wow that was an amazing movie and it fucked me up I have so many emotions
let’s go down the list of Immortal Family Angst
1. The Immortal Family Angst: First off, the 7000-year-old gods were gorgeous and powerful and petty and human, which is everything I could’ve asked for in a Mythological Deities movie. They’ve definitely got that Greek Mythology Olympians vibe with their differing fields of expertise (what they were made for + what they came to embody over the centuries), but I guess what makes them more or less fucked up than Greek gods is their unquestionable love for each other. Isn’t that such a curse and a blessing?
2. The physical disability representation from Makkari: When she spoke, everyone automatically fell silent, and not once in the film was her disability a hindrance to her. Why? Because her 7000-year-old family members accommodated her needs, which isn’t that impossible to do. (Headcanon: her machine body might’ve been built with deaf ears because constantly breaking the sound barrier might be disastrous to the eardrums, maybe. Also I love her combat style, speed is deadly.)
3. The mental disability representation from Thena: This was done so well, with Ajak continuously reminding her, “You are loved,” with the others supporting her in not wanting to give up who she is, with Gilgamesh agreeing to keep her company through the years and constantly being there to remind her that just because she can’t fight the same way she used to doesn’t mean she is less loved.
Mental illness can become more difficult to deal with when one experiences the loss of a loved one. Thena’s character arc showed that though Gilgamesh was gone, the progress she had made and the determination to stay with her recovery did not become null. Sometimes remembering the love that was given to you is the reminder you need to continue to accept yourself, illness and all. (That cave battle metaphor for mental illness was on point. The Deviant was doomed the moment he quoted Gilgamesh without truly understanding the humanity he’d stolen from him.)
4. Phastos’s loving family representation: How about this disillusioned god of inventions, who saw all the bad that humanity could do and also rediscovered the good that humanity could offer? He’s a gay black man who’s got a happy, loving relationship with his handsome husband and his beautiful son. Wow did I love seeing this on the big screen. (Also his combat scenes? What a badass.)
5. Ajak, Ikaris, Gilgamesh, and fate: Let’s talk about these three. In a way, Ajak and Ikaris’s endings were almost fated due to the choices they made. Ajak could’ve chosen to stand her ground sooner, or could’ve not burdened her favorite child with the heaviest weight she carried. Ikaris could’ve chosen to accept the change of plans and reassessed his faith earlier. But neither of them could shake off the responsibility they were indoctrinated into that easily. Ajak’s favor of Ikaris might’ve doomed them both, but how could a mother love her son and not give him a chance to prepare for the approaching end? Could she have truly avoided raising him in the spitting image of herself? The loneliness she must have felt, with her burden. A Shakespearean tragedy, in the flesh.
In contrast, Gilgamesh did nothing to deserve his fate. Where Ajak was the Mind, Gilgamesh was obviously the Heart. He’s the one who volunteers to dedicate his life to helping Thena live hers. Without Gilgamesh, Ikaris would’ve died in the Amazon forest. He’s the protector, readily sharing comforting words and good food, as well as a badass fist. You could say he’s the purest embodiment of who an Eternal is. It makes me feel some type of thing, knowing that the tale of Gilgamesh is the first human epic we have a remaining record of, and it’s the story of a man who grew into a good, compassionate king and met a very human death. (Interesting how the Deviant became so human-like after absorbing Gilgamesh’s essence.)
Ajak, Ikaris, and Gilgamesh, despite their godly power, are not named after gods. They are named after mortal heroes (Ajax and Icarus from Greek mythology, Gilgamesh from ancient Mesopotamian mythology). Like their namesakes, it was not their power that defined who they were, and for them were reserved the most human ends.
6. Ikaris, Sprite, and immortality: They really came for my throat with the Peter Pan and Tinkerbell reference. Eternal youth isn’t all that great, especially for Sprite or Ikaris. Peter Pan killed his mother because he couldn’t bear to break out of his old way of life. He was unwilling to grow up. In contrast, Sprite wants more than anything else to be able to grow up, but is held in stagnation against her will. But in the end, when Peter Pan is gone and Wendy Darling is the new immortal leader of Neverland, Tinkerbell chooses what Wendy Darling had and leaves her old self behind. She changes.
(In the beginning of the movie, the title Eternals sounds grand and impressive. But near the end of the movie, when Ikaris talks about eternity with Sersi, the name no longer sounds glorious. Eternity sounds like a curse.)
7. Kingo and his faith: Take notes, Ikaris, this is how not to wage a holy war in the name of your faith. Kingo did leave Sprite to loneliness to pursue his love of movies, but at his core, his first and foremost love is for his family. (Something about Fighter Classes and how they throw themselves into danger for the other robot deities does something to my heart.) Despite his love for humanity, he cannot compromise his beliefs. That does not mean he is willing to harm others for that faith, because that is not what faith should be for. (Looking at you, Ikaris.)
8. Druig and his burned-out love: What a way to deal with a morally gray mind-controlling god, whose only wish was for humans to stop fighting and live companionably together. Here’s this deeply tired, flawed person who was unable to lose his empathy, however hard he may have wanted to. He was willing to shoulder the blame for preventing a Celestial’s birth if it meant sparing Sersi the weight, and I think that might be the essence of his character.
9. Sersi and her destructive creation: Finally, we come to the sorceress of myth (named after Circe from Greek mythology). Sersi is the most loving, kind-hearted person, but the power of creation she wields is the most destructive force of all. She shares the same characteristic with Celestials. This movie seems to be saying, ‘look hard at miraculous acts of creation, and make sure you know what the price of that creation is’.
“It is the most natural thing in the world to want to protect the one you love,” said Gilgamesh. Sersi did so, and so did Ikaris. What a shame that it was such a struggle for Ikaris to do the most natural thing in the world. What a shame that Sersi’s heart made a choice that would weigh her down with enormous guilt and terrible repercussions. It should not be so terrible to want to protect, and yet.
(Maybe it’s the way these robot deities were programmed, but every one of these people seem to have an instinctive love for humans and their world. That includes Ikaris, who took one last look back at the beautiful planet he had loved for several millennia, before flying into his destruction. If he had listened to love more than duty, things might be different. But then he wouldn’t be Ikaris. Again, Shakespearean.)
10. Celestials and their birth: What if all Celestials who were brought forth into the world by Eternals are a little in love with them, from that first mind-meld at the beginning of their life? What if Tiamut, while connecting with these tiny implements of birth and creation, saw their sorrow for the destruction of a beloved planet and chose—with a newborn deity’s own free will—to make the sacrifice for these grieving, loving robots? (Why the continuous cycle of rebirth for this specific group of robots? Can this expression of sentiment be explained in any other way than love? Arishem may not be aware how much his tools are loved.)
(Also I can’t believe the eventual death of the universe, which is highly likely considering the actual science of everything, can be explained mythologically as Star-Forgers who grew too compassionate for the products of their creations and chose a slow and certain death over a hard-reset cycle. What a story.)
(If you think of the planet as the mother and the Celestial as the child, the movie is a pro-abortion metaphor. Of course mothers have a right to abortion if the pregnancy is life-threatening. The potential for new life cannot outweigh the free choice of who is already here. It’s a question of seeing humans as mere implements of procreation or as actualized individuals with vibrant lives.)
11. Love can take many forms: Safe, sane, and consensual sex is a perfectly natural activity for humans in love. Cohabitation of platonic life partners is also a perfectly natural manifestation of love. Familial love is a wonderful thing when shared with the right people. Kissing is a beautiful affirmation of love, but it is not a requirement for two people to share a special connection together. The forehead touches in this movie made me scream internally. (Druig and Makkari own my soul, by the way. I don’t entirely understand how this happened. My heart I’ve given to Gilgamesh and Thena. Sersi can have my everything else.)
12. Found Family Dynamics: This actually wrecked me. The way Sersi and Ikaris acted in Phastos’s home, like they felt comfortable to be there, in that house and in that company. The way Ajak loved and cared for her children, and how she tried her hardest to do right by them despite knowing she was merely a tool. The way Druig, Makkari, and Phastos shared a couch. The way everyone laughed around Gilgamesh’s dinner table. The way Sprite told a story. The way Kingo said the word “family.” The way they waited for Thena to wake up. Just, so much about them. (I might need some AU fics to mend the hole they left in me.)
13. The Good Humans: Shout-out to Dane, Karun, Phastos’s family, and the other good humans I’m probably forgetting. Congratulations, your decency and kindness prompted a group of robot deities to fight for your continued survival. Keep being the good parts of humanity.
Conclusion: This is the best multi-character movie I have seen in my life. I became so intensely enamored with all of the individual characters, it was unreal. THIS is how you do a multi-character movie. What a masterpiece.
this post made me love the Eternals even more than I did before or after I left the cinema, you did such a good job pinpointing all the amazing things this movie brought to the table.
in all honesty, someone should put this as the pinned (spoiler) review on rotten tomatoes, so that every 'so claimed professional critic' can at least read this before opening their mouth moaning about 'how terrible the movie was' 😒🥱
and YES WE NEED FIX-IT-FICS FOR THEM, like those 'being with the Avengers in the A tower' with Thor eating poptarts non-stop, stony bickering, Nat being the cool one, Clint cracking jokes and Bruce being the voice of reason, we need family dinner table fics with delicious meals made by yours truly Gilgamesh, in Phastos' cozy but high tech and protective/secure house, with Kingo, Sprite and Ikaris bickering, Druig and Makkari being sweethearts and giving heart eyes to one another, Thena smiling contently watching from afar, Ajak maybe humming some tunes after the dinner while washing the dishes with Sersi and Karun, Ben and phastos' son watching some TV comedy 🥺💗🤲
Kissing Kurt Wagner for the very first time, and you just cannot suppress this sudden desire to explore. His mouth is mere inches away from your face — a patient, gorgeous thing the color of ripe plum, full with softness yet daring at the sharp edges. Molded for quiet prayers and unruly passion alike. It's so close you can taste his breath and smell the hint of morning toothpaste not quite washed away by saliva. Saliva that glistens on the pink inside of his lips, on his swift tongue, on the smooth pearl of his canines...
It's an intrusive urge — to touch them. To lift his dark upper lip — this veil that taunts more than it tries to hide — just a tiny bit, just enough to bare them. To trace along one tooth from the thin sharpened point to the very border where it sits thick in his gum. Would he let you? And if so, would his breath hitch in his throat? Would his tongue curl, chasing after your finger for a quick taste? Would spit pool against the back of his teeth as you gently force his jaw wider to peek into his warm mouth?..
You have ached to kiss him. Day and night, date after date, you've worn this want like a fever on your skin. Yet now, when he is all yours for the taking, you halt. On Kurt's chin, in the crease underneath his lip, lingers a little shadow: it curves and stretches whenever he speaks and right now it twists into a plump crescent.
"Is there something stuck between my teeth?". The rustle of his voice brushes your lips, and you swallow. Look up, into his smoldering gaze, then down again, where the peaks of his canines are so strikingly white against the darkness of him.
"Go on, Süße, go for it. Whatever it is you desire so, you can go for it."
And so you do. Your thumb kisses his mouth first, pressed firmly against his lower lip. The tender swell of it shifts underneath your touch as you trace it, and purple blooms almost black; you pull it back to reveal the wet pink within and when you let go, it snaps back with the softest pop. His breath spills hot and thick from the cavity of his mouth, swirling down your hand.
Lightly your nail scrapes his teeth, and his tongue lies caught underneath the pad of your finger, spit squelching, clinging to your skin, and you let it. It's fascinating — just how quickly it builds, flooding the floor of his mouth, all while his unmoving half-lidded eyes watch each new discovery paint your face with heat. You can't stop yourself from dipping your thumb there, into the slick softness hidden beneath his tongue, and it comes out drenched up to the knuckle, gleaming in the dimmed light.
With greed simmering hot in your belly, you watch Kurt's throat squeeze around a swallow when you press your saliva-dripping finger between your lips. Kissing him at last.
Warnings: hurt/comfort, no use of y/n, gn!reader, some angst, pinning, Grace's canon memory loss, hidden feelings, so much fluff, happy ending, Medic!Reader, Rocky being Rocky, not proofread, kissing, strangers to lovers (kind of?)
Word count: 3.4K
Summary: Being the medic aboard the Hail Mary comes with a lot of responsibilities: saving humanity, keeping your crewmates alive, and, apparently, hiding a hopeless crush on Ryland Grace. He doesn't know about that last part...yet.
Requests open
Your eyes scanned over the screen, lips moving softly to accompany the words you were reading. It was a habit you'd developed when you were having a hard time processing data, and it had become more and more common the longer you were aboard the Hail Mary. Safe to say that saving Earth was not an easy task, and so the data necessary to do so was also no walk in the park to understand.
One of the monitors beside you beeped softly.
You ignored it, eyes still trailing over the words on the screen.
The beeping sounded again, twice this time.
The sound made you lose your train of thought, causing you to let out a soft groan as you glanced at the beeping screen. It was only then that you realized the beep was coming from Rocky's translator.
You leaned forward, reading the word "assistance." It was written on the screen three times, one for every beep that had sounded.
Your eyes moved over to the cameras, trailing until they fell on the crew's sleeping quarters. Just like you expected, Rocky was there, his legs moving him back and forth softly.
Another ping rang from your left. You eyed the translator.
It read the same word as before, only now it was in all caps.
You couldn't understand why Rocky was asking for your help. Nothing seemed wrong from what you could see on the cameras.
You quickly typed, "What's up, Rocky?" into the translator, your eyes moving back to the cameras to watch him again.
The answer came quickly, your head snapping back to the beeping translator.
Your brows furrowed as you read the incomplete message.
Grace is 🎵🎵🎵🎵. Need word.
You let out a soft grunt, lifting yourself from your spot and making your way to the crew's quarters.
Because of Eridian culture surrounding watching each other sleep—and your inability to hear as far as they could—Grace had rigged up a connection between two computers so either of you could communicate with Rocky from a distance.
