truck in the back near the sidewalk.
He looks back down.
"I see you," He types, sending the message before continuing to write another. "And yes. I almost thought you'd forgotten about me, haha."
Not wanting to see your reply to his own faintly embarrassing text, he turns his phone off, shoving it into his pocket as he stands up from the bench. He grabs his helmet from beside him, looping the chinstrap to hang around the handles of his bike before he nudges its kickstand up with the toe of his shoe.
For the love of everything science, he thinks, walking alongside his bike on the sidewalk, do not embarrass yourself tonight.
You just… do these things to him— make his stomach tie itself into knots, make him feel insane and giddy at the same-time; like he was one of the high schoolers he's teaching. All of a sudden, he regrets feeling any sort of adorable amusement at putting his students next to their crushes in the seating plans and watching them fumble around one-another.
This was kind-of awful, in a weirdly pleasant way.
Is that the definition of insanity? Who knows.
He slows his pace a little once he makes it half-way, glancing up and over to your vehicle only to spot you already out and waiting for him.
He stops.
You look way too darn good for a 4PM on a random Tuesday. Way too good.
"You clean up nice," He jests, clearing his throat softly afterward. "I feel honored. And under-dressed."
The cheesy grin that softens the curve of your lips makes his an inferno out of the hollow of his chest— then the heat drags upward, to the tips of his ears and to his cheeks.
"Yeah? I was kind-of in a rush," You muse, voice light. "But don't worry. I brought you a shirt."
"You did?" He chokes, letting you take his bicycle when you reach for it after he grabs his helmet; then, he watches as you heft it up into the back of your truck. The way you do it looks effortless, where he knows he would come off dorky and clunky.
You look so good.
It's messing with his brain's natural ability to function— the way your hair is a slight mess like you've been running your hands through it, the way the color of your necklace contrasts against the color of your shirt (and how attractive it looks, hanging in the space of the unbuttoned collar)…
Your voice yanks him from his daydreaming.
"'Course I did," You nod, stepping back over to him after you get his bike in the back, "You said you needed one, remember?"
Had he? He can't recall. He can't think.
"Right," He agrees instantly, trying to conceal the fact he completely did not. "Yeah, no I remember now. Thank-you— for the shirt and for… putting my bike up."
He reaches up, running his hand through his hair right as some of his students pass. He glances over to them, realizing his glasses are slightly smudged with his fingerprints once he does.
Whoops.
"Damn, Mr. Grace!" One of them pipes up, and he catches the up-down they give you, then the wolf-whistle they're about to do right before they do it. "How the hell did you bag that?"
If his face was hot before, it's on fire now.
"Jefferson!" He squeaks, turning away from you immediately as he gasps silently, "What the heck, dude? No one's bagging anything— whatever that means!"
"It means to score someone," Another pipes up, rather unhelpfully. "You know, like fuck. Or date."
"Emily, you're not helping— And you guys are supposed to be on the bus already, so what are you doing over here?"
Turning away, he coughs into his elbow — it's more of a nervous tick than any illness or need, — trying to give himself physical stimuli to draw his focus away from his hyper-awareness of you (And the way he heard you laugh) and the flush to his face.
It doesn't work.
"No one's doing any of that," He continues, rambling. "They're a friend. Strictly platonic— so kick your butts into gear and go get on the bus so you can go home."
"Riiiight, right," Jefferson waves his hand carelessly as he walks past the two of you, as if to push away Ryland's argument. "Invite me to the wedding!"
"Me too!" Another joins. "I would pay to see that."
He stares.
His heart is assaulting his rib-cage with its incessant, quick thumps— beating so hard he can feel it in his throat. Once he realizes his mouth is still open, he finally closes it, each of his exhales coming out shakily from his nose.
"They seem like a fun bunch," You hum, and he can hear the smile in your voice. It helps nothing. "Very entertaining."
"They are," He grumbles, embarrassed. "Try dealing with twelve of them at once. I think they shave years off of my life-span when they pull things like… that."
