Corpus Christi

he/it not a native english speaker pfp by elektricnka on pinterest

[mlmmetalhead]

Welcome

x top male reader blog, writing for honestly whatever fandoms.

Rules

NO FEMALE READER

The only thing I'll never make an exception for. I'm really uncomfortable with it, there are a plenty of great fem reader blogs on Tumblr you can check out!

DNI: Basic + mlm fetishisers, darkshippers, culture fetishisers, people who read/write/support unironic rpf.

The masterlist

Request status: open only for ryan gosling characters

about the author:

Evgeny, 18+, Eastern European time; ukranian-polish;Aroace, agender. personal blog: @aneurysmuz

[mossrat]

rewatched nice guys last night and realized how many scenes there are where march's ass is just right in your face and it pulled a wire in my brain. i don't have a concrete idea in mind all i ask is march x male reader where we get to throw him around a little, mess up his tie, all that good shit

UNDERGROUND - holland march x male reader

tags: smut, dom/sub undertones, age gap, frotting, incorrect use of tie winkwink

a/n: oh anon this request was like saying all of a dog's favorite words.... this is a long one!

MINORS DNI

🐝˚‧︵‿︵‿︵‿︵

All things considered, Holland thinks he’s doing a pretty fine job so far. So fine, in fact, that this case is looking like it might be the quickest they’ve ever wrapped one up. It was only yesterday that he and Healy met up with the client—a feisty young lady who suspected her kid brother was caught up in some nasty drug business, with such vivid orange hair Holland couldn’t help but ask if it was natural before they parted. Healy had kicked him sharply under the table, and the woman had merely blinked at him, grabbed her purse, and said, “just find my goddamned brother.”

If the kid really is balls-deep in any sort of clandestine organization, drug-related or otherwise, then he’s doing a pretty poor job at it; they only had question two of his friends to find out he frequents—with a rather methodical consistency—an underground club in the Eastside every Saturday. Though they only acquired this pivotal piece of intel from the second one, the first had expressed his own concern for his buddy, and after some coaxing gave them the address of his "business partner”, whatever that means. The guy wasn’t sure what exactly they did, either, but claimed the guy was creepy and filthy rich.

So, if only to kill two birds with one stone, and because this case wasn’t looking like one that would require any backup, he and Healy split up: Holland looking for their guy, and March seeing what he could dig up at this elusive business partner’s place.

The club really takes its underground title seriously, Holland quickly learns. It takes him a good fifteen minutes to even find the alley, at the end of which an unassuming pair of steel doors led down a steep flight of stairs—and then he’s in it. Brilliant, colorful lights sweep across the crowded space in cyclical routes, cutting through the blue-tinted darkness. Music blasts through deliberately positioned speakers, low bass vibrating through Holland’s sternum while he shuffles through sweaty bodies and makes his way toward the bar. The dancing multitude is certainly to blame for the warmth hanging thick in the air, so Holland doesn’t think twice about half of the male attendees being shirtless or near it—clad in haphazardly chopped or lightweight materials that hardly pass as clothing, in his book.

He finds a gap between chatting groups at the bar, and flags down the harried bartender. He darts up to Holland, planting his hands on the lower side of the surface and leaning in to listen over the music.

“I’m looking for someone,” Holland starts, fingertips tapping restlessly over the sticky wood. “He comes here often, Jason Stewart? Might know him as Sonny? Yea high, red hair?”

The bartender’s face stiffens, then cements in a dismissive frown. He glances past Holland, waving down some waiting customers.

“Order something or go, you’re holding up the line,” he bites, defensive. Holland gapes, glancing over his shoulder at the line in question: a pair of young women conversing and lightly bouncing along to the music. One of them meets his eye, her hair cropped short against her skull, and upon sharing a look with the barkeep furrows her brows.

Right. So, this might be trickier than he thought. Might as well acclimate. He tries to refrain from drinking too much on the job after the shitshow that was the house party they infiltrated last year, but Holland reckons skulking around an underground disco asking for a regular by name, and without even having a drink isn’t helping his chances at success. Partygoers, from his experience, often aren’t too keen on selling each other out, and if not that, are often too drunk or high to offer any lucid answers; these, however, seem far more skeptical than usual. They must get up to some pretty sketchy stuff down here—but far be it from Holland to judge them.

So, he gets a beer. It won’t be enough to get him drunk, far from it, but it'll hopefully make him blend in more, even though his outfit alone makes him stick out rather sorely.

He weasels his finger into the knot of his striped tie and loosens it slightly, eyeing the brightly or barely-clad attendees. He makes room for the two women and nods in thanks to the narrow-eyed bartender, before shuffling down the length of the bar. He ignores the terse looks flung his way, growing strangely antsy under the curious stare of a lone, younger man sitting at a stool, his expression not so much hostile as it is alert, discerning. Taking a sip of the cheap beer, Holland finds a relatively sober-looking woman near the restrooms past the bar.

His attempts prove fruitless there, too. Either she truly has no idea who Sonny Stewart is, or she has a phenomenal poker face; as he’s about to ask if she knows any regulars who might be able to help him, another lady strolls out of the bathroom. The first greets her with a hand on the waist and a private smile, and…

Oh. 

Oh, yeah, well, that explains it.

They saunter back to the dance floor, leaving Holland gaping and feeling laughably dense. For once, he peers into the multitude, really looks into it, and it only takes a few seconds to notice the unconventional pairs dancing together under the strobe lights. 

What the hell kind of a PI is he?

Well, now everybody’s caginess makes a whole lot more sense.

He takes a hearty swig of beer and sighs, more frustrated with himself than anything else. If he’d known he would be gathering intel at a gay club, he would have gone about it differently from the start. Now, he just hopes word hasn’t gotten around that a possible cop is snooping among them.

“Hey, pal.”

Holland turns toward the source of the unfamiliar voice. His gaze locks on yours, and he’s quick to recall your face as the one that’s been watching him since he first approached the bar. You’re alone, still seated atop a rickety stool, nursing a cocktail and leaning back leisurely against the wood. The high hem of your tank top reveals a narrow strip of stomach, and the tight material across your chest leaves nothing to the imagination. Holland squeezes out a shallow breath, and floats over to you.

“You sure you at the right place?” you ask once he stops, eyeing him brazenly.

“Why's that?”

“Is that corduroy?” You push yourself off the edge of the bartop, reaching out to catch the lapel of his suit jacket and laughing when you confirm your suspicion. Warmth prickles at Holland’s cheeks. He swats your hand away, grinding his molars when your lips seek out the thin straw resting on the edge of your glass, cheeks hollowing faintly in a lazy sip. “There’s a sports bar one street over, in case you missed it.”

He ignores your teasing, steels himself. “I just need some information, and then I’m gone.”

Your brow furrows, expression hardening under the glow of a passing blue strobe.

“You a cop?”

“No,” he immediately replies. “I mean, I was, but that’s—that doesn’t matter. I’m a PI, okay? I don’t give a shit what you get up to down here, in fact I’m all for it, probably, so I’m not going to rat anybody out—”

“Except for Sonny,” you butt in, cocking an eyebrow while you chew on your straw. Holland’s mouth clamps shut, eyes dipping fleetingly to the soft shape of your lips, curled around the plastic.

Jesus—focus. And he’s not even buzzed.

“His sister hired us. She’s worried about him.”

“Us? There’s more of you?” Your gaze leaves his, turning instead to the open expanse of the club, sweeping across it with mounting alarm.

“No! Well, okay, yes, just one, but he’s not here. Honest.” He crosses his heart over with one fingertip.

You look back at Holland, brow set, and then reach behind you without breaking eye contact to set your empty glass on the bar. The motion makes your shirt ride up a little, and Holland makes a truly monumental effort not to steal a quick look at the sparse trail of hair leading down to your belt buckle.

“His sister hired you?”

“That’s right.”

He watches your face in the chromatic lighting, losing its wary edges and eventually settling into something more genuine. You wipe the condensation from your palm off against your dark jeans, sighing lightly.

“What’s your name?”

“Holland,” he breathes out, stiffening unconsciously when you lean in, elbows on your parted knees. “March.”

“Alright, Mr. March,” you say, and for whatever goddamned reason it makes his gut sink into a pool of bubbling warmth. As you rise from the stool, movements smooth and unhurried, almost catlike, you say, “let’s go somewhere quieter, hm?”

Then, your hand is on his tie, and you’re all but dragging him through the club, not looking back for a second at the way he staggers after you, apologizing mildly when he bumps into a drunken partygoer. 

The club is far bigger than it looks, and he wonders what the original use of the space might’ve been before it was refurbished into a secret underground disco. He reaches up for your wrist, though halts before closing the gap. The mild pressure circled around the nape of his neck, herding him across the dance floor holds him at an unbalanced, hunched posture, wholly undignifying—and yet, it makes his head spin.

Down a broad corridor, you stalk past a file of closed doors labeled VIP, and Holland isn’t certain whether he should be thrilled or terrified. You stop at the end of the hall, where a piece of paper is taped to the last door, reading ‘CLOSED FOR MAINTENANCE’, and without a second thought, you haul him inside.

Immediately, his back is struck against the closed door, wincing at the force and reflexively raising his palms in a gesture of peace. 

“You know I still don’t trust you, right?” you say, voice stern again, though clearer now with the music and clamor sealed outside, muffled through the walls. He opens his mouth to reply, but your fist tightens in wordless warning around his tie, so he simply nods, meek. The heat in the pit of his stomach refuses to dissipate—though this is really not the time for his fucked-up libido to rear its ugly head. “The second I suspect you’ve lied to me, or are in any way up to something that would put a single person here at risk, I’ll see to it myself that you regret ever coming here. Am I clear?”