It made it possible for one of you to work while Rocky watched the other sleep, because both you and Grace knew Rocky would never leave one of you unattended while you slept just to talk to the other, even if it was important.
So, yeah, you'd come up with a workaround.
Unfortunately, Rocky still didn't know every human word, so it led to moments like these.
You tiptoed into the crew's quarters, your hand immediately moving to your lips as Rocky began shifting around in jerky movements.
He understood what you meant, stopping his pacing—if you could even call it that—until you were near his enclosure.
"What's up, Rocky?" you whispered.
"Grace is 🎵🎵🎵🎵. Is distressed, question?" Rocky whispered back.
It still surprised you how he knew to match whatever tone you spoke to him in.
You turned to look at Grace, trying to figure out what word you weren't understanding. Even though you and Grace were practically fluent in Eridian by now, there were still moments of miscommunication every now and again.
You tried to move as carefully as possible so as not to wake Grace. He needed his sleep, and it had taken you a long time to convince him to get some well-deserved rest. You did not want to wake him unless it was completely unavoidable.
Just as you managed to get next to his bed, Grace twitched, his whole body tensing as his face twisted. A soft sound escaped him, and Rocky immediately said, "That! What is sound, question?"
Your shoulders sagged a bit, understanding what Rocky had been referring to.
You turned to look at him.
"He's whimpering, Rocky," you whispered sadly before turning back to Grace's sleeping form. "He must be having a nightmare."
"Nightmare?" Rocky questioned lowly.
"Yeah. Remember when we told you about dreams?"
"Yes," Rocky chirped.
"Nightmares are the bad version of those."
"Bad. Bad. Bad."
"Yeah. They're not fun."
"Can fix, question?"
You smiled softly at the concern in Rocky's tone, turning to face him fully.
"I think so," you muttered. "You go do your things, pal. I'll take over watch duty."
"Is sure, question?" Rocky whispered, his uncertainty clear in his body language. "Can stay if want."
"Nah, it's okay, pal. I've got him."
With another soft sound and some hesitation, Rocky finally made his way up his tunnels. You assumed he would head to the lab to work on one of his and Grace's many experiments.
You sat at the edge of Grace's bed, trying to stir as little as possible.
Your eyes trailed over his furrowed brows and the tension in his muscles, your heart clenching at the sight. After a moment, your hand moved up. Your fingers threaded through Grace's blond locks, moving back and forth in what you considered a soothing pattern.
He flinched at your touch, causing you to let out a soft shushing sound.
Slowly, his brows began to relax, the fearful expression on his face melting into a peaceful one. His body loosened, the fetal position he had been curled up in transforming into something more comfortable. Even his breathing seemed to shift as you continued to stroke his hair.
"That's it," you whispered tenderly. "I'm here, Grace. You can relax now. I'm here."
You weren't sure how long you stayed there, just stroking Grace's hair, but eventually the tiredness caught up with you. You rested your back against the wall, your eyes growing heavier and heavier until you finally let sleep seep into your bones.
You twitched awake, blinking hard as you took in your surroundings.
You didn't remember lying down, but you found yourself sprawled against the bed. You sniffled, groaning softly as you rose to a sitting position. A yawn escaped you despite yourself.
"Well, look at that. Sleeping Beauty's awake."
Your attention snapped to him at his words.
Ryland sat on the ground, his back pressed against the wall on the other side of the crew's quarters.
"When did you wake up?" you rasped, your voice still raw from sleep.
"A couple of hours ago," Ryland answered, his eyes moving from the computer on his lap to you.
"Why are you—"
You cut yourself off when your eyes found Rocky's sleeping form.
"Someone had to keep an eye on both of you," Ryland answered, an easy smile gracing his lips.
You mirrored his expression, humming softly as you got up from the bed.
"Computer, water please."
A bottle appeared in the dispenser built into the wall beside Ryland. Without standing, he reached over and grabbed it.
You made your way to him, settling on the ground beside him before accepting the bottle with a soft, "Thanks." To which he just nodded.
You watched Rocky as you took a sip of water before offering the bottle to Grace. He softly shook his head, causing you to place it beside you.
Both of you sat in silence for a while, just listening to each other's breathing as you watched Rocky sleep.
"I have another memory," Ryland finally muttered.
Your head snapped toward him.
Over the course of your mission, Grace had been getting flashes of his life before boarding the Hail Mary. You knew all about his coma and the circumstances in which he'd been put on the ship, but you'd done as Stratt had told you to. You didn't tell him anything other than what he needed to know and just let the rest come to him with time.
It worked well enough.
The worst moment had been when he'd realized he wasn't here by choice.
It had been hard on him, but it had been much harder on you, because you had to pretend you didn't know. And you had always hated lying.
Once he had remembered that, you'd thought there was nothing else left to unlock. So despite how horrible it had been to help him through that memory, you had been glad it was the last one.
Or so you had thought.
"What was it?" you asked, your voice low and full of hesitation, which you hoped he wouldn't notice.
Grace turned to look at you, his eyes boring into yours in a way you weren't used to.
Grace didn't do well with eye contact most of the time, so you'd grown used to him averting his gaze whenever your eyes lingered on his during the months you'd spent together.
But now he was looking at you with such intensity it made your breath hitch in your chest.
"A kiss," he whispered after a moment.
Your heart dropped into your stomach, your eyes widening just enough to make it abundantly clear you knew exactly what he was talking about.
You were the crew's medic.
You had been trained alongside Dubois, Ilyukhina, and Yáo for this mission.
Yes, the ship had been given a very high-tech robot to monitor the crew during the years leading up to waking from their comas. Yes, it was equipped with everything necessary to deal with any injuries the crew sustained, but it lacked something: the human component.
You hadn't understood exactly why a human doctor was necessary if there was equipment that could do everything you could with far greater efficiency. But Stratt had demanded it, and if one thing was true, it was that when Stratt wanted something, she got it.
You were going to be woken up before the rest of the crew. Not much earlier—just enough to be up and functional when the others came out of their comas. In a sense, you were there in case the machine failed or needed help tending to the others.
Stratt had also said something about the team's morale, and seeing as you also had psychological training, you seemed like the perfect candidate.
You were more than ready to go.
There was no one on Earth who would miss you. Not really. And none of them would have a chance if this mission failed anyway, so yeah, it seemed like a good option. Better than waiting thirteen torturous years, hoping the people in space figured out how to save your planet.
Plus... going to outer space. Like, come on!
After years of dealing with the oddest cases, you'd learned to expect the unexpected. But never in your wildest dreams did you think you'd have to be prepared for him.
Grace came into the equation with such suddenness that you hadn't expected it. Yes, you'd heard about him and knew he was one of the scientists working on Astrophage. What you hadn't expected was just how much you were going to like him.
He was easy to be around. Funny and charming in ways you were sure he didn't even notice. He was sarcastic and snarky when necessary, but most of the time he had a sweetness to him you hadn't seen in a long time.
And he was so eager to teach.
You didn't understand a whole lot about space or Astrophage, but Grace never made you feel bad about it. He just explained things like it was the most natural thing in the world.
And the more he explained, the more curious you got.
And the more you hung out with him, the more you enjoyed his voice, his brain, and his smile.
You spent a while in denial, because there was no way you were falling in love with a guy just as you were about to leave on a literal suicide mission.
But the heart wants what it wants, I guess.
You never told him. Or anyone, for that matter. It felt like something you should keep to yourself because, in truth, there was no positive outcome to telling anyone.
There was a chance he didn't feel the same, and that would make your remaining time together awkward. And if he did feel the same, it wasn't like your feelings could ever grow into a relationship. You were going to get into a ship that was never going to come back. It felt unfair to put all that pain on him.
Best to just keep your feelings to yourself. That way no one got hurt.
It wasn't until Dubois and Shapiro died that you realized just how glad you were to have kept your feelings hidden.
You knew about their relationship. It's not like they were keen on hiding them anyway. But with their deaths, and Stratt's various rules about selecting the primary and secondary crews, it ended up being a good thing that she didn't know how you felt about Grace. Because if she had, you were sure she would have replaced you with your backup. And she almost certainly would have denied your request to be the one to put Grace under his special coma.
It had been so hard to hide your shaking hands from Stratt when they wheeled Grace into the makeshift lab.
They had to sedate him because he had fought back against Stratt's order to send him as the fourth crew member. That, combined with the fact that you had lied to Stratt by saying you could only induce this special coma once the sedation had started to wear off, made it almost impossible to keep yourself impassive.
You didn't quite know why you had lied to Stratt.
You knew there was no way you could get Grace out of the situation, and there would be no side effects from beginning the coma while the sedation was still working. But something inside you had told you to lie, so you had.
Maybe you wanted the chance to tell him you were sorry. Perhaps you wanted to delay the inevitable. Or maybe you just wanted to look into his eyes one last time before they changed to look at you like a stranger.
It didn't matter why in the end.
You were just glad you were the one standing before him now, as he groaned softly, his eyes twitching open.
You only let them open for a moment, just enough to make sure he knew it was you with him, before pushing the needle into his arm, sending the mixture into his bloodstream that would begin his coma-induced amnesia.
He grimaced softly as the needle broke his skin, and the sight made your brow furrow. His lips parted to mumble your name just as his body began to go limp.
Before you could stop yourself, you leaned down, placing a soft kiss against his temple.
"I'm here," you whispered.
You wondered if Grace could hear how fast your heart was beating.
The second the words had left his mouth, the memories came rushing back, and with them the feelings you'd tried so hard to push down for so long.
Grace hadn't stopped looking at you, and even though your eyes were staring back into his, your vision had gone blurry as you dissociated slightly.
It was only when Grace's hand moved to wrap around your sweaty palm that your attention snapped back to his face, your vision clearing as you gazed at him.
You didn't know if he was doing it on purpose or not, but his thumb shifted ever so softly over the back of your hand.
"Why did you do it?" Ryland muttered, his voice the quietest you'd ever heard it.
"Do what?" you asked, not because you were trying to be difficult, but because you weren't sure you were understanding him.
"Kiss me," Ryland breathed. "Or did I dream that up?"
Your brow furrowed.
"Why would you have dreamed it?" you asked.
"I asked you first," he muttered, his eyes dropping to where his hand held yours before finding your gaze again.
You closed your eyes, taking a deep breath before opening them again.
This was it.
There was no running from it anymore.
No matter how he reacted, he had a right to know how you felt.
And you very much wanted to let it out.
Keeping everything bottled up for so long wasn't healthy.
"Because I like you, Grace," you confessed breathlessly. "Because the first thought I had when I realized what I felt about you was, What if?"
"What if?" he asked.
"Yeah. What if the sun wasn't dying? What if I hadn't volunteered? What if I wasn't going to die on this mission? What if I stayed here on Earth with you? What if you felt the same? What if—"
You cut yourself off, shaking your head with a sad smile.
"Yeah. A lot of what ifs."
Grace was quiet.
So quiet it was almost eerie.
You prepared yourself for the rejection.
For the anger that you had lied to him.
For any reaction, really.
Anything would be better than this seemingly never-ending silence.
"It was peaceful," he said suddenly.
"What?"
Grace's eyes found yours, blue irises boring into your soul.
"That's why I thought it was a dream," he said. "The last memory I had was the one where I realized I'd been a sacrificial lamb. It was full of fear and anger. So when I remembered the kiss—when I felt this wave of peace washing over me—I thought I must have made it up."
You didn't know how to answer his words, so you just stayed quiet.
"It makes sense now," he muttered, more to himself than to you. "That's why I was never scared with you. Even if I didn't remember yet, you were the last thing I saw on Earth. You were the one who made sure I wasn't alone in the end."
There were tears in his eyes. You weren't even sure if he'd realized he was crying yet, but before you could think twice, your hand had reached up to his face, your thumb wiping away a tear that slid down his cheek.
Your eyes widened the moment you realized what you'd done, and you moved to pull your hand away as though his skin burned you.
But before you could move an inch, his hand came up to rest over yours, keeping your palm pressed gently against his cheek.
He gazed into your eyes, and even though no words were spoken, you understood everything he was trying to say.
You leaned forward, your forehead resting against his.
He let out a quiet sigh the moment you did, as if the feeling of your skin against his was the relief he'd been searching for all this time.
His nose brushed softly against yours, making your breath hitch. You could feel his breath on your lips, could practically feel just how close his mouth was to yours.
He whispered your name.
"Yes?" you breathed.
"Can I kiss you?"
"Please," you sighed.
His lips settled against yours so softly you almost didn't feel them. There was an innocence to the kiss that made it feel more intimate than anything you'd ever experienced before.
For a moment, it felt like you and Ryland had stopped being two separate people. It was almost as if, sitting on the floor of the crew's quarters, your souls had found each other. And for the first time, you both felt complete.
"What humans doing, question?"
You both startled at Rocky's voice, having forgotten that you were not alone.
Despite yourself, you let out a soft laugh, your eyes moving from Rocky to Grace.
He laughed too, his eyes crinkling as he did.
And then he leaned back down, placing another soft kiss against your lips.
You smiled like an idiot into the kiss.
"Humans doing again. What is, question?"
Grace groaned softly, his forehead resting against yours as he whispered, "Can you believe this guy?"
That only made you laugh harder.
"Heard that."
"Yeah, I know you did, buddy."
"Explain."
"Later, Rock. We got work to do."
And with that, Grace got up and started making his way to the lab, but not before turning around to look at you.
"You coming, Doc?"
"In a minute," you answered, making him nod before continuing on his way.
You listened as Rocky and Grace made their way to the lab, the Eridian pestering Grace with questions the whole way.
When they were finally out of earshot, you rose to your feet.
You let out a sigh of relief, your hand moving up to brush over your lips.
“You look nice,” Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”
“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.
“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.
“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.
Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”
He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.
He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.
‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.
“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”
“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.
“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”
“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”
“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.
“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek.
“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.
“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”
Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”
“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom.
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.
“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”
“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”
“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish.
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”
“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!”
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”
“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”
It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.
“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays.
It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all.
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.
“I’ll go with you.”
He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.
“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.
“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.
His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too.
You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.
“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.