"At least they're comfortable enough to," You add, and he finally glances over to you, catching the way your shoulders drop from the tail end of a shrug. "It's cute."
That's true, he thinks, feeling his heart rate slow— pride and affection fill the space where embarrassment and shame laid, making his shoulders ease. As much as a hassle they were sometimes, he did truly love his kids.
"That's a nice way of looking at it," He agrees, nodding thoughtfully. "I like it. They're still gremlins, though."
Reaching up, he pulls his glasses from his face, tugging the bottom hem of his shirt away from his stomach and using the fabric to clean the lenses— in spite of the nerves you shoveled up within him just by being in proximity, you also soothed the rest; where he'd get caught up in his emotions and the technicalities of things, you had a habit of looking at the broader picture.
It was nice.
"Oh, no doubt." You add, snickering. "I've heard enough about them to know that for certain."
Humming an agreeing sound, he clears his throat, looking up— his eyes naturally squint lightly to see you, trying to catch the details he can't see without his glasses on habit.
"I guess I do tell you a lot about them, huh?" He breathes, smiling faintly. "I forget I tell you half of the things I do."
Releasing the hem of his shirt, he narrows his eyes, lifting his glasses up and peering through the lenses to check for smudges— once he deems them Clean Enough™, he slips them back on to rest atop the bridge of his nose.
"It's mostly in coffee-induced rambles," You shrug, "But yes. You ready to go, Mr. Grace?"
The way your voice lilts upward, almost teasing, has his brain catching.
"Uh, yeah," He coughs, "Absolutely."
The laugh that tumbles from your mouth loops brokenly in his head as he rounds the truck and pries the passenger-side door open, continuing on even as he climbs inside, sets his bike helmet in the back-seat, and closes the door after himself.
He fumbles to buckle up as you slip into the drivers seat, tugging on the belt after the buckle clips just to make sure it's in for good— yours clicks into place right after his. He leans back into the seat, exhaling slowly as he relaxes; it reeks of you in here.
And that's very far from a bad thing. You smell heavenly; it's almost intoxicating.
It makes him imagine how good it'd feel to wake up beside you, toss a leg over your hip, and bury his nose into your throat— the heat of your body, the comfort of your bed, the sleepy noise you'd make.
Oh, God.
He needs to clear his head. Preferably before he gets tangled in his thought and says something embarrassing—
Welcome, welcome (Distant, high-pitched screaming emits from the background)-- just ignore that. That's not important. Focus.
What's important are these logs here. Pay attention. You shouldn't miss anything.
Doctor Captain Ryland Grace:
The Trick To Becoming A Space Doctor Is To Remember Your Training, Ryland!
Synopsis: When you get injured aboard the Hail Mary on the way to Erid, the only one who can help you is Doctor Captain Ryland Grace-- but he's a little sluggish to recall his medical training. Gender Neutral/Male Reader.
Today's Field Trip: A Not-Date.
Synopsis: Ryland spends a lot of time around you, that's no lie. What's also not a lie is the fact that his students have a penchant for embarrassing him in front of his long time friend-turned-crush; especially when that friend is picking him up after work for a Not-Date. Gender Neutral/Male Reader.
Can You Feel This?
Synopsis: Ryland wants to kiss you really badly. It's embarrassing-- but what sucks more than waiting for something is once he does get it, he doesn't have it for long without interruption. You're too good to pass up, though, so he'll take it with at least a little grace. Gender Neutral/Male Reader.
Can I Test My Theory On You?
Synopsis: When observing a new plant species of Erid's goes awry, both you and Ryland get spores spewed all over you-- and they certainly have an… affect. AKA: Ryland's fib gets both you and himself covered in what has the same affect of sex-pollen. Male Reader, Smut.
How About A Beach Episode?
Synopsis: Ryland makes a beach day out of teaching the Pebbles about Buoyancy and how Ammonia is less dense than water or air--- but they, like Rocky and Adrian, can't let him do anything around you without making his heart-rate and flushed cheeks terribly obvious. Gender Neutral Reader.
Come right on me— I mean camaraderie!