“Crystal,” he wheezes.

At that, you press on a flat, sardonic smile, and pat his cheek twice. You don’t release his tie just yet, but when you pull him off the door it’s a morsel less harsh than it was moments ago. You whirl him around the small room, and then spread your palm to push him back into the leather sectional sofa, which he collapses into with a yelp. Now freed from your iron fist and stifling proximity, he breathes out—a little shaky, strained—and lets himself look around the interior. It’s nothing too special, a dim room with elegant leather seating, a low table before him and a small, slightly elevated platform at the very front of the room. You switch a light on, which only partly succeeds in illuminating the space; there’s no overhead bulb, but many smaller fixtures throughout the room, the largest of which being a warm-toned, almost orange lamp by the door.

He notices, then, rather belatedly, that by some miracle he’s managed to keep his beer, clutched tightly in one hand. As you shuffle up to him and sit on the edge of the table before him, Holland downs the rest in a massive gulp. Liquid courage, and all that.

“Alright,” you say, “shoot.”

Right. Right, the case.

He clears his throat, scrambles to get his wayward thoughts together. First order of business: get the intel. Then he’ll focus on the warmth flooding his cheeks and, mortifyingly, his crotch.

As it turns out, Sonny isn’t secretly smuggling drugs in clandestine discos. He certainly attends them, but the way you put it, he hardly ever dips into anything stronger than an occasional bump or two. A few months ago he met an older guy in this very club and the pair have only been seen together since.

“My guess,” you say, prying the empty bottle he’s been absentmindedly playing with from his fingers and setting it on the table beside your hip, “is he hit the jackpot: found himself a hot older guy who’s happy to spoil him, and his sister notices him being vague, always busy, suddenly able to afford all these expensive things… First thought, 'he’s dealing drugs'.”

Holland sinks against the backrest, hands falling limp on his thighs with nothing to fidget with. An incredulous huff escapes him, looking off in the middle distance as he turns it over in his head. It makes perfect, logical sense.

“How do you know all this?”

You shrug. “Worked here for two years up until a few months ago. Marty gives me a discount for drinks and I still like to keep up with the long-time regulars. Word gets around quick down here.”

“I’m sure.” He looks back up at you, and a thought strikes him. “So, what are the odds I don’t get jumped outside for looking like a cop?”

You pull a deeply pensive face, head tipping with a long hum. “Not too good. Don’t worry, Sherlock, I can walk you to your car.”

When you go to stand, Holland’s chest seizes with something akin to panic. His hands shoot out, but hesitate to touch.

“Wait.”

You pause, already half-turned toward the door, and raise an eyebrow down at him. Holland scrambles to his feet, swallowing hard against the sudden dryness in his throat.

“Thank you,” he chuckles, aiming for cool self-assurance. “Pretty much did my job for me.”

Your mouth quirks—a flash of motion you quickly tame into a neutral politeness. You nod once.

“No problem, Mr. Holland.”

When his eyes slip again, down to the elegant curve of the smile you can’t quite tamp down, that’s it. He can’t look away, can hardly blink. His chest feels shrunken, thready little breaths whistling silently out of him. He tries, with every ounce of rapidly dwindling willpower in him to meet your eyes again, to stop gawking at your mouth like some sleazy asshole, but his body appears to have incited a mutiny against his brain, because his heart is hammering against his ribcage, his gaze fixed inexorably on your mouth.

“Jesus, sorry,” he manages, just barely succeeding in pressing his eyes shut, chuckling airily again. He rubs circles around his eyes, pinches crudely on the bridge of his nose. “I’m—I don’t know what…”

“It’s alright,” you hum, and despite your words you sound amused, almost mocking. Holland flushes even further. He senses you step closer, and keeps his eyes valiantly shut. When your hand curls smoothly around his wrist, however, they fly open on their own accord.

“I don’t even know your name,” he murmurs as you lower his arm from his face. “How old are you?”

Your eyebrows rise slightly, smile sharpening. 

“Don’t lie, I’ll know.”

“Alright, tough guy,” you laugh, a sound that thrums through him like a peal of thunder. “I’m twenty-five.”

“Oh, fuck.” His head sinks between his shoulders, hoping the subtle lighting masks the color that must be flooding his face. The magma-warm desire steadily rolling into his gut has begun to spill lower, tightening his flared slacks around the hips.

“What?” you hum, tone dipping teasingly. “That doing it for you?”

He chances a look up; your hooded eyes bore into him, open and undaunted—so bold with your want in the way one only is in their youth, and Holland is no senior citizen but he’s lived a dozen lifetimes since he was your age. He’s learned apprehension. Discretion. At least he thought he did.

You step closer, releasing his arm, only to regrip gently at his jaw.

“You ever been with a man, Mr. March?”

You’re getting cocky, he can tell. You don’t even know how old he is and yet, his reaction must have revealed it is not a trivial number. Emboldened only by his frustration, rather than answering you, he rushes forth, kissing the smug smile right off your face.

Your sharp inhale reveals your surprise, free hand flying up to his shoulder to steady yourself, but the other only tightens, pointedly angling his head and deepening the kiss. His own slide around the curve of your waist, settling at your lower and mid-back. From there, he pulls you in flush—and regrets it upon realizing you can probably feel him, already half-hard against you. He supposes the satisfied hum you push into his mouth is a response to that; he burns.

Releasing his jaw, you reach over to sink your fingers into his hair and catch them in a stern grip. Holland hisses at the lovely little pinpricks of pain it summons, and bucks automatically against your groin, where he feels you beginning to stiffen up, too. 

You regrip abruptly, from his shoulder to his hip, and hold him steady in order to repeat the motion, grinding shamelessly against him. A pitiful little hum emerges from his chest when your hands withdraw entirely—though it’s only for a second, before they splay across his waist, his stomach, smoothing up then to push his jacket off his shoulders. Spacey with want, Holland blinks at you, lets you strip it off, hardly registering the delighted sound you make when you feel the shape of his pack of smokes in the pocket and whip it out. You pluck one out and hold it between your lips while you search for a lighter. Once retrieved, you toss the jacket onto the table, and without looking up plant one palm to his chest and shove him down onto the sofa.

“On your back,” you mumble around the cigarette, instinctively cupping the flame to light it. Holland moves off the backrest, swinging his feet up to lie across the cool leather. You pause, then, driving one knee into the cushion by his hip, taking a long, thoughtful drag of the cig, and then gesture silently at his shirt. He doesn’t need to be told twice; immediately he reaches for his tie and damn near rips it off. From there, he moves to the uppermost button, undoing it swiftly and fumbling for the rest.

He’s fully hard by the time he shucks it off, left shirtless and flushed under your cool scrutiny. Something gleams in your eye, though, something hungry and satisfied, and then you’re moving, straddling his thighs. The bright end of the cigarette bounces slightly between your lips as you shuck your belt off, then his, and yank open his fly.

“God, you’re easy,” you comment offhandedly, dragging your knuckles down the shape of his length through his briefs, at the end of which a puny spot of precum has bled through the material. Holland’s whole body quivers, biting down on the wobbly groan that slips out of him. In a rare show of kindness, you offer the pressure of your palm, pressed firmly against him, but it soon hits him that, with your weight perched on his upper thighs, attempting to grind up into it is futile. He writhes, hips pivoting side to side in a desperate search for friction, the ineffectiveness of his struggle only making him harder. Needier.

You chuckle, airy and light, and pluck the cig from your lips. You turn it over and let your hand descend to his mouth, where his head flies off the leather to take a much-needed drag. As you observe, he notes the thinly-veiled lust that darkens your gaze, sucking in a hitching breath.

As you pull it away, your other hand slides higher, sinking two fingers into the elastic of his briefs. Ash plummets onto the floor beside you, but you only watch him as he steadily exhales, smoke clouding in the space between you. Your eyes sweep his bare, heaving chest, and after returning the cigarette to your mouth you reach down, drag a blunt nail over his nipple. Holland gives a strangled grunt, involuntarily arching into the contact, hyperaware of both it and your second hand, slowly easing his briefs down, just enough to free his cock.

“No fair,” he grits out, panting. You tilt your head in question. “You take something off now.”

Your grin turns wicked, circling the stiffened pebble of his nipple a few times before leaving it entirely.

“You’re cute,” you say dismissively. Holland can’t help but feel patronized. He squeezes the outer flesh of your thighs, letting his head fall back in defeat. At the sound of a zipper opening, however, he’s quick to perk back up. You offer him the cigarette again, only to use both of your hands to push your jeans a bit down your hips, readjusting so you’re lying on top of him, knees bracketing his on either side. Your underwear follows shortly thereafter, but Holland’s view is mournfully blocked when you duck your head to mouth at his chest. Your teeth graze his collarbone down its sharp length, pausing at the inner end to bite down, and then latch your lips over it, sucking leisurely.

“Oh, Jesus,” he breathes to the ceiling, choking on his inhale and, in a frustrated impulse, tosses the cig onto the floor. He grips your shoulders, your neck, the back of your head, hands flighty and restless, wanting to feel every inch of you as you pinch his skin between your teeth and roll it sharply. Holland muffles a humiliating whine into his fist, bucking up into your hip. He can feel the weight of your own cock against his stomach, hot and hard.

“Shit, shit—come on, c’mon, can you—” he cuts himself off, not entirely sure what he’s asking for, other than get me off or else I’ll blow my load like a horny teenager.

You shush him, planting a wet kiss to his sternum before drifting back up to eye-level. You frown.

“Where’s the cig?”

Holland looks down. Quietly mumbles, “dropped it.”

You peer over the edge of the sofa and click your tongue. Your eyes dart to him, then to his mouth. Before he knows it, three of your fingers are bullying past his lips, coaxing his jaw open.