“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.
He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.
So navy it was.
You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though.
Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.
“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”
“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.
“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.
Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.
He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.
It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.
Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.
“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.
You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.
It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”
“It’s fake satin. I think.”
“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”
“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.
“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.
“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.
“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.
“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”
“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”
“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool.
Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber.
There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.
“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”
“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly.
It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.
He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.
“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”
“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.
Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.
With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.
“Enjoyed it, probably.”
“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in.
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.
“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”
“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.
“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.
Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment.
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.
“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”
“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval.
“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”
“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up.
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”
You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”
“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.
“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected.
“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.
“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.
Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be.
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”
“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option.
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.
It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”
He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”
It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer.
“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now.
Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family.
“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.
“What?”
“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”
“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”
“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”
You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”
It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”
“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”
“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”
“If it’s with you.” He amends.
“And slow kissing? You like that too?”
“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head.
“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.
“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.
“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.
There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it.
“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”
“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.
“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”
“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”
“Science, opposites attract I guess.”
“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons.
Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”
“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.
“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little.
“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.”
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”
“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?”
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”
You scoff. “A little?”
“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”
“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking.
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself.
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.
It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of.
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful.
It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.
It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”
Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”
“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you.
For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.
“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips.
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”
“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.
He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back.
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left.
Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.
The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night.
You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination.
“Presumptious.” You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”
“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.
“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”
“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”
“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”
“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.
But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”
“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”
“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”
“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”
He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late.
Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.
“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous.
“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon.
“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you.
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
“It has.” You lick your lips.
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.
It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.
“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”
“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for.
“Just me?”
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.
His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.
There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”
“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”
“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.
The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.
You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.
“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.
“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly.
“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight.
“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.
His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.
It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.
It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”
With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.
Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”
“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.
You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear.
“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.
Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.
Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.
“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.”
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”
He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.
“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.
“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.”
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.
It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”
“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.
“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”
“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.
“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.
“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.”
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know.
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”
“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”
“Deal.”
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
baby boy, honey bee, god i love the way you look at me
you never notice how ryland watches you, but rocky does and he wants to know exactly why
warnings: fluff, grace and rocky call reader 'sunshine', memory loss, memory recovery, panic attack, purple and flowery prose can be pried from my cold dead hands
wc:
Ryland thought he was subtle, and honestly, he kind of was. You never noticed when he looked at you, his eyes crinkling at the edges as a small smile formed on his lips and a light flush spreading up his cheeks and to his ears. You never saw the softness in his gaze, as if you were the entire reason the universe existed. Like all the stars and planets and moons were only created to shine on you.
And he looked at you a lot, especially in the quiet moments where you should both be focusing on the samples under the microscope but he can’t help the way his eyes move towards you. Scanning your face and details, memorising them like they were a piece of art he may never get to see again. When you’re eating, the shitty instant ramen is fogging up his glasses so instead he lets them slip down the slope of his nose as he looks over them at you chatting away with Rocky and explaining some of your favourite things from Earth promising to show him in the meditation room.
His favourite time, he thinks, is just before you go to sleep. He noticed on the first night after you had woken up that you hummed just before bed, a melody he didn’t recognise and at the time neither did you but as your memories returned you revealed it was an old lullaby your grandmother would sing when you had nightmares. The words came a little bit after that and now Rocky insists on your singing it to him each night before bed.
So as Ryland prepared your own makeshift beds for the night (really a pile of every blanket and soft thing you could both find on the Hail Mary, Rocky had called it a ‘nest’ when he first saw it and asked if you were getting ready to have a ‘pebble’) he watched as you sang to Rocky in his little insulated ‘room’. Voice soft and sweet, like you were singing to an actual baby and not a few hundred year old alien life form, eyes dropping closed as you drifted in and out of sleep yourself and hand drawing idle patterns against Rocky’s walls where he lay against it, almost like he was leaning into your touch. He could imagine a normal life with you in those moments, a house, a dog, a kid who looked just like you with your sunbright smile and eyes that rivaled galaxies. On those nights, he would dream of the life the two of you could of had if you had met as normal people and not two people on a suicide mission to the save two worlds.
But while you never noticed, Rocky certainly did. For a life-form that relied on echolocation to see, he was probably the most observant out of the two of you.
“Why does Grace keep looking at Sunshine, question?”
Your eyebrows almost shoot to your hair line at the question, head lifting slightly from the book you had been reading about piloting a space carrier, to look at Ryland whose face turned a delightful shade of red right up to the tips of his ears. He quickly looked away and down to his hands while he tinkered with a piece of Eridian tech.
“I…uh..I wasn’t looking at them bud.”
Rocky moves as if he was tilting his head, much like a confused puppy and you can’t help the small smile that spreads to your lips.
“Grace is weird weird weird. Grace always look at Sunshine when should be looking at work or pilot books like Sunshine.”
Your heart stutters at that, skipping a beat and speeding up at the same time as heat spreads across your own cheeks. Rocky twists towards you then and your eyes widen slightly.
“Why Sunshine heart rate high, question? Is Sunshine sick, question? IS SUNSHINE DYING, QUESTION?”
The urgency in his voice has you choking on a laugh and he panics even more, rushing over to your side as you try and get your breath back.
“No…No Rock. I-”, you take a deep breath, book dropping to the floor as you raise a hand to your chest as the laugh finally settles into your bones, “I just got embarrassed.”
You look to Ryland then and finally you see it. The gentle gaze, his ocean blue eyes staring at you like you were the entire center of the universe, his reason for existing. A memory hits then, unexpected but important.
A starless night.
A lit lamppost.
Rylands hands against your hips and a promise sealed with a kiss.
A ring slipped onto your finger.
Another hit, faster and fleeting.
Stratt, a minister, a certificate with both of your names on it.
Then another.
Tears. Hot and heavy. A goodbye you never wanted to say. You had been chosen for the Hail Mary after Ilyukhina had to drop out but Ryland was too important on Earth. He was Stratts right hand man, he had to stay. You had to go.
A fight, not with Ryland. But Stratt, security. There's a needle in your neck and then darkness. Then the Hail Mary.
You almost fall backwards as they all hit you at once, Rocky actually has to maneuver himself behind you to keep you upright. Your ears are ringing, a million different thoughts and moments and memories tumbling around like a hurricane. You can’t make out what Rocky was saying, just the high pitched panicked chirps as he repeatedly bumps his ball against your back to try and break you out of whatever spell you had been under.
You can feel your heart hammering against your chest, know Rocky can hear it and is probably freaking out but then Rylands hands are on you. One threading into the hair at the back of your neck, the other lifting your own hand to his chest. His lips are moving but you can’t make out the words, but you can feel his heart beat. The steady thump against his ribs. The deep breaths he was taking and you tried to copy them.
Slowly things came back to you, Rocky’s melodic way of saying your name was less panicked and more worried, the hum of the ship and the creek of metal as Armando moved somewhere to get closer to you, Mary having obviously picked up on the need for medical attention. Then Ryland.
His voice was calm and gentle as he spoke. Steady in the way it grounded you back into your body, it reminded you of late nights spent on picnic blankets and conversations about what the future would look like. Promises written against your skin where his lips had left their mark. Arms wrapped around your waist as a playful threat leaves your lips because he keeps trying to steal little bits of what you had prepared for dinner. It reminded you of home.
A shaky breath leaves you and Ryland smiles as his thumb rubs against the back of your hand.
“That’s it Sunshine, come back to us.”
“Ry…”
His smile widens, just a fractions, for months you had been calling him Grace or Ryland or by his full name when you were exacerbated by him, so to finally hear the nickname fall from your lips was like heaven. It was honey dripping down his spine and blooming heat across his chest.
“Sunshine okay question? Sunshine heart back to normal question?”
You can’t take your eyes away from Ryland, the hand on his chest curling around his t-shirt and tugging gently to pull him in closer to you. But Ryland looks over your shoulders to Rocky and nods.
“Yeah Rock, they’re okay.”
He glances back to you, then there's a moment of hesitation. As if he’s questioning did you really remember, but he gives in. Lips pressing into the crown of your head as it falls gently against his shoulders. Something breaks in you for just a second, and tears start to fall as your shoulders shake. You can’t stop it, didn’t even try to if you were being honest.
“Whats happening to Sunshine question?”
The hand on the back of your neck moves to your lower back, warm and comforting as Ryland spreads his fingers out and starts to rub gentle circles against the fabric of your shirt.
“She’s crying Rock”
“Is Sunshine sad question?”
You feel Ryland shake his head as you take in a deep breath and try to steady yourself, eyes blinking rapidly against the tears because you are absolutely soaking Ryland’s shoulders and want them to stop now.
“No bud, they uh…some of their memories came back and they’re overwhelmed. But they’ll be okay.”
His voice is soft, like he was talking to one of his students, but he is so close that you can feel it vibrating against your skin. You hear a hum from Rocky, a soft note you don’t recognise or that hasn’t been put into the make-shift translator yet.
“Can you give us some time alone Rock?”
You feel Rocky thumb down on his legs, almost as if he was protesting, then there’s a sharp click and you’re sure it's the equivalent of an Eridian swear word and then another gentle bump against your back.
“Why question?”
Ryland lets out a sigh and finally something breaks through your tears, a gentle laugh, the one Ryland remembers from nights spent on the couch where he told stories of his students and their ability to never run out of questions, like why is the sky blue? Why does he wear glasses? Why isn’t he married yet? He remembers your smug smile and raised eyebrow at that last one and how you had asked well why aren’t you married yet Dr.Grace with nothing but mischief in your eyes not knowing he had hidden the ring in his desk at work and was just waiting for the perfect moment to ask.
“Because Sunshine and I need to talk Rock, about something important.”
Another thump.
“Grace is dumb dumb dumb, Rocky will hear anyway.”
Another sigh from Ryland and your gentle laugh turns into full blown giggles as you turn your head on Rylands shoulders and raise an eyebrow at him. The tears had stopped, replaced with a small smile and a crinkling nose as you try and hold in the big belly laughter Ryland can see bubbling beneath the surface. He removes his hand from yours on his chest and rubs at the bridge of his nose. He starts to think he would rather face a 100 middle schoolers and their million and one why questions or maybe walking out into the infinite abyss of space without a suit on than deal with this right now.
“Just…human social standards Rocky. We need some privacy.”
Rocky thumps again, and lets out another chirp. Another curse word your sure but he listens and starts to roll away but you can still hear him muttering away to himself about dumb, dumb, dumb, human standards. You can tell he’s pouting and make a promise to yourself to tell him the stories of the constellations before bed tonight, his favourite was Draco.
“Are you alright?”
The question is whispered, a desperate attempt to not have Rocky hear, but you nod as an answer and slowly sit yourself back up to face Ryland. Your face is tear streaked and you’re sure your eyes are puffy and red rimmed but he still looked at you like you were the sun itself. It finally made sense why he called you Sunshine.
“Yeah…yeah…just…”
You let out another shuttered breath, hand leaving his chest to wipe at your face but Ryland stops you. His own hands wrapping gently around your wrists, his pinky pressing just hard enough into your pulse point that he can feel it jump beneath the skin. You take a deep breath and clear your throat, eyes scanning over the face you just remembered you had fallen in love with and suddenly the tears well up again.
“How long have you remembered?”
It’s a whisper, almost lost amongst the hum of the ship and the distant clunking of Armando as he still tried to find you. But Ryland hears it and he has to cast his eyes down to the metal floor beneath you as he gathers his thoughts. There's a heart beat of silence, then another, then a sigh as he looks back up to you.
“I still don’t remember everything. Just bits and pieces. The first one came about a week ago, I brushed past you in the lap and suddenly I was in my apartment kitchen and reaching up over you to grab something from the cupboard...I think it was winter and you were making”
“Stew.”
You both say it at the same time.
“My grandmother's recipe. We had only been together a few months and you had caught a cold.”
You could see it now, the texts insisting you don’t come over because you had a test flight the next week for NASA and he didn’t want you missing out on it because he got you sick. The warmth from the stove top and his cardigan that you had stolen because his heating was busted and the landlord had yet to fix it.
“Yeah…”
His voice goes softer then, the memory replaying in his own mind. You reach a hand out, gentle in the way you cup his cheek and run a thumb along his cheek bone.
“Why didn’t you say anything?”
He clears his throat, his own tears starting to well.
“Because you didn’t remember yet. I…I didn’t want to force you if your mind wasn’t ready for it yet.”
You smile at him. He was your Ryland. Your sweet, caring Ryland, who had always put you before anything even the Hail Mary. There’s a vague memory in your mind, a warning from him in the form of a cryptic test that this was happening and he didn’t want you involved. Hell of a lot that text did after Stratt walked into NASA and demanded to have you by name.
“Oh Ry…”
You can’t help yourself, you pull him towards you and press your lips against his. It’s soft at first but quickly turns firm as he wraps his arms around you and all but pulls you into his lap. Something shifts inside you, a puzzle piece slotting back into place as your souls reconnected with one another.
The realisation came soon after, as you lay against his chest and listened to the beating of his heart, the fragmented memories you both shared being pieced together to show a happy and loving life. You would both do the whole thing all over again if it meant you got to do it together and got to fall in love all over again.
grace's hair... oughhhh playing with it when bored on the hail mary or nuzzling and kissing his head,,, bonus he gives you a pat on the head after you've done something well or learnt something from him... eek!! i need to bite him!!!
he gives me such cuteness aggression i'm sick
oh yeah!! his hair is soft too. grace is absolutely one of those guys that takes very good care of his hair because he cares about his appearance and how he presents to the world (and a class of middle schoolers that are blunt as hell and seek to destroy happiness because they're overrun by hormones).
I think he uses head and shoulders shampoo. it's simple on the teacher's budget and it smells really good. or i could see him using dove men+ care stuff as well. he just smells manly in the best way that's not too overpowering but kinda makes your brain go 'oh. yum.'
ryland totally loves getting his hair played with too. the feeling of someones fingers carding through the soft locks is better than any sleeping pill or gummy to make him calm. it puts his brain on a one track path to being cool as a cucumber.