Synopsis: Ryland misses you so much it hurts, much to his own hopeless chagrin. Of course, when he can't have his boyfriend fuck him brainless and soothe his (sexual)frustration, comes the next best thing; jerking off to you… and missing you the whole time. Male Reader, Smut.
Just Another Thursday, Court Gentry:
"The Die is Cast."
Synopsis: What happens when Court's luck is Court's luck, and shit hits the fan? (A little snippet of an ongoing work.) Male Reader.
The Trick To Becoming A Space Doctor Is To Remember Your Training, Ryland!
Synopsis: When you get injured aboard the Hail Mary on the way to Erid, the only one who can help you is Doctor Captain Ryland Grace-- but he's a little sluggish to recall his medical training.
WC: 2.4k.
AN: This was honestly supposed to be a long-form fic of Ryland realizing he's got feelings for his fellow astronaut (and the slew of emotions that follow, especially after getting situated on Erid), but... it's a short one-shot instead.
Vienna by Billy Joel is so his song...
Can be read as gn (I think) though it was written with Male reader in mind.
"Oh my god, that's so much blood—" His expression scrunches as he tightens his hold, the backs of his calves pressing into the cold underside of the table as he tries to stay seated atop your thighs, pushing his body-weight down into your injury. "Nope, nope— I can't do this! I am not a doctor!"
Yet here he was, straddling you because the table was too tall and horribly attempting to stave off the weeping wound in your gut.
He feels nauseous.
"Focus, Ryland," You snap, your voice straining through your gritted teeth, "You can't kill me. I need — Mnngh — you to, hah, to do this for me, okay? Can you do that?"
"No, I can't!"
Truly, he cannot do this. A cut or two? Just go to Armando! A large, shallow but pouring wound along your side that he can't do much for but you'll bleed out rather quickly if he doesn't and you can't move because it hurts too bad to and—
"I'm a school teacher, not a freaking open-heart surgeon! I get heart palpitations just thinking about social interaction with people that aren't half my age!" He blurts, his voice picking up in pitch as he winces, leaning over you and pressing a little harder to slow the blood loss in spite of his worrying.
Your whining rings out within the lab the moment he does so, echoing in his own head. Rocky would be chittering all over the place if he heard you, were he awake.
A copious amount of guilt follows at the way your voice cracks and how you choke on a groan beneath him, and he goes to pull back to stop hurting you— until your coil your hand insistingly tight around his wrist to keep him in his position; inforcing that, yes, he truly does not have a choice.
Okay, okay, I can do this. Piece of cake.
Either he acts like the grown-up he is and he helps you, or you bleed out and most likely die, here in space, on this table. He'd be all alone with Rocky— no one to read his mind for him, no one to help ease his stress when he gets caught up in the details in that infuriatingly comforting way you do, no one to...
He doesn't like those options. Or those thoughts, but they thicken and suffocate the self-confidence the moment it builds up.
You squeeze his wrist gently to pull him from his own head, but all he can focus on is the slick of blood coating your hand, and, in turn, his arm.
He shudders, trying to not gag.
"Grace," You ease, and he can tell you're trying to aim for your certain characteristic steadiness, but your voice shakes in pain and it's all he can hear. "Listen to me, okay? I need you out of your head for this."
Alright. Alright.
You were counting on him— for once, instead of the usual other way around. You needed him, and he was chickening out like a coward, feeling his eyes water up at just the sight and panic alone of you being hurt.
Man up. You've got this, he repeats the thought to himself once, then twice.
"G— Grace?"
"Okay, okay," He swallows, forcing his gaze back up to your face, rather than the hole in your stomach. "You. I… I got it. What do I do?"
"There's a med-kit in storage, it's… fuck, it's got all we need for now. I need you to get that for me— I've got this here. Go."
His hands are shaking.
Nodding jerkily, he exhales, tossing a leg over your side and stumbling off the table— he steadies himself against the wall, smearing a jagged, bloody hand-print against the metal before he pushes off of it, running over to storage.