He’s already sucking them down by the time you murmur the order. A ripple of motion catches your eyebrows, and then you smirk, pressing down on the back of his tongue, drool gathering around the digits.

“Second nature, huh?”

Holland flushes, ears burning. He shuts his eyes and sucks harder.

For a minute, he floats through the haze of his bliss, lost in the simple task of sucking your fingers down to the base, gag reflex be damned. Maybe all those years of vigorously trying to scrub the bitter taste of hangovers off his tongue proved more beneficial than he thought.

Your thumb, in the meantime, traces his chin encouragingly, scratching gently over the stubble in a way that makes his chest loosen, push out a long, low hum—almost a purr.

“And here I thought you’d be too green to take them,” you say after another brief lull, anchoring your thumb by the corner of his mouth to slowly pull your fingers free. Holland’s eyes crack open, brows knitting slightly with the loss. A string of spit connects your middle finger to his lower lip for a long moment, stretching and sagging as you bring your hand down between your bodies. When it snaps, Holland shudders as it lands, cold, against his chest and chin.

Both of you peer down at your cocks, hard, neglected, and his own sitting in a mortifying pool of precum, one that gets a groan out of you when you notice it.

“Jesus, you’re soaked.”

Tonight is quite the educational night, Holland is quickly learning, as the simmer of humiliation under his skin rolls into arousal, and coaxes yet another drop to surge out of his slit.

You wrap your fingers around your own dick, slick with his drool—the image makes him squirm—and drop a groan into his shoulder at the sensation. Again, his view is blocked, but the sounds of your low, muffled moans against his skin and the softer ones of you working yourself over paint a clear picture. Holland’s fingers curl into your back, writhing, fucking up into empty air. A choked whine weasels its way up his throat, not knowing whether he wants more to get off or watch you touch yourself. 

“Alright, alright,” you pant, and within seconds Holland feels your fingers wrap around him, and the weight of your cock press against his own. 

Immediately, he’s thrusting up into your right fist, chasing after the swift pace you quickly set. His toes curl in his shoes, all that static amassed under his skin rushing down into his cock, and from there bursting outward in bright flares of pleasure. He clings to you, seeking an anchor point in your warm, breathing, blanketing body, curled fiercely over him. He feels, suddenly, very small—like something so intuitive and uncomplicated it could be pulled apart and pieced back together without issue. And that’s what you’re doing: prying him open, extracting piece by delicate piece with attentive certainty, despite the severity of your teeth bearing down on his skin and the near cruel amusement in your tone.

You tighten your grip around the heads, thumb gliding firmly over his slit, gathering more precum, and the blinding flare that whizzes through him could put fireworks to shame. Whatever urges he might’ve previously had to shy away from your hot, weighted gaze are nowhere to be seen now, as you lift your head and watch his reactions; squeezing, twisting your wrist, grinding against him.

He’s getting loud, he knows—amdist the rumble of blood in his ears, the slick sounds of you both sliding against each other, he can catch his wanton moans, his shattered grunts and whiny bleats.

“Shhh, you want us to get caught, March?” you murmur, dropping your weight to an elbow in order to seal a palm over his open mouth. After a moment, the glint in your blown pupils turns knowing, almost chastising. “Unless you want that? For someone to find us? To see you like this?”

Holland makes a sound shamefully reminiscent of a sob, muted against your palm. His head twists, not trying to displace the muzzle of your hand but unable to resist the animalistic urge to writhe and thrash. Despite the sweat across your brow, the uneven jumping of your breathing, you look terribly composed compared to him.

“Well, we can’t have that. I want you all to myself tonight, okay?”

Holland moans in response, realizing his teeth had captured a bit of your skin in a gentle pinch, just to hold something. You pull your hand away, wiping spit off on his cheek, and lean over, torso straining off the sofa. He watches your free arm extend toward the table, pausing your motions over your cocks for a moment, and when you return, it’s bearing his tie.

“Open,” you instruct, balling the tie up, and Holland’s understanding groan is promptly muffled halfway when it’s shoved into his mouth. The material instantly soaks up most of the spit in his mouth, making his tongue feel uncomfortably dry. He runs it in tiny circles against the bunched fabric in an attempt to salivate and rid himself of the sensation.

Your fist continues pumping, then, and now he’s far quieter—strangely soothed by the feeling of something in his mouth again.

He’ll analyze that later.

For now, your forearm presses against his bare shoulder, fingers tracing sweet, mindless shapes, occasionally brushing against the chain around his neck, the ring hanging off of it. You don’t ask, and Holland eases. Not that he could answer any questions at all at the moment, dead-wife-related or otherwise.

You lean down, kiss the stretched corner of his mouth, and tighten your grip between your bodies. The pit in his lower gut grows and grows, a simmering heat threatening to swallow him whole as the precipice makes itself known in the near horizon. He emits a long, wavering hum, hips rolling wildly, cock twitching and weeping another trickle of precum.

You say nothing, but seem to sense his oncoming orgasm, picking up the pace, squeezing his shoulder once. Holland’s eyes burn with the sheer force of his mounting release, not having realized how close he was until he’s almost reached it, pulse throbbing against his breastbone, surely visible in his sweat-sticky chest. He breathes in, sharp and forceful through his nose, trying to keep his eyes open as they grow leaden.

It only takes one more squeeze of your deft fingers, one more press of your thumb to his tip before he’s coming, whining long and low through his tie—heat erupting from his groin and barreling through him in a tingling tidal wave of pleasure. It has his legs drawing up on a reflex, thighs knocking against your ass, neck straining back against the leather cushion as the sound dies out on the material and gives way to silent bliss.

The seemingly endless ropes of cum his pulsing cock offers makes the continued slide of your fist all the smoother. You work him through it, though the pace hastens, grows sloppy and erratic, and when he pries his eyes open, blinking through the mistiness, watches your face contort beautifully around your own release, uttering a fractured sound into the air.

Your hips roll steadily with each wave, and the feeling of your load landing across his stomach, over the mess of his own gets another pitiful mewl out of him, head lolling to the side. Your hand catches his jaw, abandoning his shoulder, and with a deep sigh you release both of your dicks.

First, you sit up, towering over him on your knees while you tuck yourself back into your jeans. Then, you repeat the gesture for him, and finally pry the tie out of his mouth. 

“Hope this wasn’t your favorite tie,” you say, finding a somewhat dry edge to wipe your hand and his stomach clean.

He grunts, smacking his tongue against the roof of his mouth.

You lightly pat his flank once, before getting to your feet. The tie falls with a wet smack to the floor, by the half-smoked cigarette.

“You planning on getting dressed, or I gotta do it for you?”

Holland grunts again, and scrapes up his voice. “Give me a minute, Jesus.”

You snort, finding your discarded belt and beginning to work it through the loops of your jeans. “One good orgasm’s got you incapacitated, old man?”

“Don’t,” he bites, but the rawness of his voice kills any attempt at sternness, “...call me that.” He watches your fingers smoothly buckle the belt, fingers that were moments ago effortlessly plucking away at all his seams, unfurling him.

“I need a drink,” you announce, settling your hands on your hips. “You?”

Holland pulls in a Herculean breath, and pushes himself up to his elbows. He shakes his head with great defeat—oh, the burden of having responsibilities. He checks his watch; he still has to meet up at home with Healy to debrief.

“No, I should… probably get going.”

“Oh, right. The case, and all.”

He grunts, again.

“Well, I had fun,” you say, turning back to the table and fumbling for his jacket. For a moment, he expects you to pull out another cigarette, but with a hum of triumph you whip out his wallet, and he stiffens. You pay him no mind as you begin rifling through it.

“...Please don’t rob me.”

“Here it is,” you chirp after a beat, whipping out one of his business cards. Holland sinks, sighing shallowly. You scan it briefly, then tuck it into your back pocket, grinning. Then, you lean down, grab his face between both hands, and plant a long, wet kiss to his mouth. “I’ll see you around, Sherlock.”

[ravcnism]

OKAY, RECIEVED. — RYLAND GRACE x Male!READER

SUMMARY: A night-shift doctor and a microbiologist are matched on a dating app not knowing their lives are already intertwined.

# # TAGS: Chatfic, Epistolary, Emails, Text Messages, Transcripts, Single Dad!Reader, ER Doctor!Reader, Teacher!Ryland Grace, Miscommunication, You've Got Mail Type Beat, Romcom-ish, Marissa is Mentioned

## WARNINGS: Minor Suggestive Themes, Canon-Typical Dread, No Beta The Formatting Was Driving Me Nuts, Please Pretend You Like Batman If You Didn't Already

NOTES: I had an insane amount of fun writing this. I ADORE EPISTOLARIES. Don't you just love media that makes you feel like you're in other people's business? No background is specified as to why the reader is a single father. The reader's daughter is unnamed, but nicknamed 'Birdie'. No use of Y/N, no specification of reader's height nor form. 3.k words.

Thursday, 8:54 PM

PetriParker:

Hello Sorry, I'm a bit confused I was scrolling, then this chat box popped up

B4tman_26:

I think it's because we 'matched'.

PetriParker:

Ohh How does one 'match'?

B4tman_26:

From my understanding, you swiped on my profile and I swiped on yours. Saw something we both liked, apparently.

PetriParker:

Ohh

B4tman_26:

Yes.

PetriParker:

Sorry I make it obvious that I don't use these apps, don't I?

B4tman_26:

That's alright. I don't use them either.

PetriParker:

My friend Marissa set this up for me

B4tman_26:

Does she also think you need to be 'putting yourself out there' more?

PetriParker:

Haha. Exactly!

B4tman_26:

My daughter feels the same.