I can see that being amplified ten fold while on the hail mary. he hasn't been touched in years by another person (spoiler alert: robot arms do nawwt do the trick). maybe it happens after a bad dream. like he remembers something from his life that he wouldn't want to, wakes up in a cold sweat, completely forgetting what the dream was. but that ache still lingers.
and you console him. like any person would do. maybe sit down on the edge of the bed and brush your fingers through the blonde tufts by his temples. that man turns into a puddle of wax and gets sleepy as hell.
or hear me out!! raking your fingers through his hair, then gently fisting it to pull his head back a little. i can see this happening while you're standing over him in the pilot seat. you're pulling his head back and his eyes just kinda go hazy and gives you the dopiest little grin. he's very muchly expecting a smooch or something and he'll pout if he doesn't get it.
totally gives head pats. maybe it's the fondness in his chest from being a teacher, or because you're shorter than him. perhaps he has some cuteness aggression of his own! but anytime you understand a topic he's rambling about by adding in questions or clarifying things, his whole face is lighting up like a five watt battery.
"That's it!" He'd grin, palm coming up and resting against your head. "Smart lady."
wait I'd combust if he said that to me UGH ryland come home the kids miss you
The idea of Rocky being sassy and talk back to Grace but magically gains manners and is a little peach when interacting with you.
It’s like those chihuahuas that are sweet little angels with owners but HATE their owners’ boyfriends. Except Rocky is a fully grown Eridian with a serious engineering job and trusted on a planet saving mission.
He’s both doing this to piss off Grace, but also because Rocky is genuinely whipped for you and even though he likes being bossy, something about you giving him instructions and orders makes him all giddy inside.
Kurt Wagner x reader
Words: 2.5K
Summary: You may have a date with the stunning blue man...but that doesn't make you any less nervous
Warnings: None. Just fluffy, flirty Kurt. well....maybe badly written accent for Gambit
A/N: I'm sorry for being gone for like...two years? So many people asked for part 2, so here we go. This is brough to you by "Spiderman 4" that brought me back into my Marvel phase and "Rescuer" from Alex Warren. Listened to it on a loop, sooo...I hope it was kinda worth the wait...
Part 1: Social System Error
“God, that’s such an incredibly stupid idea,” you muttered as you tried to smooth out the wrinkles in your blouse. Your eyes wandered over your reflection, and you could almost see the self-doubt beginning to creep onto your face. “Why did I agree to this? Me? As if that would ever work out—no, no, no.”
“Ma chère, ’m slowly runnin’ out of ideas on what to do with you.” In the mirror, your eyes fell on Gambit, who had made himself comfortable on your bed and was slowly stretching out, his dirty boots resting on your pillow. If you weren’t so nervous, you would have given him a piece of your mind long ago.
“First you’ve been whining to me for months about how much you’ve fallen for the blue elf and that you can’t even think straight enough to say ‘hello’ to him. Only to have a nervous breakdown when he finally asks you out and be on the verge of callin’ the whole thing off.” He sat up straight and waved his hand around in the air. “You’ve gotta decide what you want.”
“I don’t know either!” Even to your own ears, you sounded pathetic, and the only reason you weren’t tearing your hair out in frustration was that Jean had spent half an hour styling it beautifully, and you didn’t want to ruin her hard work in a matter of seconds. “I like him—really, unbelievably. But he’s so wonderful and charming and loving, and I… I’m just…” You could feel your throat slowly tightening, as if a hand had closed around your neck. Your shoulders rose and fell faster and faster as you tried to gasp for air and suppress the panic welling up inside your chest—which you managed only so-so. “I… I…”
“Hey, hey, hey.” Gambit had now fully risen from your bed and gently placed his hands on your shoulders. When you didn’t react negatively to this touch, he turned you toward him and slowly pulled you into his arms until your head rested on his shoulder. The scent of leather and his aftershave filled your senses, and like a drowning person, you clung to him. “’s okay, breathe in and out. Come on, breathe with me.”
Gambit took a deep breath in and out, and your body, pressed tightly against his, sensed the movement and, after a few moments, began to mimic his rhythm. Little by little, you could feel the air flowing into your lungs. “That’s good, just like that.”
The tightness in your throat eased until you could breathe at least as deeply as he was. Only then did he pull away from you, just to cup your face in his hands. “I know you’re worried that you’ll make a fool of yourself and that he’ll hate you. But here’s the good news: you’ve already embarrassed yourself in front of him more than you ever will again, and all he thought was, ‘Yeah, I’d like to go on a date with this person.’” He grinned and tapped your nose, making it wrinkle. “So the way I see it, he thinks you’re pretty charmin’ and cute just the way you are.”
Gambit let go of you and walked back to your bed, where he’d left his deck of cards, while you stared at the wall in confusion for a moment before turning to him with a “Cute?!” By then, he had walked over to your window. He put a finger to his lips. “Spoiler: I have some pretty reliable sources who heard those exact words come out of his mouth.” It took a few seconds—the time it took him to open the window—for his words to sink in, but then it didn’t take long for a flush to rise to your cheeks. However, before you could say anything in response, a soft knock sounded at your bedroom door, causing your pulse to shoot up again in an instant.
“It’s showtime.” Gambit winked at you and crouched down on the windowsill. “And don’t forget: He already sees the wonderful person that I see. You’re the only one who hasn’t seen it yet. So don’t worry.”
Without another word, he grabbed the top edge of the window, pulled himself up, and disappeared, his footsteps on the roof tiles slowly fading into the distance. Your gaze drifted over to the door, next to the vase of flowers that Kurt had given you earlier. Something about them broke the stiffness that had gripped your legs, and, exhaling shakily and repeating a mantra to yourself—I’m wonderful, he saw me at my worst and still found me charming, I can’t scare him off—you stepped toward the door. Your hand closed around the doorknob. One last time, you exhaled in a controlled breath before pressing down on the handle and opening the door.
For a moment, your breath caught again, though this time it wasn’t even close to being caused by a panic attack.
Kurt looked gorgeous. His black-and-blue waves shone and fell in such soft-looking shapes that deep down you felt the urge to run your hands through them.
He was wearing a simple white shirt and dark dress pants, which he’d secured with suspenders. It was simple, and yet you couldn’t remember the last time he’d looked so breathtaking. In that moment, you weren’t sure if you’d survive the evening.
“I really hope you do that,” he almost cooed, giving you such an enchanting smile that you felt your heart was about to melt. “After all, I’ve been really looking forward to spending this evening with just you and me. No friends, no students—just the two of us.” Kurt had taken a step closer and gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. A shiver ran down your spine at his touch, and you were sure Kurt had noticed it too, because the laugh lines around his eyes deepened. “It would really be a shame if you were to pass away just because of the sight of me.”
Just a moment ago, you’d been warm and trembling with attraction, but his words washed over you like a rush of cold water, and you had to bury your still-flushed cheeks in your hands. “Oh God, I said that out loud. Kill me.” Kurt chuckled softly—which was enough to warm you up again—and slowly freed your face from your hands. Gently, he placed a finger under your chin to lift it and gave you a soft, loving smile. “I thought we’d already established that dying isn’t an option. And besides,” he slowly stroked your cheek, “it’s actually really cute when you do that.”
There it was again, that word. Maybe Gambit hadn’t been lying after all when he said his statements were based on reliable sources. Kurt, however, didn’t give you much time to think, as he clicked his tongue and tapped his forehead at that very moment. “But of course—where have my manners gone?”
Just like yesterday, his tail appeared from behind his back, and once again, the tip was holding a beautiful bouquet of flowers—larger and more beautiful than the one he’d given you before. He took it in his hands and, with a deep bow, held it out to you. “Forgive me,” he murmured, looking up at you—still bowing—with a cheeky smile and a wink. “The sight of you has so swept me off my feet that I couldn’t think of anything but you and how enchanting you look, so much so that even my most basic manners have deserted me.”
Yep. That was it. That had to be enough to send you six feet under for good. Your soul had left your body and was on its way to eternity. But since your mind still seemed to be present, you reached out with a hand trembling with nervousness for the bouquet and accepted it gently, as if it were a treasure that could shatter at any moment, vanish into thin air, and reveal itself to be nothing but a dream. “That wouldn’t have been necessary. I still have your last bouquet, and I don’t think I have a second vase.” Nevertheless, your fingertips gently traced the soft petals.
“Of course it was necessary.” Kurt had straightened up again by then and was looking at you with a gentle smile on his lips. “And a vase shouldn’t be a problem.”
He disappeared into a dark cloud, only to reappear a few seconds later with an ornate vase in his hands, already filled with water. “Wow.” You took it from him, arranged the bouquet inside, and placed the vase next to the other one on the small cabinet. “I didn’t know we had such decorative vases here.” Kurt winked at you. “The professor hides quite a few works of art in those old wooden cabinets.” That finally brought a smile to your face—even if it was still a bit nervous—and your heart had calmed down a little. At least you were no longer worried about being revived right away.
“Thank you.” His lips parted in a wide smile, revealing his white, sharp fangs to you. “Anything for you, meine Liebe.” Gently, he took your hand in his and pressed a tender kiss on the back of it.
Okay, forget it—you definitely needed an emergency doctor and CPR, because your heart must have just been beating six times faster than was healthy. “Well then.” Kurt’s tail hesitantly wrapped around your waist, and when he realized you weren’t objecting, it tightened its grip until the tip rested just above your belly button. “I think we still have something to do, my angel.”
Kurt had now moved so close to you that his breath brushed against your cheeks, which were hot again. You couldn’t look him in the eyes, afraid he’d see how much you were melting inside, so you just nodded. He chuckled deeply and gently placed his hands on your elbows. “I’d take us somewhere. Is it okay if we jump? It would be easier that way.” Your body tensed, and instantly he removed his hands from you. “Of course, we don’t have to—we can walk, too.” Slowly, his tail slipped away from your hip. A slight panic gripped you, and—unlike your usual self—your fingers dug into his chest as you looked up at him.
“No! It’s okay!” You’d said it louder than you’d meant to and flinched at the sound of your own voice. “I mean,” you continued more quietly, “it’s okay to jump. Really.”
“Are you sure?” Kurt tilted his head, his eyebrows slightly furrowed with concern. “You’ve gone stiff. I don’t want you to feel uncomfortable. Not tonight.” Heat rose from your chest to your cheeks, and you looked away from him. “I’m not uncomfortable,” you admitted. “I… just got nervous being so close to you.”
Instantly, the tension in his features eased, and the warm smile returned to his lips. “Oh, believe me, you’re not the only one.” He took your hand in his and placed it flat against his left chest, where his heart was beating. You looked up in surprise. It was beating so strongly that, upon closer inspection, you could see his carotid artery pulsing in his neck—fast, very fast. As fast as yours. Kurt tilted his head down toward you even further. “You can’t imagine what you’re doing to me, meine Liebe.”
You couldn’t help it; your eyes were wide open and fixed on him. There was such honesty and openness in his voice and his eyes that you knew your cheeks must be burning. Your breath was caught in your chest, so you could only whisper a soft “Okay.” That was all you could manage. He gently placed his hands on your hips, looking at you questioningly. When you nodded, he pulled you closer to him so that your face rested against his neck. “Hold on tight.”
You squeezed your eyes shut tightly, and a strange pull tugged at you, settling deep in your stomach. Your legs felt like they were floating, and a strange smell filled your nose, causing you to cling tighter to Kurt. But before you could react in any way, the sensation subsided and your feet touched solid ground again. “We’re here.” It was only Kurt’s words that made you loosen your grip and step back cautiously. He himself took his hands off your hips and removed his tail, so that you instantly missed his warmth.
That longing, however, was instantly forgotten when you opened your eyes and looked around.
You were on a rooftop terrace of the mansion that you didn’t even know existed. An elegant metal railing wound its way in ornate curves around the platform, which ended in a semicircle beneath a canopy of leaves, into which dozens of strings of lights had been woven and were now sparkling in competition with the stars. Beneath that canopy stood a set round table with two chairs. A single candle and a lone rose in a vase adorned the table, which was set for two. Additional candles were placed on the floor, bathing the surroundings in a warm, golden light.
You brought your hand to your mouth, and suddenly your eyes stung. “Oh, Kurt,” was all you could manage to say. He stood behind you and took a step closer, so that you could feel his warmth against your back; for a moment, you closed your eyes to savor the sensation. “I promised you dinner,” he murmured, leaning close to your ear and pointing to the table in front of you. “But I’ve been watching you, even if you didn’t know it. You don’t like big, noisy rooms with lots of people. So I thought this would appeal to you more.”
“It’s beautiful.” You could hardly take your eyes off the sight. “Did you make all of this?” Kurt hummed in agreement. “Rogue helped me out here and there, but yeah.” With one hand on your lower back, he slowly guided you toward the table. “That said, I can’t guarantee the food will be edible.” A laugh escaped you, sounding a little muffled through the tears in your eyes. “It’s perfect.” You looked up at him. “Thank you. I love it.” He smiled back briefly and brushed a strand of hair from your eyes, only to let his hand rest on your cheek, into which you instantly nestled. “That’s all I wanted.”
For a moment, you stood there looking at each other. You’d always noticed Kurt, but in that moment you realized just how much you loved him. He was so considerate and kind and gentle… How grateful you were to have him. After a few moments, he nodded toward the table.
“Shall we? I’d hate for the food to get cold.”
And for the first time that evening—or perhaps for the first time ever—your heart didn’t race when you looked at him or let him lead you to the table, where he pulled out your chair. For the first time in ages, you were able to truly relax in someone’s presence.
puhleasee write more sub peter parker stuff 🙏🙏 its so good
pairing: college!peter parker x reader
CW: dry riding, cumming in pants, sub peter, 1.3k words
summary: dry riding peter while he tutors you
a/n: submissive loser nerds who have never felt the touch of a woman drive me crazy i swear it's the whole reason ive never been able to pay attention in math/science courses. anyways hope u enjoy!! (btw requests r open guys keep sending stuff i need the inspiration)
Peter had been trying desperately to stay focused on tutoring, but every second that passed made it harder. Each time you leaned over the table to look at his notes, your perfume wrapped around him, making him dizzy. His gaze flickered down to the dip of your shirt without thinking, lingering at the curve of your chest before he forced himself to snap his eyes back to the paper. But the soft glow of the desk lamp seemed to conspire against him, highlighting your skin in a way that made every detail stand out.