"Med-kit, med-kit, med-kit," He repeats, blinking repeatedly as he climbs the wrings of the ladder, leaving a trail of bloody streaks from his hands along every one until he gets to the top.
"Storage, okay, I've got that. No problem! My friend totally isn't bleeding out in the lab or anything," He laughs shakily, sucking in a broken breath as he clambers into Storage and immediately starts searching for the little red box.
"This isn't happening. It's obviously just a dream. I'll wake up, nothing will have happened, and voila! World peace— Space peace!" He continues talking to himself, shoving a few pale boxes out of his way when he bumps into them.
As he yanks another box from his way, he finally spots it— attached to the wall behind the box-fortification of all the belongings you two had to move for Rocky to have enough room on the ship.
The trip back takes less time, but no less stumbles. He misses the bottom two wrings of the ladder and just jumps down, ignoring the ache in his spine as he races back to the lab, med-kit in hand.
The earlier anxiety instantly wells right back up to his throat the second he lays eyes on you.
"I found it," He pants, prying it open as he slows down beside the table, his hip bumping into the stool connected to the ship floor. "Are you okay? Can you even hear me? Am I talking to myself? Are you secretly dead and I'm all alone again?"
He's rambling. He should… probably stop that— or maybe not. It's good to keep injured people talking, he's heard.
He thinks so, anyway. He's not one hundred percent if that's true or not. He read it in a magazine, of all things.
He can't remember his medical training well enough when he needs it.
Go figure. It's just his luck.
"What? No. Do I look dead to you?" You rasp, scrunching your nose at him— whether due to pain or his own ridiculousness, he knows not. "Nevermind, just— there should be gauze in there, hah, …somewhere. A, uh, a little roll of it. The one we uses for your burns. Can you see it?"
Shifting on his feet, he quickly sifts through the contents of the box, pulling his hand out with a little white tube curled in his grip. His gaze flits back down to your wound on instinct, and he winces. "Uh, yes."
"Y—yes, that's it," You nod, only to moan and let your head fall back against the table, your hips adjusting to the change of your spines position. "Now, nhng, tear some off, and lay it over my side. We still need to stop the bleeding."
He can't focus.
Stress bounces in his brain, making a home of the space there— he can't think. He can't pay attention to anything but your pained expression, your short and sharp breathing, all of the blood…
Do I look dead to you?
"Alright," He manages, snapping back to and finally forcing himself to move. The sound of the gauze ripping covers your broken breaths, but it doesn't help any of his nerves to stop jumping around. "Okay, yeah. I've got this, right? Totally. The world is my oyster, and… my friend is bleeding out right in front of me."
"Ryland," You chime in, giving him a strained but steady look. "You'll do perfectly fine. It's a walk in the park— don't get in your head about it, okay? This is nothing."
At the sound of your reassurance — less the words you're saying and more of the trust in your voice —, something in his shoulders ease and the coil in his stomach loosens, just a little. You always did have a way to make him relax; how, he didn't know. It was like magic, really.
Or maybe that was just you.
He swallows, exhaling harshly as he hypes himself up internally. Once he's got enough gauze, you move your hand enough for him to lay it over the gash— the image of it makes him want to gag, but he surprises himself and chokes it back.
Your voice breaks him out, again.
"Very good," You nod, immediately placing your hand over his and applying pressure to help slow the bleeding. It hurts, and it shows in your face, but you brave it out. Guilt heats up his stomach like an unpleasant inferno. "Perfect, like I said."
It doesn't feel perfect, he thinks, you're bleeding out on the lab table, and I can't stop it.
You were braver than he could ever hope to be.
"What next? Is this it?" He breathes, clearing his throat as his gaze flits over you anxiously. Your shirt is almost completely torn and ruined on your left side, and something in his chest turns tender as he remembers it's one of your favorites.
He frowns.
"Just this," Your voice returns, "For the moment. We have to slow the bleeding before we can do anything, and… mng, then we sew me up. Staple me. Glue me. Whatever works. It's easy. Simple."
A pause.
"…I wish I could help you more," He admits, falling quiet immediately afterward.