PetriParker:

Oh, you have a daughter

B4tman_26:

Yes, I thought I'd get that out of the way. Wouldn't want any surprises.

PetriParker:

Haha, yeah.

Thursday, 10:42 PM

[ PetriParker is typing... ]

PetriParker:

So, Batman?

B4tman_26:

Yes? Are you a fan?

PetriParker:

Hmm No, he's okay I'm not really into DC

B4tman_26:

I thought so, Petri Parker.

PetriParker:

Haha. Clever, right?

B4tman_26:

Petri, as in petri dishes? You work in a lab?

PetriParker:

Yes Well, I did, but not anymore I'm a microbiologist

B4tman_26:

Impressive.

PetriParker:

And you? What do you do?

B4tman_26:

I'm an ER doctor. I work the night shift.

PetriParker:

Woah. Very cool And intense Ohh Batman, because you work nights

B4tman_26:

You got it.

PetriParker:

Haha. I like that I'm actually a bit surprised that you matched with me. I didn't think anyone would be interested because I don't have a picture of myself on my profile

B4tman_26:

I don't have a picture on mine, either. And I thought me having a daughter would throw you off. Yet here we are.

PetriParker:

Yet here we are

B4tman_26:

Why'd you swipe?

PetriParker:

Well, I didn't see your face But one of your pictures was the best-looking casserole I have ever seen in my entire life

B4tman_26:

Are you a homecook yourself?

PetriParker:

The opposite, really I kinda suck But I'm willing to learn Why'd you swipe on me?

B4tman_26:

The beach in one of your photos looked familiar.

PetriParker:

Woah. Really?

B4tman_26:

Really. It looked like Baker Beach.

PetriParker:

No way! It is!

B4tman_26:

Baker Beach in Cali?

PetriParker:

Yes!

B4tman_26:

Small world.

PetriParker:

Are you from the Bay Area?

B4tman_26:

Around there, yeah.

PetriParker:

Veeeryy small world.

Friday, 5:42 AM New message from: Birdie 🪶

Birdie 🪶:

warmest greetings, father

You:

Morning, sweetheart.

You're up early. Something on fire?

Birdie 🪶:

no we're all good for now i just wanted to ask you if you could pick up some eggs before you get home

You:

We're out already?

Birdie 🪶:

yes i was baking last night

You:

What'd you make?

Birdie 🪶:

just some cupcakes

oh and pls don't forget that you have that PTA meeting today

You:

Ugh.

Birdie 🪶:

YOU HAVE TO GO you've missed so many of those already

and mr. grace wants to talk to you

You:

Why? You're in trouble?

Birdie 🪶:

no im not!

he just wants to talk to you so he can tell u how much of a cool and intelligent student i am

also because i was recruited into the academic decathlon team. i'm representing the science department

You:

Holy moly, really? That's freakin awesome.

I'm so proud of you!

Birdie 🪶:

thank you please refrain from saying holy moly or freakin

You:

Which one's the teacher that needs to talk to me?

Birdie 🪶:

mr. grace he's the science teacher

he has to talk to you because of permission slips and stuff like that i think

You:

Which teacher is that again?

Birdie 🪶:

the one with the glasses

You:

Not ringing any bells.

Plenty of your teachers have glasses

Birdie 🪶:

uhhh

OH OH remember like, two months ago during the bake sale he tripped over some boxes and stuff and you caught him in your arms and the whole school was talking about it for weeks?

You:

Oh That Mr. Grace

Birdie 🪶:

yes

You:

He's kinda cute, isn't he?

Birdie 🪶:

WHATTTT

You:

I'm just teasing. I won't miss the PTA.

Love you, Bird. Be home in an hour.

Birdie 🪶:

love you too don't forget eggs!

WAIT DAD DAD DAD DAD

You:

What happened??

Birdie 🪶:

did you get any luck from that dating app i set up for you

You:

Young lady, that is classified information.

Birdie 🪶:

what the heck!! i have the right to know i am your daughter also i made the account

You:

I matched with a guy named Nunya.

Birdie 🪶:

real mature

You:

Nunya business.

Birdie 🪶:

that's not how the joke works. i have to ask you who nunya is then you say nunya business but otherwise the joke DOESN'T work and you are just lame

You:

It's genuinely too early for this. Go away.

Birdie 🪶:

DONT FORGET THE EGGS

Friday, 6:32 PM Contact added: Mr. Grace

You:

Good evening, Mr. Grace. Sorry about the whole fiasco earlier.

Mr. Grace:

Hi, good evening! I'm glad my number works, haha

Oh, don't mention it It's totally fine. It wasn't yours or your daughter's fault at all

Parents can be quite competitive when it comes to their kids

You:

You can say that again.

Mr. Grace:

Either way, nothing they could've argued was going to make me change my mind

Abby is a bright girl, but your daughter is an exceptional student

I can't think of anyone more fitting to represent the science department on the academic team

You:

Science has always been an interest of hers.

Mr. Grace:

I could tell

I appreciate you contacting me It'll be easier for me to give you updates

The academic decathlon requires some time and training away from the school

You:

Of course. I don't mind. I trust you, Mr. Grace.

Mr. Grace:

I'm glad to hear it

You:

Still stuck in the PTA?

Mr. Grace:

Oh, yes. I'll be here all night

You:

All night? I thought the meeting ended at 6.

Mr. Grace:

It should

But some parents tend to show up still And if you're not available, they will be very angry at you

You:

How unfair.

Mr. Grace:

It is And above my pay grade

But at the end of the day, they just care about their kids At least they want to show up, you know? It's worse the other way around

You:

That's nice of you, Mr. Grace

Mr. Grace:

I should get going

I hope you get some rest yourself I'm glad we were able to speak today

You:

The pleasure's mine. Though I did have a few more questions about the training routine.

Mr. Grace:

Oh! By all means, please ask me anything

You:

I was hoping to ask you in person. My hands are a little too full for texting at the moment.

Would you mind if I stopped by tomorrow afternoon again? I'll be there to pick my daughter up.

[ typing... ]

Mr. Grace:

Yes, of course! Nno problem at all

Come by anytime You know where to find me I mean, you don't But I'll be in the faculty

You:

Alright. Do you drink coffee?

Mr. Grace:

I like

[ typing... ]

I like caramel macchiatos

You:

That's cute. ⓘ Not Delivered.

Have a good night, Mr. Grace

Mr. Grace:

Good night

Saturday, 7:32 PM 

PetriParker: 

What's for dinner? 

B4tman_26:  

Nothing special. Orange chicken. 

PetriParker: 

Oh wow  That looks really good  If that's nothing special I can't imagine what you'd cook for an occasion 

B4tman_26:  

And you?  Dinner? 

PetriParker: 

I spend an evening of champions Noodles and night time telenovelas 

B4tman_26:  

Sounds like my kinda’ night. 

PetriParker: 

Speaking of night, are you heading off to work?  Gotham isn't going to save itself 

B4tman_26:  

You're one to talk, Spider-man.  But yes. I'm heading off soon.  I eat dinner with my daughter before I start my shifts.  

PetriParker: 

That's nice 

B4tman_26: 

How was your day? 

PetriParker: 

Oh boy  Are we at the ‘how was your day’ part? 

B4tman_26: 

Awful, isn’t it? I bet you've got a whole roster of guys asking you how your day was.  I, a mere fish in your sea. 

PetriParker: 

Hey, I wouldn't say ‘roster’ You make it sound like I've got them coming left and right  That sounds wrong 

B4tman_26: 

So you have been talking to other men?  I thought I was special. 

PetriParker: 

Har-har. Very funny  This is a dating app, after all 

B4tman_26: 

You're right. Fair enough. That said, I've only had time for you.

PetriParker: 

I bet you say that to all the other guys

B4tman_26: 

I mean it. I'm a busy man. How was your day?

Saturday, 7:40 PM New message from: RYLAND

RYLAND:

I think I have a type

MARISSA:

Which is a miracle in and of itself I'm guessing the dating profile's working out alright?

RYLAND:

Yes

I mean I get one or two matches a night, but there's this one guy

MARISSA:

Send me a picture before you say anything else

RYLAND:

He doesn't have a picture on his profile

MARISSA:

What

Rookie mistake, Ry He probably works at a gas station

RYLAND:

No he doesn't! Also I don't have a picture on my profile either, so we're even

MARISSA:

Then are you here to tell me that your type in guys are the ones you can't see

RYLAND:

No Worse

[ typing... ]

I think I'm into single dads

MARISSA:

Oh my GOD Ryland I mean I knew you had issues but

???

RYLAND:

Okay, listen

I worded it wrong I don't like dads I think I just like that they're responsible?

MARISSA:

So you've been on that app looking for dads ??

RYLAND:

No! No it just so happens that the guy I matched with is a dad

And

I might be crushing on my kid's dad

MARISSA:

You're hopeless, Grace You've got TWO? Had fun at the PTA, did you??

RYLAND:

Hey it's not like I'm two-timing!

The other one's just a crush

MARISSA:

Jesus christ We're in our 30s We don't CRUSH on people anymore

Make a move for god's sake If he likes you, he likes you If he doesn't, NEXT

RYLAND:

I will NOT make a move on my student's father. That poor girl

But I have been flirting with the online guy if it's of any comfort

MARISSA:

It's not

But hey, at least you're out there Tell me how it goes

RYLAND:

Oh god

MARISSA:

What

RYLAND:

I just realized something

Is this one of those apps where guys chat and eventually hook up?

MARISSA:

That's how a lot of dating sites go, but it's not always the case

You scared he's gonna book you a hotel?