He cleared his throat for what felt like the tenth time, a flush creeping up from his neck to the tips of his ears. You pretended not to notice, but each nervous shift of his chair, each pause when you moved, told you that you had his full, undivided attention-and not on the calculus problems in front of him.
Peter's voice faltered as he tried to explain a formula, his fingers tapping erratically against the book's edge. "So if we take... um... this equation and..." He trailed off when you reached across him to grab a pen, your arm brushing against his in a way that sent a visible shiver down his spine.
You pulled back and raised an eyebrow.
"Pete? You okay? You seem... distracted," you said, feigning innocence as your fingers traced the rim of your water bottle. The way his eyes flickered down to the movement made your smile widen.
"Y-yeah, I'm fine!" he said, the pitch of his voice betraying him. He pushed up his glasses, trying to look anywhere but at you, but the heat in the room was palpable, and the tension strung tight between you two.
You leaned forward, closer than before, letting your hair fall in a way that brushed his arm. "Are you sure? You seem nervous," you teased, drawing out the words just enough to make his eyes dart up to yours, wide and startled. The flush on his cheeks deepened, and his fingers curled into a fist on his thigh.
"I'm... I'm not," he mumbled, eyes flicking away, but his body betrayed him. He shifted uncomfortably, and you didn't miss the way his breath quickened when you subtly ran your foot up his leg beneath the table.
"Hmm," you hummed, biting your lip as if in thought. Your gaze dropped, just for a moment, to where the fabric of his jeans was noticeably tighter. You hid a grin, leaning back in your chair as if you hadn't just clocked the way his jaw clenched. "You should keep explaining, Peter. I'm really trying to follow."
He swallowed, Adam's apple bobbing, and nodded hastily. "R-right. So, the derivative here..." His voice shook, and you reached across, placing your hand over his to stop the tapping. The contact made him jump, eyes going wide like a deer caught in headlights. You tilted your head, fingers sliding up his wrist just a little as if absently.
"You're shaking," you whispered, watching the way his eyes fluttered closed for a second. The tension was unbearable now, and you could feel his pulse hammering beneath your touch. Peter opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out, only a shallow breath as you leaned in even closer, your chest pressing lightly against his arm.
Finally, the anticipation was too much for either of you. Without warning, you stood up, only to swing a leg over his lap and settle down, facing him. His gasp was immediate, eyes flying open as he looked at you, bewildered and overwhelmed.
"W-what are you...?" he whispered, but his hands hovered at your waist, unsure whether he should touch or stay still.
"Keep talking," you ordered softly, brushing your lips against the shell of his ear. You felt the tremble that ran through him, the way he squirmed beneath you, already hard and aching.
"I... uh... I c-can't," he stuttered, eyes squeezed shut as your hips rolled against him, sending a jolt through his body. The way his chest rose and fell, the hitch in his breath, and the small whimper he tried to suppress were everything you needed to hear.
"Try," you teased, nails tracing down the front of his shirt.
Peter's breathing came in ragged gasps as he tried to pull himself together. His fingers twitched at your waist, aching to hold on but hesitating as if he couldn't quite believe this was real. The way you were looking at him, so close, so purposeful-it was a lot for his overworked mind to handle. You watched him struggle, enjoying the flush that travelled from his cheeks to the hollow of his throat.
"Come on, Peter," you murmured, your voice dropping to a low purr. "You were doing so well before. What's next in the problem set?" Your tone was playful, but there was a challenge in it that made his pupils dilate.
"I-I..." He started, but a soft moan slipped out as you shifted your hips again, pressing down just enough to make him choke on his breath. His eyes opened, wide and pleading, and for a moment, he looked like he was ready to say something coherent. But you leaned forward, brushing your lips against his jaw, and whatever resolve he'd gathered shattered instantly.
"If you stop talking, I stop moving," you reminded him, running your fingers up his chest until you felt the rapid thudding of his heart beneath your palm.
He bit down on his lip, trying desperately to remember where his train of thought had been before your touch turned him into a trembling mess.
"T-the derivative. We need to... evaluate.." His words broke off into a whine when you pressed down again, rolling your hips slowly against him, making sure to drag out every second of friction.
"Good boy," you praised, and his reaction was immediate-his eyes fluttered closed, mouth falling open as a shudder wracked his frame. He had never felt anything like this before, every nerve in his body alight with a mixture of desire and helplessness. Your fingers threaded through his hair, tugging just enough to make him gasp.
"I don't think you're focusing, though," you said, almost mockingly.
"I-I'm trying," he whimpered, eyes glassy as he tried to meet yours. The way he looked up at you, so wrecked and needy, made your stomach tighten with satisfaction.
"Try harder," you said, slowing your movements to an agonizing halt. He bucked his hips involuntarily, a high-pitched sound escaping him as he chased the friction you'd just taken away.
"Please," he begged, and the word came out so raw and broken that it sent a thrill down your spine. You couldn't help but grin as you took in the way his chest rose and fell, how his fingers had finally dug into your waist, desperate to keep you there.
"Oh, now you're begging?" you teased, leaning down so that your lips were almost brushing his. His eyes stayed locked on yours, wide and glassy with need.
"I-I'll do anything," he confessed, voice cracking. "Just... please, don't stop."
The sight of him beneath you–cheeks flushed, glasses slightly askew, and eyes filled with desperate submission— was more than enough to spur you on.You leaned back, shifting your hips in a way that made him moan so loudly that his own hand flew up to cover his mouth in shock.
"Don't hold back now, Peter," you whispered, moving with more intent as his body tensed beneath you. You could feel how close he was, the way his muscles tightened and his breath turned erratic. The anticipation built until finally, the last remnants of his control slipped, and with a shuddering gasp, he fell apart under you, eyes wide as he reached his peak.
You watched the realization dawn in his expression, a mix of awe and disbelief as he came down from the high, breaths coming in short, ragged bursts.
His gaze met yours, still hazy and dazed, before you tilted his chin up and whispered against his lips, "Tutor me again tomorrow? "
(established-relationship!tasm peter x reader — soft dorky boyfriend hours, at the museum)
~5k words
cw: established relationship, soft pda, emotional intimacy, teasing, grinding, oral (f), protected p-in-v, crying during sex, aftercare, mutual love & worship. horny in a warm cozy boyfriend way. im not accountable for the content you want to consume!
an: hey guyth, ive missed you, its been so long... first time writing (and posting smut... hope its not cringe...)
⟡
he’s late, but he’s always late.
and when he finally jogs up to you in front of the museum, hoodie half-zipped, camera bouncing against his chest and curls all windblown and ridiculous, you don’t say anything. you just raise your eyebrows. one hand on your hip. the other clutching your iced coffee like a weapon.
“before you say anything,” he pants, holding up a peace offering—a squished museum map that he probably crumpled in his back pocket three days ago—“i brought a coupon.”
you squint. “we’re both under twenty-five. it’s free.”
“okay,” he shrugs, “but it felt boyfriend-coded.”
you smile despite yourself.
he insists on doing the entire sculpture garden first.
you try to be patient, really. but peter’s in full nerd mode—taking photos from four different angles, crouching next to marble torsos like he’s interrogating them, saying things like “wow, look at the muscle tension here, that’s insane,” and “i just think it’s cool that this guy has better calves than me and he’s from like 300 B.C.”
you mostly just watch him.
you could look at the art. you’re trying to look at the art.
but your dork of a boyfriend is wearing a too-big tan jacket over his hoodie, his fingers smudged with sunscreen he clearly didn’t rub in all the way, and he keeps pushing his glasses up with the back of his wrist while talking about how hot it must’ve been in ancient greece.
and honestly?
it’s way more interesting.
⟡
inside, it gets worse.
every time you try to walk more than ten feet into a gallery, peter finds something else to comment on. or take a photo of. or pose next to like a chaotic tour guide who got fired for being too enthusiastic.
“okay, wait,” he says, catching your sleeve gently as you pass a huge oil painting of some saint bleeding dramatically into a bowl. “hold on. babe, you have to see this.”
“i’m looking at it,” you say, dry.
“no, like—look,” he points with his chin, adjusting his camera strap. “look at his hands. that’s crazy detail.”
you glance at him.
his expression is serious.
his cheeks a little pink, because he gets excited like a toddler.
he turns to you and grins.
“i wanna draw you like that.”
“bleeding into a bowl?”
“posed dramatically.”
you snort. “you’re so annoying.”
he bumps his shoulder into yours. “you love it.”
you don’t answer, but you reach for his hand anyway.
⟡
in the impressionist gallery, he tries to act normal.
you sit beside him on one of the little benches in front of a blurry monet, shoulder to shoulder, knees touching.
he’s bouncing his leg.
you glance at him.
he glances at you.
and then he breaks.
“so, like,” he says, very seriously, “are we gonna talk about how sexy these brushstrokes are, or—?”
you slap his thigh gently.
he bites a grin into the side of his hand.
“i’m serious,” he says. “this is very sensual.”
“you are literally the worst person here.”
“the second worst,” he nods. “the guy who took that selfie in front of the crucifixion has me beat.”
you’re trying not to laugh.
he notices. you feel him shift closer.
then, after a moment—
“you looked really pretty earlier. by the statue. with the light hitting your face like that.”
your breath catches a little.
he’s already pretending to examine the monet again.
you lean in, voice low.
“you gonna send me those pictures later?”
his ears go pink.
“i mean,” he shrugs, “if you want…”
you nudge his knee with yours.
“i always want.”
and then—just for a second—he turns his head, kisses your cheek, and lets his lips linger.
it’s quiet. safe. soft enough to settle in your bones.
⟡
when you stand up to move on, he tugs at your sleeve again.
“wait. one more.”
you glance down.
his camera’s already out, lens pointed toward you. he doesn’t even let you fix your hair.
click.
“perfect,” he murmurs.
and when you look at him again—
he’s not smiling like before.
he’s looking at you like a painting.
like you’re worth being framed.
like he still can’t believe you’re his.
⟡
you don’t even make it five feet outside before peter’s pulling his camera out again.
“babe,” you warn.
he’s already lifting the viewfinder. “no no no, wait—stand there, don’t move.”
you groan. “peter.”
“the light is literally insane right now, just let me—hold on—”
you’re halfway through rolling your eyes when the shutter clicks.
click. click click.
“gorgeous,” he says under his breath.
you blink.
he’s not talking about the sky.
you cross your arms. “what if I hate being your muse.”
he drops the camera a little, steps closer.
his voice goes quieter.
“what if I’m not giving you a choice?”
you stare at him.
his curls are all messed up from running his hands through them. there’s a tiny sunscreen smudge still near his temple. his thumb’s twitching over the shutter button like he wants to take one more.
your lips twitch.
“you’re really pushing it, parker.”
“am I?” he says, eyes flicking to your mouth.
he’s wearing that look—the one that says I know you’re mad but I LOVE getting on your nerves!
and unfortunately, it’s true.
you take two steps toward him and pluck the camera from around his neck, letting it fall gently to your own chest.
then you kiss him.
just enough to get the smug off his face.
his breath catches.
his hands come up to your waist instantly, pulling you closer like you’re gonna disappear.
you smile against his mouth.
he sighs into the kiss, deep and soft and already a little needy.
“mm—thought you were mad at me,” he mumbles against your lip.
“shut up.”
you press your mouth to his again. slower this time.
you can feel the tension leave his shoulders. can feel the way his fingers flex at your sides, like he wants to touch more, but he’s still being good.
you’re in public. people are passing behind you.
and he doesn’t care.
⟡
you pull back after a few long seconds, breath uneven.
he’s blinking at you, dazed.
then—
“shit.”
you look down just in time to see his camera slipping off your neck.
you lunge. Peter lunges faster.
he catches it right before it hits the edge of the stone fountain.
you both freeze.
his mouth is open. your hands are still on his hoodie. a couple kids laugh behind you.
“…oops,” you murmur.
he glares at you, clutching the camera like it’s his firstborn.
“I just told you the light was perfect.”
you kiss his cheek. “you’ll live.”
“you almost dropped my soul in the fountain.”
“I almost dropped your camera, dramatic ass.”
“same thing.”
you laugh.
and when he’s not looking, you snap a photo of him.
crooked smile, ears flushed, camera strap clutched in his fist.
you tuck the camera back against your chest and say:
“I’m keeping that one.”
he narrows his eyes.
“that’s fine,” he mutters. “I already have a hundred of you in my drafts, so.”
you pause.
“…you what?”
he grabs your hand like he didn’t just say that.
“let’s go see the baroque room,” he says way too fast.
“peter.”
“you love religious trauma.”
“peter.”
“I’m buying you a keychain.”
⟡
he doesn’t stop taking pictures for the rest of the afternoon.
but you let him.
because you’ve never seen anyone look at you the way he does when his camera’s in his hands—
like he’s documenting something rare.
something holy.
something he can’t believe he gets to keep.
⟡
you sit on the grass just below the museum hill, the skyline glittering behind you, and peter’s picnic bag spread open like a survival kit for a couple lost in whole foods.
you eye the contents.
“…peter.”
he looks up from where he’s unfolding a floral blanket (may’s, obviously, it still smells like her detergent).
“hm?”
you hold up a single pre-sliced cucumber and a ziploc bag of… hot cheetos.
“what is this meal.”
he blinks. then shrugs. “balance.”
“you brought half a pack of turkey, one string cheese, four clementines and three drinks, but no bread?”
“okay,” he says, unbothered, “first of all, i panicked at the bodega. second of all, i love you.”
you raise a brow. “so you’re using affection as a distraction tactic now.”
he opens the bottle of apple juice and takes a long sip.
“yeah. and it’s working.”