I'm useless here, his brain gnaws the reminder endlessly.
He only realizes he'd actually said it aloud, rather than keep in it his head like he wanted, when you offer him a small, torturous smile. It was your trademark I'm okay on the physical smile, and it soothes nothing.
He watches it slip right off your face, and then the change your expression takes when you notice he's not jumping to change the topic like he usually would.
The heat of your hand on top of his almost burns; a nagging, searing reminder of the shame and the guilt playing house within the hollow of his chest.
He was supposed to be down in the engine room with you before. If he'd listened like he was supposed to, maybe you wouldn't be here; squirming on the cold table in the lab, pale and sweaty and in pain.
He tugs his hand out from underneath your own — it's not like he was helping any, anyway — and steps back, chewing on his bottom lip as he turns a little away from you— it's only to hide the way his jaw clenches and the way he squeezes his eyes shut, but he feels bad about that, too.
It felt wrong for him to not want you to see him cry, for some reason. Maybe it's the adrenaline crash, maybe it's himself, he doesn't know. Maybe it's the way you always make him feel.
Or it's the way his stomach churns at the expression that always washes over your face when you see him tear up; part guilt (as if it was ever your fault), part something he could never identify.
You were probably in more pain than he can imagine, but here he was. Making it weird and awkward with his own self-doubt while you, the one with the bleeding cut in your side, were holding it together more than he was.
It's quiet for a couple of minutes, until you break it with a sigh.
"…Grace," You mutter, and your voice is softer than before— gentle, a little tired. His last name sounds ridiculously pleasant coming from you.
"Hm?" He hums, clearing his throat right after to try to hide the fact that it felt raw, choked up.
You say nothing.
He turns, his heart-rate ticking up a smidge at the sudden silence, but it steadies out when he sees that you're still alive, albeit covered in your own blood and staring at him with a look in your eye he can't decipher— until he realizes.
You wanted him to turn and face you again, yet you knew he'd argue against if you'd asked or tried yourself.
You knew him.
The thought was scary.
Screw you and your stupidly good people-reading skills, he thinks, it's almost unfair.
It felt like he could barely tell what you were thinking when you didn't want him to, yet he was a toy in your hands no matter what he tried.
He exhales, the points of his K9s grinding together momentarily as he looks away, only to look right back— he wants to fix his glasses, run his hand down his face or pull his hair, but his hands are covered in blood. Blinking slowly, he sinks down into one of the stools at the table, nudging the med-kit out of his way.
"I can't remember the last time the ship was this quiet," You muse, another small smile crawling onto your lips. He can't help but notice it doesn't make it to your eyes. Few of them do. "Between you and Rocky… It's like a circus in here half the time."
A tiny laugh is pulled from his throat before he can stop it.
"There's a first time for everything," He remarks, clearing his throat again— it's more on habit than need. It gives him something to do with himself that's less obvious than fiddling with his shirt hem or his glasses. "He's the one who always starts it."
You snicker, but it's cut short by a faint groan as you adjust on the table. The cloud of pain that crosses over your expression is clear enough he can see it even through the smudged lenses of his glasses. The corners of his mouth twitch southward just faintly in a frown, but he catches it too late.
He's never not been the type to wear his heart on his sleeve; even now, he sucks at shielding his thoughts from his face. He's sluggish to notice.
"Right," You retort, shaking your head just slightly.
"What, you don't think so?" He sits up a little in his spot, more than willing to defend his side of the I don't start it, he starts it, war. He feels better now as you're not bleeding nearly as much, but he can't tell if you're changing the topic on purpose just to achieve that or not. Probably.
"Mmn. I'm the middle-man. I don't take sides."
"Yeah, okay," He huffs, the corners of his mouth twitching upward just a little— it was a lie and you knew it, too, by the smug and self-assured look on your face. "Totally believable."
You look good like that. Not bloody and hurt, but when you're letting loose more than you typically would and actually looking human. It's likely due to exhaustion and stress, and the realization alone soils the moment.
"Yeah, totally. Now go get the medical stapler so we can fix me up." You huff, reaching over to squeeze his hand.