RYLAND:

I just Hadn't thought of it till now

MARISSA:

Relax, Ry He can't make you do anything you don't want to do

Now that I'm thinking about it, it's a good thing you didn't put your picture on there

Just have your fun, yeah? That's the beauty of being anonymous on the internet

Saturday, 11:21 PM

PetriParker: 

Can I ask you something?

B4tman_26: 

Still awake?

PetriParker: 

Yes Oh, sorry I forget you're on the clock

B4tman_26: 

It's okay, I can talk. What were you going to ask me?

PetriParker: 

It's about your work, actually What sort of doctor are you? I mean I know you're an ER doctor, but do you take specific cases?

B4tman_26: 

You don't really get to choose which cases to take when you're in emergency med. My job's to get people stable. I specialize in whatever comes my way. Why? Need a diagnosis?

PetriParker: 

No, just curious

B4tman_26: 

Got it. You're simply in an asking mood.

PetriParker: 

It's for the Daily Bugle

B4tman_26: 

What about you?

PetriParker: 

Me?

B4tman_26: 

Yeah, Mr. Microbiologist. What's your specialization?

PetriParker: 

Molecular Biology. But right now I'm a teacher.

B4tman_26: 

Like, a professor?

PetriParker: 

No, I teach middle school.

B4tman_26: 

Huh.

PetriParker: 

What?

B4tman_26: 

Nothing I just [ ... ] What are you doing teaching kids with a degree in molecular biology?

PetriParker: 

Felt like a higher calling, I guess

B4tman_26: 

I see.

Saturday, 11:30 PM New message from: RYLAND

RYLAND:

Is it unattractive to be a middle school teacher???

MARISSA:

What??

RYLAND:

Is that a thing that throws guys off??

MARISSA:

Maybe you got him imagining Miss Frizzle Did you tell him you're a teacher?

RYLAND:

Yes! But I also told him I have a degree in molecular biology! Shouldn't that cancel out??

MARISSA:

Heck if I know, man

OH, tell him you have a doctorate. That'll get him back

RYLAND:

Should I?? I don't wanna sound like I'm bragging What if he thinks I'm trying to one-up him as a doctor?

MARISSA:

You might be overthinking this

RYLAND:

Mayb

WAIT HE SENT ME SOMETHING

Sunday, 12:01 AM

B4tman_26: 

PetriParker: 

Looks quiet over there

B4tman_26: 

Oh god. Now you've done it.

PetriParker: 

What?

B4tman_26: 

Don't you know you're not supposed to say that in an ER? It's like saying Macbeth at a play. You've jinxed it.

PetriParker: 

I'm sorry!

B4tman_26: 

It's on you, Parker. You're gonna owe me if my night goes bad.

PetriParker: 

Oh, gosh What ever will I owe you, Mr. Wayne?

B4tman_26: 

I'm yet to decide.

PetriParker: 

Seriously though, I hope nothing goes wrong I didn't mean to say that

B4tman_26: 

I know. Just wanted to scare you. What are you up to this late?

PetriParker: 

Paperwork None of which are due I just like to keep busy

B4tman_26: 

Looks like we're both relatively occupied, then.

PetriParker: 

Relatively Hey, you like Batman, right? Do you also like Superman?

B4tman_26: 

He's alright.

PetriParker: 

He's alright, he says, in true Batman fashion

B4tman_26: 

Batman fans are not famously Superman fans.

PetriParker: 

What would you say is your 'kryptonite'?

B4tman_26: 

Getting shot.

PetriParker: 

Huh???

B4tman_26: 

Kryptonite is the thing that kills Superman, right? I don't respond particularly well to bullets.

PetriParker: 

No, it's his weakness!

B4tman_26: 

Okay well my weakness is getting shot.

PetriParker: 

Quit it! You're teasing me

B4tman_26: 

What's your weakness, then?

PetriParker: 

Dads, apparently  ⓘ Message Not Sent. I dunno! I'm weak to a good jelly donut

B4tman_26: 

Lame answer.

PetriParker: 

How is that lamer than getting shot!

B4tman_26: 

What is the context of this 'weakness'? Like, is it a physical weakness? A mental weakness?

PetriParker: 

I don't know Maybe like Things that you like in people? Things that'll have you wrapped around someone's finger?

B4tman_26: 

Why didn't you just say that? Okay, I'll give you a real answer. Glasses.

PetriParker: 

Are Are you serious

B4tman_26: 

Yeah. Guys with glasses. Super cute.

PetriParker: 

Hahaha

B4tman_26: 

You?

PetriParker: 

Guys who like Batman...

B4tman_26: 

Do I have news for you.

Sunday, 1:34 AM

PetriParker:

Hey

B4tman_26: 

Still awake?

PetriParker: 

Sorry Are you busy?

B4tman_26: 

No. But you should be asleep.

PetriParker: 

I can't sleep No school tomorrow, anyway

B4tman_26: 

I'll keep you company, then.

PetriParker: 

My hero. [ ... ] You know about the Petrova Problem, right?

B4tman_26: 

Pretty sure everyone does. Why?

PetriParker: 

I don't know I'm just thinking about it tonight

B4tman_26: 

Is it making you anxious?

PetriParker: 

I think it makes everyone anxious Still, does it ever feel weird that the world is just moving on? I mean, the apocalypse was announced and everyone's just going about their days

B4tman_26: 

I know what you mean. The danger isn't imminent, so people aren't losing their heads I suppose. Everyone trusts that a solution will appear.

PetriParker: 

Do you?

B4tman_26: 

Trust in a solution? Yes. I have to. One way or another, it'll turn up.

PetriParker: 

Faith in humanity and all that?

B4tman_26: 

Yeah. Exactly.

Monday, 8:41 AM

From: Petrova Taskforce Personnel Division Subject: Confidential Personnel Assessment [email protected]

Dr. ▇▇▇, ▇▇▇,

Your professional experience and prior research history have been identified as relevant to an ongoing international initiative. 

Our records indicate your participation in multiple research programs concerning human physiological resilience, including co-authorship on NASA-affiliated studies. Specifically, your contributions to the publication “Effects of Prolonged Circadian Misalignment on Cognition in Simulated Spaceflight Conditions” and supporting data analysis for simulated isolation environments (HAB-3 Cognitive Retention Trial) demonstrate direct relevance to current mission-critical human performance modeling.

Additional involvement is noted in data collection for the ▇▇▇▇ Habitat Study on sleep fragmentation and cognitive task retention. In light of recent developments, these experiences warrant further evaluation. 

You are requested to attend a consultation with representatives of the Petrova Taskforce.

Date: ▇▇▇▇ Time: ▇▇▇ Location: ▇▇▇▇

Transportation arrangements will be provided upon confirmation of attendance.

Please note that details regarding the nature of this consultation cannot be disclosed through unsecured communication. A representative will contact you directly within twelve hours.

We strongly encourage your participation. 

Respectfully,

Personnel Selection Committee Petrova Taskforce

PETROVA TASKFORCE  ARCHIVAL TRANSCRIPT

FILE ID: PT-CALL-00091 CLASSIFICATION: LEVEL 2

DATE: ▇▇▇▇ TIME: 07:02 AM, PST PARTICIPANTS: Eva Stratt — Director, Petrova Taskforce | Dr. ▇▇▇ ▇▇▇ — Emergency Medicine, Attending Physician

TRANSCRIPT BEGINS

0:02⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:    ⠀⠀⠀⠀Hello.

0:03⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Dr. ▇▇.

0:05⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Speaking.

0:06⠀⠀‎STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀This is Eva Stratt.

0:07⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Hello, Eva Stratt. No, I am not interested in selling my property at the moment. I keep telling my daughter to unlist our number from your site but she keeps forgetting to do it. Kids these days, am I right?

0:11⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor.

0:11⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀And if you're not here to ask me to sell my property, then no, I am not interested in purchasing any of your products. Actually—unless you're selling washing machines. Mine just broke and I could use a new —

0:15⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor, I'm with the Petrova Taskforce. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I am not here to buy or sell you anything.

0:15⠀⠀[ SILENCE. ]

0:17⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Oh.

0:17⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You are a very difficult man to reach.

0:18⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I have a busy schedule.

0:18⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Not at the moment though, yes? ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You've just finished your shift.

0:20⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I don't like that you know that.

0:21⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Let me reintroduce myself. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀My name is Eva Stratt, I am the Head of the Petrova Taskforce and I am calling you regarding a certain offer you've declined.

0:25⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀If you already know I've declined, why are you calling?

0:26⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I thought I might try to convince you. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Change your mind.

0:28⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ BACKGROUND NOISE. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀SCREEN DOOR OPENING, ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀DOGS BARKING IN THE DISTANCE. ]

0:30⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor?

0:32⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Look, I've had this conversation before. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I've already spoken to one of your representatives. I attended the briefing, I read the files. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I am not interested, Miss Stratt.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ BACKGROUND NOISE: ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀DISTANT METALLIC TAPPING.]

0:36⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I must confess something to you. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I didn't call to change your mind.

0:38⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ LAUGHTER. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀No?

0:39⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀No. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I called to help you understand the urgency of the situation; and why what will be done, must be done.

0:41⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Birdie. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Get down from there —

0:42⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Your offer is no longer an offer and is now a mandate. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀It is crucial that you comply.

0:44⠀⠀[ FEMALE VOICE IN ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀THE BACKGROUND.]

0:45⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I don't care if it's almost fixed. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀We'll call the cable guy. Get off the roof.

0:46⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ SIGH. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor?

0:50⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Sorry — yes, I'm here.

0:51⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Is that your daughter?

0:55⠀⠀[ SHUFFLING. ]

0:56⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Yes. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Get inside. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I know, baby. I'll make breakfast. I'm just taking a call, alright? What do you want? Pancakes? Okay. Head upstairs for a bit, get your things ready.