⟡
you end up sitting between his legs, leaning back into his chest while he feeds you a medley of unfortunate snack combinations and random museum trivia.
he's warm behind you. hoodie soft. voice quiet against your ear.
“this hill’s my favorite part,” he murmurs after a while. “i used to come up here alone in high school and pretend i wasn’t stressed out of my mind.”
you tilt your head, looking at him sideways.
“and now you bring me.”
he meets your gaze. smile slow.
“yeah. figured if i was gonna spiral again, i’d rather do it with someone hot in my lap.”
you snort and elbow him lightly.
he laughs and holds you tighter.
you talk about everything and nothing.
you lean forward to reach the bag of chips and he whines until you lean back again.
you brush stray petals off the blanket while he hums some dumb jingle under his breath.
you eat a clementine in perfect silence, and he just watches you.
you glance over, peel dangling from your fingers.
“what.”
he blinks. “nothing.”
you narrow your eyes. “why are you looking at me like that.”
“i like your mouth.”
you choke a little. “peter.”
he sips more juice like he’s innocent.
you toss a chip at his head. he catches it in his mouth. grins like a fiend.
“still got it.”
you lunge for the bottle and take a sip.
he wipes your chin lazily with his thumb, then licks the pad of it without thinking.
your pulse stutters.
you look at him.
he looks at you.
“what,” he says again, too soft this time.
you shake your head.
“i like your mouth, too.”
⟡
five minutes later, you’re lying flat on your back and he’s on his side beside you, drawing little shapes on your stomach through your shirt.
you close your eyes. the sun’s warm on your eyelids.
“this is nice,” you say.
“mhm.”
“don’t feed the ducks, though.”
“babe, the ducks are five yards away.”
“i’m just saying. if you feed them hot cheetos, you’re gonna get cancelled.”
he laughs. and you smile.
because his laugh sounds better than the city does.
and his hand’s still on your stomach, and the grass is soft, and you’re so full of juice and snacks and him that it’s hard to breathe.
⟡
the museum gift shop is a war zone.
there’s a hundred people inside and only three aisles wide enough for one person at a time. children are screaming over art-themed plushies. someone knocks over a display of pocket-sized monet calendars. peter disappears within ten seconds of entering.
you find him by the postcards, spinning the rack like a contestant on wheel of fortune.
“okay,” he says, pulling one with a dramatic renaissance martyr bleeding into a cherub’s arms, “this one’s obviously for you.”
you take it, unimpressed.
“are you saying I’m dramatic?”
“I’m saying you’re a divine tragedy, baby.”
you roll your eyes, but keep the postcard anyway.
a few minutes later, he finds you holding a tiny notebook shaped like a bust.
“do you think this is funny?” you ask.
“I think if you don’t buy it I’ll cry.”
“you cried at the museum fountain.”
“you almost dropped my camera into the museum fountain.”
“you’re deflecting.”
he kisses your cheek quickly.
you put the notebook in the basket.
he smiles like you’ve forgiven him for every crime he hasn’t committed yet.
he keeps wandering away and then coming back to show you something else.
“okay but this water bottle says ‘hydrate and create’ and that’s a pretty solid life motto.”
“should we start collecting these little magnetic portrait frames? like, for our future fridge?”
you pause at that one.
he doesn’t notice.
you do.
you watch the way he handles the fridge magnet, carefully turning it over in his fingers, brows drawn, tongue poking out just slightly between his lips.
like he means it.
like it’s not a joke.
like he wants your life to include a fridge. and magnets. and you.
“hey,” you say, suddenly soft.
he glances up.
you hold up a tiny enamel pin shaped like a camera.
“this is so you.”
he blinks. “what?”
“you should get it. it’s dorky. and it’s exactly your vibe.”
he stares at it in your hand.
then at you.
you reach forward and pin it to his hoodie without waiting.
he doesn’t breathe the whole time.
“perfect,” you say, smoothing it out.
and when you look back at him—
he’s already looking at you.
like you just kissed him.
like you just said I love you out loud.
like you just told him yes.
⟡
you’re halfway to the register when you glance over your shoulder and grin.
“hey, should we steal something?”
peter immediately drops the tote bag.
“what?”
“like, just a sticker. to feel alive.”
“I literally have superpowers and you wanna get your adrenaline rush from a $3 sticker?”
“don’t kink shame me, peter.”
“I—"
“you’re already an outlaw,” you say, waving the postcard, “let’s complete the arc.”
he stares at you for three full seconds.
then reaches for your hand.
“fine. but if we get caught, I’m telling them you seduced me.”
“they’ll believe you.”
“you are wearing those boots.”
⟡
you do not steal anything.
peter does buy you the little magnetic portrait frame though.
and he doesn’t stop looking at his new pin the whole subway ride home.
⟡
the subway ride home is too long.
‘’peter’s legs are too long. your skirt is too short. the plastic seats are way too hard. and yet—none of that matters.
because he’s warm.
and he smells like sunscreen and spearmint gum and the apple juice you shared under the sun.
and you’re sitting in his lap.
his camera bag is squished under your thigh. one of his hands is wrapped around your waist and the other is barely holding onto the rail above your heads. you can feel his heartbeat in his palm.
you lean into his chest with a sigh.
“tired already?” he murmurs.
“you’re exhausting.”
“thank you.”
he kisses the top of your head.
you play with his hair idly.
he lets you.
head tilted back against the subway wall, lashes fluttering, mouth parted. he looks young like this. soft and flush-cheeked. worn out in the way boys only get when they feel safe.
you twist a little strand between your fingers.
“I love your hair like this.”
he hums.
“messy?”
“a hot, messy nerd.”
he chuckles under his breath.
“you like me for my brain.”
“I like your brain and… yep.”
his hand tightens on your hip.
“…noted.”
⟡
he taps your thigh lightly and nods toward the next stop.
“we gotta change lines here.”
“ugh.”
“I’ll carry you.”
“no you won’t.”
“no I won’t.”
you stand slowly, stretching. your legs feel like jelly.
he slaps your ass gently as you step off him.
“hey!”
“accident.”
“that’s not—!”
“momentum,” he grins.
“you’re so annoying.”
“you’re in love with me.”
you glare. he sticks his tongue out.
⟡
by the time you’re back on the bus, his legs are bouncing again.
you’re still tucked next to him, shoulder pressed to his chest.
he’s staring out the window, fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie.
you glance up.
“what?”
“what time is dinner at May’s?”
you blink. “you invited me.”
“yeah but I forgot to ask her what time.”
“peter.”
he pulls out his phone and starts texting furiously.
you lean your head on his shoulder. watch his fingers fly.
“are we late?”
“maybe.”
“is she gonna kill us?”
“probably.”
“…oh. okay.”
he smiles.
his cheek presses against your hair.
and you feel it again—that ache in your ribs. the good kind. the I love this boy so much it’s stupid kind.
you make it to May’s ten minutes late.
peter’s shirt is wrinkled. your lipstick is smudged. his pin is still clinging to the edge of his hoodie like a badge of honor.
may opens the door and looks at you both with the flat, unimpressed expression of someone who’s known peter since birth.
“you’re late.”
“traffic,” Peter lies.
“you took the subway.”
no response.
may rolls her eyes.
but when she hugs you, she squeezes you extra tight.
⟡
may’s kitchen smells like rosemary and caramelized onions and the softest, warmest kind of love.
peter sniffs dramatically.
“is that—”
“meatloaf,” May says, already tired.
“meatloaf again?” he cries. “may. my body is a temple.”
“your body is 80% junk.”
you giggle and slide onto a chair at the kitchen table.
peter dramatically collapses into the one beside you, resting his head on your shoulder like he’s just been through war.
“you’re so brave.”
may sets the dish down.
it’s good.
of course it is. it’s may’s meatloaf. theres something sweet in the sauce and you’d honestly eat ten slabs of it if you didn’t have someone’s thigh pressed to yours under the table.
peter is a menace.
his socked foot finds yours.
you side-eye him.
he’s chewing with exaggerated innocence. blinking at you like he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing.
“peter,” you hiss.
“what?” he says, mouth full. “I didn’t do anything.”
you nudge him hard with your elbow. he gasps, clutching his ribs.
“may,” he groans. “she hit me.”
“she’s allowed,” May says.
⟡
you help clear the table.
Peter tries to carry too many plates at once. may tells him not to drop anything. he drops a fork. blames gravity.
you rinse. he dries.
he keeps bumping your hip. you keep elbowing his side.
your fingers brush at the counter’s edge. his knuckles are warm.
he murmurs—
“thank you for coming.”
you glance up. he’s close.
soft-eyed. flushed cheeked. little bits of sun still tucked under his collarbones.
“I like seeing you here,” he says.
you smile.
may disappears to her room.
peter practically drags you down the hall.
“I just wanna show you something.”
“your penis?”
“ok, two things.”
his room is the same as always. cluttered. cozy. full of scraps of old tech and socks that don’t match and one too many textbooks shoved under the bed.
he tosses his hoodie into a chair. flops face-down onto his bed with a groan.
you climb in after him.
he rolls over and pulls you onto his chest like you’re the most natural thing in the world.
⟡
his fingers find your spine. trace lazy lines.
your nose nudges his jaw. he sighs into your hair.
“you’re warm,” he mumbles.
“you’re heavy.”
“you love me.”
you kiss the spot under his ear.
“I do.”
he squeezes your waist. buries his face in your neck.
you tangle your legs with his. his toes wiggle against your ankle.
his voice is barely a whisper.
“I don’t want this day to end.”
⟡
his room’s dark now.
just the bedside lamp on. the kind of golden glow that makes your skin look soft and warm and kissable.
he’s looking at you like you’re lit from the inside out.
“what?” you whisper.
“nothing,” he says. “just. you.”
you’re lying beside him, head on his pillow. he’s curled toward you, one arm tucked under his head, the other tracing your waist.
his fingers keep dipping under your shirt.
warm palm, light scratch of fingernails. a little higher each time.
you press your cheek to his shoulder.
“you always smell like that.”
he smiles.
“like what?”
“clean laundry and metal and… like a boy who runs too hot.”
he turns his head. nose brushing yours. breath warm.
“I smell like you now.”
⟡
his lips find your cheek. your jaw. the corner of your mouth.
you roll closer. your legs tangle. he slips his thigh between yours.
his kiss is gentle, then a little less.
you sigh into it. his hand slides up, under your shirt, across the curve of your back.
your hips shift.
you both breathe through it.
his lips ghost yours again.
“can I—”
“mmhm,” you hum.
his hand finds the underside of your thigh. your shirt rides up.
his knee nudges yours apart just a little. not enough. too much.
your hand slides up his chest. over his ribs.
he shivers.
“you okay?” you whisper.
he nods.
“just—just nervous. I always get nervous when I really, really like someone.”
your heart aches.
you kiss him, soft.
“me too.”
he pulls back to look at you.
his pupils are blown wide. his lashes are fluttering. he looks—
god, he looks gone.
“you’re so pretty,” he says, breathless.
you smile against his neck.
“you’re such a dork.”
his hand cups your waist. anchors you. your knee hitches over his hip.
“still like me?” he whispers.
⟡
you’re not even naked yet.
your shirt’s still half on. your bra too. his hoodie’s long gone but his jeans are just unbuttoned, not even off, and your skirt’s bunched around your waist like it’s scared to go.
you’re both breathless. flushed. his forehead rests against yours like he needs the contact to stay grounded.
his hips rock into yours slow.
grinding.
it’s barely anything. just pressure and the slow ache of almost.
his voice is all breath when he says—
“don’t look at me like that.”
your brows furrow.
“like what?”
he kisses you. shaky. your lips part for him without thinking.
when he pulls back, his voice cracks.
“like you mean it.”
⟡
his hands are everywhere.
your ribs, your back, the curve of your stomach. he treats you like you’re art. like he’s worried he’ll mess you up by holding too tight.
you grab his hand. press his palm to your chest.
“I want you to mean it.”
he stares at you like he can’t breathe.
“I do,” he whispers.
“then look at me.”
he does.
oh he does.
his eyes don’t leave yours after he kisses you again.
he keeps whispering your name.
his mouth on your cheek, your throat, your shoulder, your collarbone.
you squirm underneath him, soft whines in your throat, your bodies grinding harder now. your panties soaked. his cock twitching, pressed against you through his briefs.
he groans when you roll your hips up.
“god—”
“I want you,” you whisper.
“I want you so bad I feel sick.”
he chokes on a laugh. kisses your chin, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.
“you have me.”
he slides down. kisses your stomach. whispers your name again like a prayer.
his hands curl under your thighs.
“can I?”
you nod.
his thumbs hook under your panties.
he’s slow. reverent. like he’s unwrapping something sacred.
when he gets them down your legs and tosses them aside, he just—
stares.
he presses a kiss to the inside of your knee.
“fuck,” he whispers.
“I’m gonna die.”
⟡
he’s between your thighs now.
kneeling at the edge of the bed like he’s about to pray.
his hands are shaking. not nervous—overwhelmed. like he’s not sure if this is real. if you’re real. if you’ll disappear if he touches too hard.
“is this okay?” he asks, voice barely there.
“yes,” you breathe. “yes, peter. please.”
he kisses the inside of your knee again. your thigh. your hip.
his hair tickles your skin.
his hands spread your legs like you’re delicate—but not fragile.he can’t stop staring.
“you’re so pretty,” he whispers. “every part of you. I didn’t know— I didn’t know I could want someone this much.”
you nod, breath hitching.
“I’ve wanted this for so long,” you whisper.
he swallows hard.
then he lowers his mouth to you.
it’s—
soft at first.
a slow kiss to your clit. a gasp against it.
he whimpers.
like the taste of you hurts.
his hands slide under your thighs, pulling you closer, anchoring you. your hips jerk and he moans—like you just did something to him.
“peter—”
he shakes his head, mouth still on you, eyes wide.
you see it in them.
the awe. the desperation. the little bit of ruin.
his tongue flattens. licks a stripe.
then he sucks—gentle, wet, noisy.
your breath shudders.
he watches your face. watches every twitch and flutter and gasp like it’s the only thing that matters.
his eyes start to water.