A little sneak peek into what I'm working on for Court Gentry (Sierra Six, The Gray Man).
SYNOPSIS: What happens when Court's luck is Court's luck, and shit hits the fan?
WC: 700.
AN: just a little sneak peek. The book was really good, and it got me thinking— how would he work with a partner?
"So much for fuckin' Nikolai," Court grumbles, lifting his soaking-wet shirt up by the lower hem, over his head, and off. "Can't believe he broke on us."
He's still freezing.
"Doesn't surprise me too much," You pipe up, voice strained and gritted through pain— and on instinct, he glances over, tossing his shirt aside as he lets his gaze roam over your roughened, battered form. Your own shirt is tattered and ripped, clinging wetly to your figure as watered-down blood carves fluid rivers southward from the gash along your shoulder.
You look awful, but that's far from new in your shared luck.
Watching as you wince, he listens as you continue. "The guy wasn't exactly a pillar of American Loyalty."
"True, that." He agrees, voiced lowered.
Only three hours before, you both were completely fine— good, even. Warm, dry, and holed up in one of Nikolai's safe houses, awaiting new passports and some cash before you'd take off and advance in your missions only point: Kill Winslow Whitmore, the head researcher of (U)PRIOS; aka, (Universal) Parasitical Research Institute of Oregon State.
Too bad Nikolai got bought out and flunked trying to feed you both to the same CORP you were trying to kill.
He's dead now.
…Not like it matters. This was Just Another Thursday.
"How's the cut?" He inquires, forcing himself to look away as he tugs himself further from his thoughts. His own body aches, but he hadn't exactly gotten as roughed up as you whilst jumping from the sixth story into a nearby river channel.
"Cuts," You correct, groaning under your breath, "And better, once I get them all flushed out. You?"
Concern nags, but he ignores it in favor of drying off some. Hypothermia would kill him faster than worry, anyway, in this chill-ridden, termite infested shack in the middle of Bumfuck Nowhere. At least technically.
At your question, he hums, subconsciously checking himself— finding nothing of note, aside from a sharp stinging around his shoulder and a killer migraine, he moves on. "All good over here."
Unbuckling his belts clasp, he pulls the leather from his pants, setting it aside on the small card table before shimmy-ing out those, too. It's a fight with how they're soaked and clingy, but he manages to free his legs before he falls over.
He throws those aside, rolling his shoulder with a faint huff; he's tired. And hungry, but he's already back to thinking again. What the next play is, how long you'll need to recover, what resource needs to be stretched until the two of you can high-tail it and get over to Oregon to finish this.
Shifting on his feet, he sighs, snagging his mildew-reeking towel from the back of the chair and running it through his hair.
Within the years of working together, seeing each-other naked had been unwelcome but necessary, and he can't help but think back on the first time. He'd been concussed out of his mind, exhausted and hungry from laying low in the snow somewhere in Sokovia for weeks, and ended up passing out in the shower.
It was just work now. Nothing new, nothing notable, nothing important. You weren't exactly a stranger, so he couldn't care less nowadays.
"We still got those MREs?" He asks, drying his face off, then moving the towel downward— he looks over to you, observing your condition and the faint huffs and groans that spill from your mouth as you pour antiseptic over another cut along your stomach.
You clear your throat, not glancing up. "Uh, yeah, I think so. A couple of 'em. Left lower pocket, my backpack."
Setting his towel down, he moves over to the door; where you both dropped your belongings… aside from your handguns and a few mags. He bends down, grabbing your bag by its top handle before he unzips it and walks back to the table.
Everything inside is pretty much soaking, save your water-proof tools and anything you shoved in the water-proof pocket, but it all looks okay. After ruffling through it a little more, he scores the MREs, pulling your backpack from the table and propping it up against the leg of the card table.
kiss your screen every time you see a typo or grammatical error in my fics because it means it's home grown and not some ai bullshit and im dead serious about this
"Call me Narcissus, I'm the one you came to see." @lagout-loud - Tumblr Blog | Tumgag