1:01⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Do you love your daughter, Dr. ▇▇?

1:02⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀What?

1:03⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Your daughter. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Do you love her?

1:04⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀What kind of question is that.

1:05⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You know what it is that we do.  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You know what the Taskforce is for. You know what we're trying to resolve.  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀To avoid. 

1:07⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I do.

1:08⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Then you understand the urgency of the matter — why I cannot settle for your refusal.

1:00⠀⠀[ SILENCE. ]

1:13⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ SIGH. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I can't be the only person qualified to do this.

1:14⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You're not.  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You are among a team of ten physicians.  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀All of whom will oversee medical protocol for astronaut training, including pharmacological management and physiological maintenance for long-duration transit.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀We need to make sure our astronauts can make the trip in comas. Your research covers a good portion of this. The way I see it, you have what we need to get started.

1:21⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀That's ten physicians. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I say no, you've got nine more to spare. 

1:23⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀No. Redundancy exists for failure tolerance. I need an efficient team and I do not have time for setbacks.

1:30⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ STOVE TURNING ON. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ BRIEF STATIC. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ RADIO IN THE BACKGROUND. ]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Well, I've got a problem, Miss Stratt. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Two, it seems.

1:34⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Do tell.

1:38⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The first one is I'm out of butter. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The second is that I am my daughter's only parent. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I do not have any immediate family that I can entrust her with. And I’m not leaving her with a rota schedule of babysitters while I disappear into Timbuktu.

1:41⠀⠀[ POTS AND PANS SHUFFLING. ]

1:56⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Joining the taskforce requires me to semi-permanently reside in the headquarters, correct?

1:58⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Correct.

1:59⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Which is, from my understanding, a government facility the middle of the ocean.

2:02⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀As a countermeasure, yes.

2:05⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Then I can't do it.

2:08⠀⠀[ SILENCE. ]

2:10⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀So we compromise.

2:10⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Miss Stratt—

2:11⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Option one: she remains in San Francisco under full state supervision, including education, housing, and guardianship provisions. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Option two: she accompanies you under taskforce protection and receives equivalent care within parameters.

2:21⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ LAUGHTER. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You've gotta' be kidding me.

2:22⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I am not much for jokes.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Take the girl to the ship or leave her at home.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀She will live either way. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The only circumstance where she will not is if you do nothing and aid in the end of the world. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Her world.

2:30⠀⠀[ SIZZLING. ]

2:31⠀⠀[ FEMALE VOICE IN ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀THE BACKGROUND: ]

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Dad, I can't find my shoe!

2:33⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Make a decision. ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Or we will make one for you.

⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Regardless of your choice, you are joining the Taskforce, Dr. ▇▇.

2:39⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ SHUFFLING. ] ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Did you check under the couch?

2:40⠀⠀STRATT:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Expect to hear from me again in twelve hours.

2:44⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:  ⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Miss Stratt—

CALL TERMINATED.

TRANSCRIPT END.

[thousandheartstender]

hey i love ur work!!

was wondering if you’d be willing to write something with ryland grace? i’m a sucker for angst + smut and u write both so well 🙂‍↕️ maybe some post-breakup sex, or an established fwb situation where they’re trying (and failing) to break it off? idk just spitballing, no worries if not :-)

ahhh!!! i'm very down, you're my first ryland grace req!! how do we feel about divorced ex's in the midst of trying to break off a weird fwb at the beginning of the probable end of times? because that's where your request took me

i'm glad you enjoy my writing/how i write angst is affective for you be i always worry about that coming across. and i hope it comes across here too - if not let me know, i take no issue with taking another stab at this! enjoy!

also i had a specific idea for a banner, so i made one - idk if i like it enough that i'll make a habit of it.

the weight of us

ryland grace x masc reader

cw: angst, sex (m/m, brief), unresolved requited feelings, pre-launch, slight spoilers for the book (a specific convo that happens in chp 1), abrupt ending (again, sorry, im bad at them)

taglist: @not-so-normal-wh0re

want to be tagged?

you never asked for the key back.

despite the heated words or snippy comments grace is usually greeted with, you never really thought to ask for it back. not until recently.

feels inconsequential now. grace will find himself himself back in your house, pouting and pathetic. looking for comfort in you. in the house he also called home for the better part of decade.

or he won't.

there's only nine, maybe ten hours left until it's announced. maybe less. you haven't bothered keeping track. you'll know when it's real in a way that holds weight. your phone will go off, flooded with emails and texts. from work, from loved ones. and then this will be real in a way that takes away all the weight held by that key. those packets you served him not too long after you separated. the litany of papercuts against your relationship that came before.

you're never surprised to hear ryland around the house. and you aren't surprised to hear him stepping out to your backyard, now. you just tip the bottle in your hand up to your lips, only about half ready for whatever trouble he wants you for. ready to endure the listening part, because that's about all you can give.

closing the sliding door behind him, trying to temper the snapping of the door against the hinge, ryland notes, it's disceptively serene out here. dark and cool with two of those old lawn chairs he hasn't seen since you first moved into this house together. bottles scattered around the legs of your chair, most still have the caps on, two don't. the one tipped over, a few feet away, like you'd tossed it and the one in your hand. something ugly twists in his stomach seeing you drinking alone.

then you glance back at him from where you sit. seeing you, that look. glassy and solemn. there's some joke there, that ryland figured only he could bring that out in you. it's a bitter part of him. the part that never really accepted it when you presented him with that stack of papers that meant the end of your marriage. that look accompanied them, though.

he can't bring himself to make any snarky comments when he sees the lazy flick of your wrist. a half hearted offer for ryland to take the chair next to yours. it's the closest thing to an invitation you've extended to him since before those papers. he wishes it wasn't with a "do you think this is the end?"

and for the first time since he sat down with her a few hours ago, ryland knows what marissa said is real. he knew it then, when she said it. she's not the joking type, but the sun dying? losing luminance. whatever.

it's.

it's a little out there. feels like it should be. and there's a gravity to that knowing, one that was offset when she mentioned you. replaced by that lurch in his stomach at hearing your name. that you were working on this. one of the first in the u.s. to volunteer.

certainly sounds like you.

ryland should've won an award for not leaving then and there. for not coming home immediately.

he doesn't take the seat, steps closer though. just behind your chair, squeezing your shoulders because it's familiar. the gravity of knowing is starting to hit him. "marissa says 'hi'," is all he can think to say, trying not to stare down the bottle in your hand.

"no, she didn't."

no, she didn't.

if she had a message, she'd tell you herself. you see her more than grace does with their weekly dinners. though, it hadn't occurred to you until now that ryland's isn't here for some petty grievance you have to bare through.

you lift a bottle to him, he slips in out of your hand. sets it down instead of drinking it. "let's head in, you seem tired."

one of your free hands goes to his, squeezing back. "i think it is."

and there's nothing.

there's nothing to say to that.

not a thing ryland can come up with. nothing more than a kiss to your head, like he used to. ryland cringes into it after he's leaned down, too late to stop muscle memory from taking over. "come on"

part of him expects a fight. or at least a line about boundaries. how he can't do that shit anymore. same ones he hears when he comes over, needy and far too desperate to think of anything but your skin on his. that he shouldn't keep coming to you to comfort all the anxiety and dread. all the lows that seem to flood his life. that it's grace's fault.

the petty arguments that'll stay forever unresolved and the rough sex that takes the place of any resolution. the late calls that used to feel so heavy, the simple questions about health. if he got that thing on his back checked out. if you've talked to anyone about that weird cough that started a few months ago. vague inquiries about work neither of you cared to answer (your vagueness leaves a pit in his stomach to think about now). and the awkward silences broken up by little details about friends or family or the news. that used to be the longest you'd talk to him. it was everything to grace.

still is.

he hangs onto those conversations, as infrequent as they are, as much as he can. sates some masochistic need in him.

that's all you and him are and grace knows that's his fault.

another part of him almost expects one of those lascivious thoughts shared from a flirty smile. always made him flush something horrible. encouraged something sadistic in you. back when you were that young outrageous couple. when he would've joined you without a second thought. when most monday mornings were spent waking up in the grass, hungover and still coming down from your highs together.

it doesn't come, this isn't like it used to be. you and him aren't like you used to be. you aren't twenty-something and tipsy on a work night.

there's just barely a nod. a quiet, "i wouldn't have," that ryland doesn't bother asking about. just hopes you catch yourself. that you don't continue that thought.

for a few moments you don't.

he pulls you to your feet, gets a step past the sliding door, into the kitchen before "if i had known, then-"

"but you didn't," he interrupts, "you couldn't. no one did."

there's another few moments. more than before. long quiet moments where it's easy guide you back to your room. not the master, not the one you used to share. that one's been locked, as good as exiled. you haven't been in there for about as long as ryland hasn't. you never told him that, but he's slept in your bed about as much as his own since the separation.

he brings you to the old guestroom that you haphazardly moved into. it's far too bare to feel like you really live in this room. that you exist in here. if he didn't tug you down this hallway, catching every half-assed complaint from your mouth in his more than a couple times a month, he wouldn't believe it.