“you okay?” you pant.
he nods against you. clutches your hips tighter.
“just— I’m okay. I just—”
“you feel like everything.”
you try to sit up. to reach for him.
but he moans again and sucks harder.
you fall back, thighs twitching, hands gripping his hair.
“oh my god—”
you’re panting now.
he’s whining.
you feel his mouth tremble.
like maybe he’s crying just a little.
but he doesn’t stop.
he doesn’t stop.
⟡
after,
you climb into his lap slow.
your thighs still sticky from his mouth, from your slick, from the heat of it all. his hands find your hips instantly—like they were made for it. like you were made for this.
he’s so hard it’s almost painful. cock flushed, thick, twitching where it rests against his stomach.
“do you have—?” you whisper.
he nods fast. fumbles for the drawer. his fingers tremble so bad he nearly drops the foil.
“you okay?”
“yeah— yeah,” he breathes. “just— I want this to be good. for you.”
you kiss him soft.
“it already is.”
you roll the condom down him with shaking hands.
he gasps when you touch him—like just your fingers make him weak.
you brace yourself with your hands on his chest and lower down slow.
he’s thick.
you sink onto him inch by inch, his cock stretching you open, and the second you’re seated fully, both of you still—just breathing.
his head falls back.
“fuck,” he whispers.
“you feel— you feel so—”
he can’t finish.
you press your forehead to his.
you move slow.
the tiniest rock of your hips makes him whimper.
he grips your waist like he’ll fall apart without it.
his eyes flicker open. his voice is soft.
“you love me?”
you nod.
“I love you.”
“say it again.”
“I love you, peter.”
“again.”
“I love you.”
“again—please—”
you’re grinding harder now.
“I love you.”
his breath shatters.
“I love you too,” he gasps. “I love you. I love you. I—fuck—don’t stop saying it—”
⟡
you’re bouncing now. soft and sloppy. your bodies soaked and trembling and desperate.
his arms wrap around your back.
his head presses to your chest.
“don’t leave,” he whispers.
“never,” you breathe.
“I won’t ever let you go.”
“good.”
your moans mix together.
you clench around him.
his cock twitches.
and he—
“baby— baby, I’m—”
you kiss him as he comes.
he sobs when he does.
you hold him until the trembling stops.
⟡
it’s hot under the covers.
his chest is flushed and sticky, arms wrapped around your waist, nose buried in your hair. you can still feel him twitching inside the condom, can still taste his shaky moans on your tongue.
you’re both so out of breath. so warm. so stupidly, incredibly in love.
“you okay?” he whispers.
“mhm,” you breathe. “my thighs are sore.”
he grins, lazy and smug, kissing the swell of your shoulder.
“good sore or bad sore?”
“shut up.”
⟡
you’re not supposed to be here.
may thinks you were both sleeping on the couch. you were. until peter pulled you into his room with that pouty little please like he couldn’t sleep without you. (he can’t.)
now you’re buried under a blanket in his childhood bed, still panting, trying to keep your voice down like it wasn’t the creak of his old bedframe that probably gave you away already.
“do you think she heard?”
“yes,” you whisper.
“god—”
“you were so loud, peter—”
“me?! you were—”
“shhh!”
he clamps his hand over your mouth, wide-eyed, grinning.
“you’re gonna get us caught,” he whispers.
⟡
you sneak to the kitchen an hour later.
you’re in his hoodie, in underwear. he’s in boxers and socks, looking ridiculous with bed hair and bite marks down his neck.
you both raid the fridge like kids. leftover meatloaf. cold pizza. oreos. he feeds you one like you’re royalty.
“you think she’s gonna be mad?”
“i think we should run away.”
“you and me?”
“mmhm. far away. a loft with bad plumbing and big windows.”
“ooh. sexy.”
“and a cat.”
“you’re allergic.”
“i’ll suffer.”
you eat sitting on the floor.
you, between his legs, leaning back against his chest. his arms wrap around your middle, soft fingertips tracing lazy lines across your tummy.
“you ever think about the future?” he mumbles.
you hum.
“sometimes.”
“like… moving in? waking up next to each other? cooking together? real adult shit.”
“you’d eat all the cereal.”
“you’d never do the dishes.”
you smack his chest lightly.
“you’d never do the laundry!”
he huffs, once more.
you look up at him. he’s already looking at you.
“i want it to be you,” he says softly. “all of it.”
your heart aches in that perfect, full kind of way.
“me too.”
⟡
you fall asleep in his arms, in again that night.
to the sound of rain. to the softness of his breath.
to the rhythm of your heartbeat against his.
quiet. loved. home.
—-—-—-—-—-—-—-—-
⟡ made by @flxttershyz , please do not copy or repost without consent!!⟡
taglist: @seraphibunni @nolita-fairytale ^^
so sorry for disappearing for like for ever i got like triple whammey(ed?) by life these past weeks but i havent forgot u guys trust
also let me know if you want to be added to my small but mighty taglist, or ima just add who likes this atp
tags: sub peter parker, established relationship, shy peter parker, crying during sex, masturbation, m receiving, handjobs, dom!you, porn with no plot, overstimulated and sensitive peter parker, apologising, you know he's spiderman
words: 1.2k
Peter is lying on his stomach on the bed, his face buried in the pillow as you jerk him off from behind. His shy whimpers and soft moans are muffled against the fabric. His slender body wiggles slightly with each stroke of your hand, his sensitivity overwhelming him.
"Shh, shh," you soothe, seeing how overwhelmed he is. His legs are pressed together tightly, his hips twitching as you work his cock slowly. He's already leaking pre-cum onto your hand, his body so responsive to your touch. Suddenly, he lets out a choked sob.
"Too much, too much," he cries out, his face still buried in the pillow. His hands grip the sheets tightly as he tries to process the overwhelming sensation of your hand jerking him off. You immediately slow down your movements, knowing how sensitive he is, but it only makes him cry harder.
You can see his blue eyes getting lighter every time you speed up the movement of your hand. His muscles tense as one hand tries to stop you. He might succeed, in fact, he would win with his strength. Instead, no, it seems that all his power has been nullified by you, leaving him helpless and weak at your mercy.
"Baby, talk to me," you say softly, slowing your strokes to a gentle teasing instead of actual jerking off. "Are you actually crying right now?" You ask gently, trying not to laugh because honestly, it's kind of cute how overwhelmed he is by your hand job.
It always amazes you how weak he becomes with you. It's exciting to have the invincible Spider-Man completely under your control.
"Mmmph!" He cries into the pillow, his voice muffled but his body shaking with sobs. He nods vigorously, tears streaming down his face as he tries to speak through his crying. "Too sensitive... too good... it's too much!"
“Do you want me to stop?“, you ask as you suddenly stop. Peter breathes quickly, sobbing. He turns to you, and the sight is heavenly. His cheeks are flushed as if he'd rubbed them on the pillow for hours (yes, that probably happened due to spasms caused by too much pleasure), both streaked with tears. His hair is messy, and his skin, which is usually pale, now has different undertones. You observe how his breathing starts to become more regular as time passes and how he swallows his saliva through his Adam's apple.
"No," he whispers hoarsely, his eyes staring at you with pleading intensity. "Please, don't stop. It feels... It feels amazing. I just..." He trails off, his voice breaking slightly as he tries to find the right words. "I'm not used to this.”
He gets closer to you in bed and you start stroking him again, slower this time, letting him adjust. His cock twitches in your hand, already half-hard again from just how sensitive he is. He whimpers, pressing his forehead to your neck.
"Peter, look at me," you command gently. He obeys, turning his tear-streaked face toward you.
His blue eyes are glassy, still swimming with tears that haven't stopped falling yet. They're so big and innocent-looking, even now, even when he's sobbing because you're jerking him off too well. He looks at you like you're his whole world, like he's completely devoted to you.
"You're so handsome," you praise softly, cupping his face. A hand caresses his pectorals to go lower and unbutton his shirt. Peter lets you do it and watches you, and as soon as he realizes you'd take longer, he rips the buttons off with his hands, sending them flying across the room. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to–”
You kiss him to silence him and pull off his shirt. His skin is sweaty, making his pecs, abs, and collarbones almost gleam.
You resume stroking his cock, your pace deliberately slow and torturous. He immediately starts crying again, his tears falling onto your shoulder as he hides his face against your neck.
"You're shaking," you murmur against his hair, feeling his whole body tremble in your hand. Your thumb swipes over his leaking tip, and he lets out a high-pitched whimper.
"S-sorry," he hiccups, his voice watery and weak. "I can't help it. It's just... too intense." His hips start to move in small circles, fucking himself against your palm as he chases more friction. His tears soak your shoulder, and his hands clutch at your clothes desperately.
"Don't apologize," you whisper, pressing a kiss to his temple. "Let it all out, baby." You increase the speed slightly, just a little bit more pressure, just one finger starting to rub at his perineum. That's all it takes.
He absolutely shatters.
"D-don't—please, I'm gonna—I'm gonna—”
Before he can even finish the sentence, his entire body convulses. He comes violently, his hot release coating your hand and his own stomach. His cries turn into loud, sobbing wails as wave after wave of pleasure overwhelms him. He's completely lost in the sensation, his body shaking uncontrollably.
You keep stroking through it, milking every last drop from him until he's a sobbing, trembling mess in your arms. He clings to you desperately, his face buried in your neck, crying openly now—happy tears mixed with overwhelming pleasure. His cock is still twitching, insanely sensitive.
"I'm sorry," he keeps whispering between hiccups.
The words "I'm sorry" repeat like a mantra against your skin. You're holding him tight, one hand still gently wrapped around his oversensitive cock, keeping just enough pressure to make him whimper. The other hand is stroking his hair, trying to calm him down.
"There's nothing to be sorry about, Peter. You did so good for me.”
"I couldn't even—" he sobs, his voice cracking pathetically. "You have to stop touching me, it hurts now." But despite his words, his hips tilt up slightly, chasing your warmth. His cock twitches pathetically in your grip, still hard.
"Mean," he whimpers, but there's no real protest in his voice.
You ignore his complaint, your hand slowly sliding up and down his length again. He lets out a high-pitched moan, his body arching into the touch despite his sensitivity. "Too much," he cries out, his voice breaking completely. "Too sensitive. Please, baby, please—"
“If you're too sensitive, why don't you fuck me instead, mmh?“
Your suggestion makes him pause mid-wail. His hips still, and he lifts his head from your shoulder to look at you with wide, tear-filled eyes. You can see him processing through the haze of overwhelming pleasure, his brain slowly catching up to your words.
Suddenly, he regains all his strength and pushes you onto the bed. He's sweet and tender as he does so and kisses you in the same manner.
He places one hand on your breast covered by your lace bra, and the other on your already wet pussy. His touch is delicate and almost too romantic. His movements are slow compared to yours.
You too lower your hand until you touch his cock again. He stiffens instantly, already overstimulated.
Of course he's hard again. "No-Ah wait!", he moans in your ear, making you smile.
Peter is struggling to get accustomed to all the new dna coursing through his body. You help him get used to it
warning: nsfw!
You can tell something is wrong with Peter the moment he makes his way into the apartment.
The way he comes in is to tell enough that something’s up. Usually he knocks at the window, shoots you a text while he’s swinging around the city that he’ll be home soon. Peter says it’s because he doesn’t want to freak you out by just coming in unannounced, and while you don’t really care either way, you think it’s cute that he worries about it. That being said, Peter has never landed on your balcony in a frenzy, cursing under his breath as he knocks one of your plant pots off the edge and to the street down below.
The commotion makes you stand quickly, distracted from the movie you had playing on the screen. Your legs stick to the couch, the house sticky with summer heat even with all the windows open. It's late enough in the evening that a breeze blows in, but you still find yourself in only a pair of shorts and one of Peter’s nerdy Star Wars shirts that hangs down past your thighs. Your face fills with confusion as he clambers through the window, movements clumsy. He knocks over your mug as he jumps down to the floor, but quickly shoots a web to catch it before it shatters.
“The doors unlocked, you know.” You say, and he doesn’t reply.
He seems restless. He picks up the mug and paces around, drumming his fingers on the ceramic as he mumbles something under his breath. The nervous energy isn’t totally abnormal, though. Peter could just be hopped up on adrenaline from a fight, or excited from just cracking a case or finding a lead in another.
It’s strange that your new normal is being Spider-Man’s roommate. When Peter had messaged you all those months ago, having found your number on the flyer you’d posted around the city, you were skeptical. He was a man, firstly, and you ideally wanted a woman to stay with. Safety, and all that. But you were desperate, and too broke to afford your own place, so you agreed to meet with him. And he’d been sweet. A little awkward and a lot nerdy, but he seemed like a nice guy. And he was cute. Those soft brown eyes and those curls that bounced animatedly as he spoke, it definitely helped his case. And he didn’t give you any worrying vibes that he might be a serial killer, which was good. The only request he had was to use the small spare room you listed on the flyer for himself. For work, he said. Which sounded a bit suspicious, but you agreed nonetheless. You had no use for it anyway.
You wonder what his plan was. It was inevitable you’d find out once you were living together, if not from his inability to sneak into the house without making enough noise to wake you from your sleep, or how horrible he was at lying about the cuts and bruises he randomly would show up with, the secrecy of what’s in the spare room he never let you go in. Or, the time he just left his Spiderman suit in the laundry basket.
An argument and a reluctant confession later, and now you were in the know. An impromptu doctor when Peter refused to go hospital, a researcher whenever he needed help figuring stuff out. Of course, as an English student you weren’t much help with all the technological aspects of his heroism, but you did what you could.
You don’t mind doing anything for Peter. Which is something you don’t like to dwell on too much.
He still hasn’t said anything. You watch as he takes off his mask, flinging it on the kitchen counter and placing your mug down gently after it. And when you get a glimpse of his face, he looks… dishevelled. His curls are loose and a mess around his face, his forehead slick with sweat and he wipes his face with the collar of his suit. His cheeks are flushed with a soft pink that stretches over his cheekbones. And finally, he looks at you, those big brown eyes softening when they catch sight of you standing before him.