"i wouldn't have made you leave, if i had-" you cut yourself off, suddenly. ryland doesn't have to look you, doesn't want to, either. he can hear it, he can hear you urging away the pressure behind your eyes. you've always been a little steadfast. the more resolute of the two. and selfishly, he doesn't want to see you like this. it's why he came, why he counted the seconds until that dinner was over. why he was quietly thankful when marissa called it early. and now that he's here, he can't face it. you.

your hands finding his is what does it. makes a glance last longer than he intended. you've always look so out of place in here.

now might be the first moment you don't. all those hushed words, "ryland." in your voice. there's that clinical sound that's always been there. it was there in grad school and it was there the day you went down to the courthouse, said those vows you both wrote, to a room of three. "stay the night."

it's there now. with something somber in it that makes your name drag out of his mouth, all too soft and pleading. ryland has never been strong-willed.

he'll never turn down that offer when it's from you. not when your skin is warm and ryland doesn't want to talk about any of this. not now, maybe not ever. not that it stops you. doesn't stop you from pulling him down into a kiss so plain. something without passion. with no energy behind it. something that's just a plea, as clear as his was. 'baby, please stay."

ryland's a very weak man.

a weak man that wakes up in your bed, reminiscing about how good your weight over him felt the night before. burning with shame over how much he's missed that, you, even in your more dysfunctional moments, you felt good. grinding into him, slow. deep. left him groaning out high and pathetic.

it shouldn't have been a thought in his mind, but he reveled in how earnest you fucked into him, how lethargic the pace is compared to what he's become accustomed to. loved being able to curl his legs around you, being able to savor how stretched taut around you he was, ryland's red. you've always liked him like that. it's never been hard for ryland to get more than a little rosy. your gentle graze over ruddy skin used to ease some of the shame that accompanied his blush. not now, though. there was the trace of your fingers down the lines of his face before you pulled him down. before any heat was pressed to that begging kiss.

ryland mimicked that. hands rested on your face, trying to sooth tension from it. it was the only thing that kept you from hiding away, from mourning along the flush along his collar bone. glossy eyes make him second guess if trying to hold your attention, to pull it towards himself is as much a mercy as he means.

your "i still love you," wasn't, you know that. but it was sincere. real.

that kiss that followed was too.

it was as much as an 'i love you,' as he could muster. it was a 'please don't say anymore,' too. you seemed to catch on that time, content to follow ryland's quiet lead. commands expressed in squeezes and gasps. in groans against your lips.

and for a moment, there was some peace. a thinly veiled and hiding tension, but a peace nontheless.

it's not one that lasts through the morning.

one that grace can't direct you back to when he wakes up to you more than half-dressed and rushing out the door, despite how badly you want to fall in line again. how badly you want to slip into old habits when your phone starts up. all those messages you knew would come, filled with problems and questions and hypothetical deadlines that only serve to confirm it's real. the sun, the petrova line. it's unavoidable and impossible. and real.

so he watches. watches you try to pull yourself together, watches you struggle through pretending not to notice he's awake.

there's so much to say. so much to explain. so little time and grace isn't wholly sure he wants to talk about any of it with you. it makes it easy to accept your awkward, "you have a key," before you leave.

directory | masterlist (current) ⇝ request

[ravcnism]

PERIAPSIS. ( PART 3 ) — RYLAND GRACE x Male!READER

SUMMARY: Murphy’s Law states that everything that can go wrong, will go wrong. Ryland Grace would like to have a word or two with Murphy.

# # TAGS: Semi-Canon-Adjacent, Longform, Male!Pilot Reader, Eventual Rocky (No Rocky Here Yet), Hurt-Comfort, Caretaking, Injury, Slowburn-ish, There's Only One Med Pod, Part 3 of ??

# # WARNINGS: Canon-typical Space Dread, Graphic Depictions of Pain and Injury, Broken Bones, Mechanical Surgery, Bordering on Medical Gore (?), Medical Trauma, Angst, Strong Language, Inaccurate Space Science, Not Beta Read

NOTES: Thank you thank you thank you! I have no words for all the love and support I've gotten. I am so very grateful. Like, WOW! As an apology for taking so long, this chapter is relatively chunky. I'm so glad you guys are enjoying this fic as much as I enjoy writing it. As always, thank you for your patience! 6.4k words.

PART ONE, PART TWO.

TAGLIST: @screechingphantommaker, @whoislio4

The outer hatch sealed behind you with a heavy thunk. The silence that came after was horrifying to Grace. He'd scrambled to get to the intercom, nearly missing the console as he rushed to a seat. He didn’t bother buckling himself in. He put his glasses on, eyes darting around the monitors as he searched for you on the ship's external feed. Eventually, he landed on a small moving figure on one of the panels. He gripped the console, leaning in. 

Telemetry scrolled down the right side of the screen. Suit pressure nominal, oxygen nominal, heart rate slightly elevated. Grace heard himself sigh in relief. “That’s comforting,” he muttered. “You’re only mildly terrified.” 

Your voice crackled through the comms. “I heard that.”

Grace nearly launched himself into the ceiling. “Jesus—!”

The tether uncoiled behind you in loops, its faint clinking traveling up the steel braid and vibrating into the chest plate of your suit. Beneath you, the hull of the Hail Mary stretched out like the white belly of some prehistoric deep-sea leviathan. Overhead, the infinite empty void of space yawned open.

Back in the control room, Grace’s eyes scrambled over the main console until they finally locked onto the small microphone. “Hello?” he said, quite frantically. “Cap, can you hear me? Hello? Copy?” 

You smiled behind the glass, though your brows furrowed at the obtrusive volume of Grace’s voice. You were using a handrail to orient yourself as you began the slow hand-over-hand crawl along the ship's spine. “I copy. But turn your mic down a notch, you're practically inside my skull.”

“Right! Sorry. Adjusting. Is that better?” 

“Much.” 

“Everything okay out there?” 

“You tell me, Doc. You’re the one on the screens.” Your laugh was accompanied by static. “S’just dark as far as the eye can see over here.” 

“Oh, god. Right. Okay.” You heard him shuffling across the panels. “Okay, everything looks normal. And there’s this radar here with a bunch of little green dots. None of them are near you. Well, there's one, but it's moving away. It’s moving very fast. Wow, space is terrible.” 

“You’re doing great.”

The damage to the Petrova scope's antenna array was exactly as the diagnostic had described. The primary bracket was sheared through, looking like torn foil. The relay coupling, which was the little yellow case's counterpart, was warped. Its ceramic housing cracked open to expose a nest of severed fiber-optic filaments that floated like tiny transparent hairs. 

“I’m onsite,” you reported, hooking your safety tether to the anchor point. “The bracket is compromised. I'm going to have to manually realign the housing before I can seat the new coupler. It's going to take some muscle. My telemetry might spike a bit; don't panic.”

“Copy that,” said Grace. You could hear him impatiently tapping against the console. “Hey, can I tell you something?” 

“Talk to me, Goose.” You unclipped the tool bag from your thigh and pulled out the pneumatic wrench. The work was tedious, frustratingly restricted by the pressurized bulk of your gloves. 

There was a brief crackle of static as Grace took a breath. “I’m terrified of heights.” 

A soft chuckle huffed out of you, echoing inside your helmet. “If it makes you feel any better, there’s no up and down out here. Technically, no such thing as ‘height’ either. There’s no floor to catch you and no floor to fall from. We’ve got a trillion miles of absolute nothing in every direction.” 

It took a while for him to respond. “You seriously thought that would make me feel better?” 

Every action required an equal and opposite reaction; if you turned the wrench too hard without anchoring your hips, your whole body would swing around the bolt like a pendulum. For five agonizing minutes, the only sounds were the rhythmic whir-snap of the tool, the steady hiss-click of your suit's oxygen regulators, and Grace's occasional, anxious updates.

“Debris field is clear,” he said. He’d begun chewing on a Twizzler that he’d found floating over the panels. “Hull pressure is rock solid... You've got a slight temperature spike in your left glove, is that normal?”

“Yeah. Friction from the wrench. Keep watching.”

“Copy.”

You pulled the cracked coupling free. It drifted away on a short wire lanyard until you clipped it to your tool belt, replacing it with the pristine, yellow-housed component Grace had retrieved for you. It slid into the slot with a gratifying mechanical clack.

“Coupler is seated,” you grunted, bracing your knees against the hull as you reached for the locking lever. “Engaging the primary seal now.” 

As you worked, the cause of the damage became clear. The tricky thing about traveling at the speed of light was that any loose debris you met had the calibre of a bullet. The ship's primary defense was its massive sacrificial bumper, designed to absorb the brutal kinetic energy of cosmic dust. But with the ship now in orbit, (or settling into orbit) there was hardly a need to be wary of such dangers. 

Unless of course, instead of the ship propelling towards the debris, the debris was coming at you. 

“Something’s wrong.” Grace sat up from his chair. “I’m getting alarms, Cap. Foreign objects detected? This wasn't here before. What the – Oh, god the green dots in the radar earlier — there’s a cluster of them now. Heading to you!” 

Your head snapped up. You didn't waste time looking at the void; you wouldn’t see projectiles traveling at kilometers per second until they were already tearing through you. “How long?” you barked, having already abandoned the wrench. 

It didn’t make sense to Grace. How was it coming so fast? How had Mary not seen it sooner? “Five seconds! Four—!” 

You unhooked your knees from the cleats and threw your weight downward. You tried to tuck your body behind the thick, reinforced structural rib of the Petrova scope's primary housing. It was the only substantial piece of shielding within arm's reach. You pulled yourself in, curling into a tight, desperate ball against the hull. But you were a fraction of a second too late. A soundless flurry of violence erupted around you. A spray of cosmic gravel shredded the space where you had just been floating. It didn't make a sound in the vacuum, but you felt it — a series of sharp, rhythmic thuds vibrating violently through the metal hull beneath your chest. Bright sparks danced across your visor as particles vaporized against the ship's skin.

Then came the impact.

A blinding spike of agony caught your trailing left arm. One of the larger fragments slammed directly into your sleeve. Your dutiful EVA suit refused to breach, and as a result, trapped the force into your forearm and shattered the bone under your skin. 