He says your name, relieved and something else. “You’re home.”
“I am. Are you okay, Peter? You look-”
“Like crap. I know.” He laughs, but it sounds more panicked than anything else.
Peter makes his way to the spare room,which you’ve now dubbed his study, without a word, and you follow behind him quickly. He used to always keep it locked, but now he never bothers. He opens the door roughly and the place is a bit of a mess. Papers all over the floor, the machines on the side busy building something. You try to tell him to keep it clean but he never does.
He sits in his fraying desk chair, biting at his lip as he regards the monitors in front of him. You come up behind him, still glancing at him worriedly.
“Peter-“
“Just, give me a minute. I need to see something.” He says quickly, his leg bouncing up and down under the desk restlessly.
You sigh, rolling your eyes a little. You try to decipher the words that flash across the screen but you give up quickly. The things you can read doesn’t ease your worry. His heart rate is too high, his temperature nearing dangerous levels. It’s hard to tell what is normal, seeing as he is half spider, but you can assume it’s nothing good.
You hop up to sit on the empty desk beside him and watch him work. His curls stick to the back of his neck, and you have a perfect view of his muscular back, which you try to divert your eyes away from.
Edith blinks to life as he types something on his keyboard.
“Arachnid DNA is at eighty percent, which is the normal level it has been for the past six months.” Her smooth voice calls out to the room.
“I know,” Peter runs a hand through his hair, his voice a little irritated. “I know it’s normal. If it is, then why do I feel so-“
The words die on his lips and he shoots you a strange look. He doesn't finish his sentence and Edith seems to sense his inability to voice his concerns, because she speaks up for him.
“Your new heightened senses also affect your physiological and psychological responses. This is why your sexual-“
Peter makes a strange noise and practically slams his hand against the keyboard to shut her up. Your bite back your laugh as he glares at you, even though his face is burning with embarrassment.
“Shut up.”
“I said nothing.” You say. “Is-“
“We are not talking about this.” Peter stands abruptly. “It’s okay, just go to bed.”
Peter pauses, like he wants to say something else. Then he decides not to and shakes his head. His hand is warm as it circles around your wrist and he practically drags you out the room. “I don’t need help. Especially not from you.”
He shuts the door to his office behind him once you’re finally outside. You’re left glaring at his back as he walks into the kitchen to grab a drink. He opens the fridge and surveys the contents, seemingly unaware of your irritation.
“Especially not from me? What’s that supposed to mean?” You snap.
He grabs a can of coke, and downs it in about ten seconds. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Doesn’t mean a thing.”
“Then why’d you say it?”
“You know me and silence.” He gives you a lopsided grin but it only makes you frown. He’s breathing heavily like he’s just run a race and the redness in his face is only getting worse.
“Peter. What is going on?”
“I’m fine! I’m fine, I’m just hot. Are you hot? It’s really hot in here.” His suit sticks to his skin and he wipes at the sweat that collects at his brow.
“It’s really not.” You mumble, worry creasing your face.
Peter scoffs, pointing at your bare legs. “Why are you wearing those shorts then, huh? They’re very short, you know.” He rambles.
You raise an eyebrow. “Mhm. That’s why they’re called shorts.”
“Yeah. Is that my top, too?” He finally notices, and you nod. You try not to squirm as his eyes rake over your body shamelessly.
“All of mine are in the wash.”
“Right. Of course.” He looks away reluctantly, like it hurts to. He braces one hand on the counter, taking a deep breath in, eyes screwing shut. “You look good. The shirt, I mean.”
You walk towards him slowly. “Peter, come on. Talk to me.”
You reach out a hand to touch him but he flinches, like your fingers on his arm shock him. He groans, low and heavy in his chest, turning away from you, and your worry is quickly turning into panic.
“Peter, if you don’t tell me what is going on I’m calling an ambulance. Or Frank.”
His head shoots. “Do not call Frank.”
“Then talk to me!” You splutter. “You’re acting so weird, and you're not explaining anything, and it’s freaking me out!”
Peter winces as your voice cracks a little. “I’m sorry, I don’t wanna worry you.”
“Well you are.”
“I’m- Fuck, I don’t know how to explain it.” He sighs.
It takes a second for him to collect himself. Peter straightens up and faces you. “Okay, so. You know how a few months ago, I got all this new weird arachnid DNA?”
You nod. “I do remember.”
“Well, the new DNA comes with a lot of new side effects. Obviously, the heightened sense, the up in strength and speed. That’s all good and well, but. It also heightens other things. Things like.” His voice trails off.
You cross your arms. “Things like what?”
He mumbles something under his breath, shaking his head. “You know. Things like my anger. Happiness. And my. My arousal.”
He says the last word fast, like it’ll be any less awkward if he says it quicker. And suddenly, the restless energy, the warmth, the weird reaction to your touch. It all starts to make sense.
“Oh.” You say quietly.
“Yeah. Oh.” He laughs nervously. “And I was just, you know, swinging around town and I started to feel all. You know, hot and bothered.”
He groans, placing his arms on the table. “I thought it’d get better when I got home, but it’s worse. It feels like my skin is on fucking fire.” He hisses.
Your eyebrows crease and you step forward, hands hovering in the air. You’re scared to touch him in case he freaks out like before. “What can I do?”
“Nothing. Nothing, you- you need to leave, probably.” He takes a frantic step back, almost slipping.
“Me? Why?” You protest. “You can use me when you need a patch up but now I’m useless?”
“Because if this gets any worse than it already is I have no idea what the hell I’m gonna do. And I’d rather cut both my hands off than hurt you.”
You soften, hands falling to your sides uselessly. His face is so pained, torn between coming closer to you and leaving the apartment all together.
You think you being here is making it worse. Maybe you shouldn’t read into the fact your presence is making him feel that much more aroused. Maybe it is just the weird influx of hormones that’s making him feel the way he is, but instead, you take the information presented in front of you exactly how you want to. The sight of him this wrecked in front of you fills you with a surge of confidence, and a smile graces your lips.
“I can help you, Peter.”
His eyes are almost black from how big his pupils are, and his throat bobs as he swallows roughly. His voice is low and gravelly as he speaks. “What?”
“I can help relieve some tension. If you want me to.” You say softly.
“Y/N.” He shakes his head. “I’m not- I don’t know how well I'm gonna be able to control myself.”
“It’s okay. You can be rough if you need to.”
It takes him a second for the words to sink in. He doesn’t move long enough that you think he’s going to say no. But in one smooth motion, Peter shoots out a web that wraps around your waist, and drags you over to him. You make a surprised squeak, but it’s quickly swallowed up as his hands curl in your shirt and pulls you into a kiss.
His hand curves around the back of your neck to bring you closer, his other hand on your waist gripping you so tightly you think you might have bruises tomorrow. Peter kisses you like he’s trying to swallow you whole, like he could tip forward and fall right into you. Your hands curl into his hair, and when you tug he groans deeply. He lets go for breath for only a second before he’s back, tongue dancing against your own, teeth grazing your bottom lip.
Peter’s hand slips beneath your shirt, and his touch burns a trail up your skin. He reaches behind your back to fumble with your bra but he isn’t very successful in taking it off. He makes a noise of annoyance against your lips. Peter straightens, and his lips are red and slick with spit, and you want to kiss him all over again.
“Fuck. Can you take it off? Please?”
You snort a laugh and he groans. “I’m being nice here. I could rip it clean in half, but I’m being nice.”
“Okay, okay.”
He helps you take off your shirt and tosses it on the floor behind him. You easily unclip your bra and he makes a sound so wrecked in the back of his throat at the sight of you in only your shorts, you think you might finish right there and then.
“Fuck, I can’t wait.”
In one swift motion he picks you up, and you squeal, wrapping your legs around his waist as he all but throws the two of you into his room and on his bed. He almost falls on his face in his haste to lose the suit until he’s just in his boxers, and you only have a few short lived moments to admire his chiselled stomach, the hard curves of his biceps, before he’s all over you again.
You open your mouth as he kisses you again, lips forming the syllables of his name that you quickly swallow as his tongue delves into your mouth. You let your hands trail over his abs, and he shivers as you run your nails over his shoulders, his chest, any part of him you can get. His hand fondles your chest, pinching your nipple between two fingers as you keen, back arching off the bed.
Peter grins, hair falling over his face as he hovers over you. “God, just look at you, squirming underneath me.”
“Put that mouth to better use, Parker.”
And he does. He cups your breasts in his hands, pushing them together and licking a pert nipple into his mouth. He sucks, flicks his tongue over it until your legs latch around his waist and you whimper. You barely have time to react before he sits up, spreading your legs roughly.
You feel a rush of shyness at how shamelessly he’s looking between your legs, and you shut your legs.
Peter makes an angry face, tutting loudly. “None of that.”
Peter grabs both your hands in one of his, bringing them up to the headboard. He shoots a web that sticks your hands above your head before you can even protest. Your mouth drops open in shock.
“What- Peter!” He presses quick kisses on your face, mumbling an apology into your skin.
“M’sorry, I can’t have you getting in my way, can I? Just let me take care of you, okay? I’ll do all the work.” He breathes out.
It’s hard to argue with that. Peter spreads your legs open once more, and this time he has no further interruptions. The flush travels down his chest, down to halfway to his stomach. He discards you off your underwear and strokes his finger along your slit. But he wastes no time teasing. No, in one swift motion he’s pushing his finger in down to the knuckle and you whimper, turning to hide your face into the pillows beneath you.
“Easy, girl. I got you.” He whispers against the shell of your ear.
He adds another finger, and the stretch burns in a good way. He draws his fingers up, searching for that spot against the high point inside your walls. And when he finds you can’t help the moans that slip past your lips as he presses, the white-hot pleasure curling in your stomach.
“Fuck, Peter.” You groan.
Before you can lose yourself in the feeling, his hand withdraws. You whine at the loss and he chuckles, kissing your forehead.
“I’ll fuck you good, I promise.” He murmurs, taking off his boxers. “Just wait.”
His tip is red and leaking pre-cum, and he fists at his cock slowly. His eyebrows crease with the feeling, and the look on his face is obscene. You reach forward to and run your finger against the side right up to the head, and his hips jut up.
“Fuck. Fuck.” He breathes out. “Do you have- A condom? Or something?”
“I’m on birth control, you can-“
The words hardly leave your lips before he moves. He slips his hand under your knee and lifts you up slightly. He sets the tip of himself inside you and slowly pushes himself in until his hips are flush with yours. Your hands itch against the headboard, fists clenching.
Peter makes a guttural noise, head dropping down and his breath stutters in his chest. “Oh, finally, fucking finally.”
He gives you just a second to adjust, his face strained. “Tell me if you need to stop. Okay?”
“Okay. But, my hands, Peter.” You whine, and despite your minutes of struggling he easily tugs them loose.
It’s the only reprieve you get before he starts to move. He sets a fast and punishing rhythm, his words a litany of moans and incoherent phrases. The sound of flesh hitting flesh, the wetness that drips from between your thighs. Every rock of his hips dragged so deliciously against your inner walls it feels like torture.
“That’s my girl. Feels so good, you feel so good.” He stutters, hands hauling you up by your hips so he can thrust even deeper, his tip kissing your cervix.
Your arms come up to curl around his neck, you nails raking down his back, and he doesn’t even flinch at the sensation. No, Peter’s transfixed by the view of his cock sliding into your cunt. He sucks his thumb before he reaches down, rubbing at your clit. Your hips jolt up, and your eyes screw shut. You’re dangerously close, his thrusts getting more frantic, more desperate.
“Sweet girl. You wanna come? You wanna come all over my cock?” He huffs and you nod.
And it’s then you look up, and you see it. His eyes, pools of black as he holds you up with one hand easily, the other rubbing furious circles all over your clit. You wish you could form the words to question it, but he seems to sense your impending orgasm, because he begins fucking into you with earnest. Sharp, punching thrusts of his hips that has his name falling from your lips as the damn inside you bursts.
Your legs twitch as you cum, and your walls squeeze around him. He whines, his eyes screwed shut as he becomes messy with it, hands digging finger-shaped bruises into your thighs as he finishes with a gasp, his breath stuttering.
“So good for me, baby. Oh, fuck.” He practically whimpers, forehead dropping against your own.
It takes you a second to compose yourself. Your breathing finally returns to normal, and you sit up slightly, hand cupping his face to lift his head up so you can observe him.
“Your eyes, they were- they were black.” You breathe out, voice slightly hoarse. “Why?”
“It’s the new DNA. Makes me look kinda freaky, doesn’t it?”
“Mhm.”
You drop down against the pillows, head turning into his sheets. They smell like him, and you smile slightly, body achingly pleasant after your orgasm.
It’s then you realise that Peter is still inside you. And he’s still hard. He seems to realise it, too, because he’s kissing your neck again, sucking red marks into your soft skin. He licks against your pulse, and you groan.
“How are you still hard?”
“I don’t know.” He sighs. “I can go, it’s okay. You’ve been so good to me.”
He tries to move but you drag him back down. “No, it’s okay. I just need a moment.” You mumble.
Peter tries to hide his excitement, but he fails. You’re sure you look a mess, but you’re certain he’s much worse. His hair is tussled from where you’d been raking your hands through it, and it falls around his face in messy curls. His eyes have only just returned to normal, but his pupils are still blown, still looking at you like you’re the only thing in the world.
“What?” He says. “Why you starin’ at me like that?”
“Nothing. It’s nothing.”
He hums happily. “Good. Because you did so good for me, sweetheart. Do you think you can do it again?”
I can’t believe this is my first marvel fic.. guys u don’t even knowww me and marvel go WAYYY back.. like what do y guys know about Bucky barnes omg
but this was so fun to write! as u can tell from my blog this is my all time favourite superhero so.. ofc the new movie (which I’ve watched twice) had me creaming my pants..
I hope u all enjoy!! Plz leave comments I love to hear what u guys think!