The strike spun you against your tether until your helmet snapped against the hull. You couldn’t tell if you were screaming. You were deaf to the world, hearing only the sharp singing of your broken arm. 

You gasped for air, spots dancing in your eyes. You clutched your shoulder and pulled your wrist toward your chest. The pain was a sickening, throbbing white-hot fire radiating towards your entire torso. You forced your eyes to focus on the flashing HUD data overlaying the dark void.

SUIT PRESSURE: 14.7 PSI (STABLE)

O2 SUPPLY: NOMINAL

INTEGRITY: 100%

The ringing in your ears gradually subsided. In its place, came Grace’s frantic calls. 

“Cap! Cap!” He was screaming into the microphone, his voice slightly distorted by the volume. “I lost your vitals — no, wait, your heart rate is at 180! The suit sensors — is there a breach? Tell me there's no breach. Talk to me!”

The multi-layered Kevlar and reinforced polymer weave of the sleeve had held, absorbing the brunt of the hit without puncturing. But the sheer force of the impact had transferred straight through the insulation.  

“No… no breach,” you squeezed through gritted teeth. You pressed your forehead against your visor, sweating profusely. “Suit’s… suit’s whole, Grace.” 

Grace didn’t realize he was already crying. He angrily wiped his tears away with his fist. Now was not the time. “Okay.” He sniffled. “Okay. Come back. Forget the antenna, come back now.” 

“My arm,” you groaned. A choked sound escaped your throat as the throbbing intensified. Inside the rigid, heavy suit, you tried to move your hand and immediately regretted it as a fresh wave of agony made your stomach churn. “My arm's broken. I can’t move it.” 

Grace paled. 

It took everything in you not to vomit. In zero gravity, a broken arm wasn’t a weight-bearing problem, but a physics problem. Every time you hauled your weight forward with your single good hand, the lack of a counter-stabilizing grip sent your lower body swinging. You kept your injury as close to your body as possible, but the shattered bones under your skin felt as though they were grinding together with sickening, wet friction. You had to time each pull, slowly dragging yourself along the handrails, knowing that one missed grip meant hurtling into the void.

“I see you.” Grace’s trembling voice snapped you out of the haze. “I-I see you, Cap. You’re doing great. You’re past the thrusters. Just six meters to the airlock.” He was lying. It was eight meters. But he needed the distance to be shorter, if only to keep his own lungs from seizing up. He felt completely and utterly useless.

“Tell me… tell me about the radar,” you panted, your voice cracking as you reached for the next magnetic cleat. You needed a distraction. You needed him to talk. “Any—Any more debris?” 

Grace snapped his eyes to the screens. He blinked back the tears that blurred his vision. “No. Nothing. It’s clear. You’re safe, I promise.” 

“Good.” You laughed weakly. “Because I don’t think I have another dodge in me, Doc.” 

“Don’t talk, just focus on the rails,” Grace pleaded. His breath shuddered. “You’re almost there. Just come inside. Please, just come inside.” 

When you got closer towards re-entry, Grace abandoned his station and rushed to the nodes to get you. 

The internal airlock door hadn’t finished its depressurization but Grace was already throwing it open. The sudden rush of cabin air swirled around your helmet. You barely registered it. You were slumped against the bulkhead, your right hand locked onto an emergency handle in a death grip while your left arm hung weightless.

​“Oh my god, oh my god, I’ve got you,” Grace lunged into the airlock, his hands trembling so violently he could barely get a purchase on your suit’s latches.

​He didn't bother with the full decompression protocol. With a frantic grunt, he popped the seals on your helmet and yanked it free. The sudden rush of cool, recycled ship air hit your sweat-drenched face, but the relief was instantly swallowed by a wave of vertigo. The cabin was spinning.

​“Can you talk? A-Are you going to pass out?” Grace’s face was inches from yours, his eyes wide and panicked behind his crooked glasses.

​“Don't… don't touch the left sleeve,” you wheezed, your voice a ragged whisper. Every breath felt like inhaling glass. “Just get me… out of the suit.”

​“Right. Okay. Carefully. We’re going carefully.”

​It was anything but careful. In microgravity, maneuvering a dead-weight human body out of a rigid multi-layered EVA suit was an Olympic sport. Doing it while trying not to jostle a shattered forearm was competing in the finals. Grace worked like a man possessed, unclipping the torso restraints and peeling the heavy material down past your hips, steering entirely clear of your left side.

​When your left arm finally slid free of the inner lining, a sharp, ragged gasp tore from your throat. Without the stiff structure of the suit to hold it, the arm deformed — bending at a sickening, unnatural angle between the wrist and the elbow.

​Grace let out a small, horrified squeak, the blood draining from his face. “Oh, Jesus. Okay. Don't look at it. Just look at me.”

​He grabbed your right hand and draped your good arm over his shoulders, anchoring his arm around your waist to keep you from drifting. “We need to get to the lab. The med bay. Hold onto me, okay? Just hold on.”

​The journey through the narrow, cylindrical corridors of the Hail Mary was an exercise in pain. Without gravity to keep you grounded, every movement required momentum. Every shift was an enemy. Grace used his free hand to pull both of your masses along the guide rails, but he wasn’t a trained astronaut; his movements were jerky and frantic.

​With every forward lurch, your lower body drifted, and the momentum transmitted straight up your torso to your dangling left arm. The shattered ends of your bones shifted and ground against each other inside your swollen skin.

​“Wait—Grace, stop, stop,” you choked out, your eyes squeezing shut as a violent wave of nausea hit you. Your stomach convulsed, and you had to swallow down the bitter taste of bile. If you vomited in zero gravity now, you’d choke on it.

​“Stopping! I’m stopping!” Grace slammed his hand onto a handrail, bringing both of you to a sudden, jarring halt.

​The abrupt deceleration sent a searing shock of lightning straight up your arm and into your brain. Your vision completely blew out into a roaring haze of grey static. You felt your knees buckle into the empty air, your chin dropping against Grace’s shoulder as you shivered from deep, systemic shock.

​“Hey, hey! Stay with me!” Grace’s voice sounded like it was underwater, echoing from the end of a long tunnel. He was panicking, his grip tightening around your waist as he began hauling you forward again, much faster now, his breaths coming in ragged, terrified gapes. “We’re almost there. Come on, don't pass out on me yet. I can't do this by myself!”

​You couldn't answer. You could only press your face into the fabric of his jumpsuit. Your right hand clutched his shoulder so hard your fingers cramped, riding out the humming aches as he dragged you through the hatchway of the infirmary. For what it was worth, it felt good to be held. You kept your cheek against Grace's shoulder, relishing in what little relief his presence brought. 

​“Okay, okay.” Grace set you down on one of the cots. Under the infirmary’s fluorescent lights, the unnatural color your arm was turning became impossible to ignore. He did his best not to look at it as he strapped you down. 

Your head lolled as he moved. “Grace,” you called weakly. 

His eyes snapped to you. “Yes? Yes? What's wrong? It's gonna be okay, we're gonna fix this, okay? Hang on. I'll fix it, I promise.” 

You couldn't even remember why you said his name. You supposed you just wanted to see his face. Dazed and weakened by the deafening pain, you sought comfort in having his attention. At least you weren't alone, you thought. You couldn't imagine going through something like this by yourself. 

As the final strap clicked into place, securing you firmly against the cot, a chime sounded overhead. Mary's perfectly modulated voice echoed through the small room.

​“Warning. Biometric anomaly detected. Commanding Officer: heart rate: 178 beats per minute. Respiration: elevated. Severe localized trauma identified in upper left extremity.”

​“Yeah, no kidding!” Grace yelled at the ceiling, using the back of his arm to wipe a mix of sweat and tears from his face. “Uh… Uh, initialize medical assessment protocol!” 

​With a heavy hydraulic hiss, a panel in the bulkhead beside the cot slid open. Out glided Armando, the ship's sleek, segmented contraption of aluminum and white polymer, tipped with a precise multi-jointed hand. 

​Armando didn't have a face, but the way its optical sensors whirred and clicked as they focused on your left arm felt intensely invasive. The robotic hand hovered a mere inch above your swollen, distorted forearm. A thin line of green laser light swept down from your elbow to your wrist, mapping the grotesque S-shape of the fractured bone beneath the skin.

​You hissed through your teeth, flinching away even though the machine hadn't actually touched you.

​“Assessment complete,” Mary reported. “Displaced compound-adjacent fracture of the left radius and ulna. High risk of compartment syndrome. Radial artery compression detected. Peripheral blood flow to left distal extremity is critical. Immediate manual reduction required to prevent permanent tissue necrosis.”

​Grace stared at the diagnostic monitor, his face losing what little color it had left. “Necrosis? No, no, no... Okay, uh, Mary, initiate automated analgesic protocol? Give him the good stuff, knock him out!”

​“Request denied,” Mary responded instantly. “Mechanical failure detected in primary intravenous delivery valve. Fluid line pressure: insufficient. Administered dosage of localized analgesic: 0.05 milligrams. Maximum threshold reached for current capacity.”

​“What do you mean threshold reached?!” Grace slammed his fist against the medical console. “Override it! Bypass the valve!”

​“Bypass unavailable. Manual intervention required.”

“Grace,” you choked out. “Something's blocking the valve. It's not gonna work till you fix it.” 

​The infirmary lapsed into a terrifying silence, save for the rhythmic, high-pitched beeping of your spiking heart rate. Armando’s robotic hand retracted slightly, twisting its joints into a waiting posture, as if acknowledging its own inability to fix the mechanical jam.

​Grace turned his head to look at you. “Okay, so I'll fix it. I-I'll fix the valve.” 

“Fix it later,” you told him. “Right now you have to activate the centrifuge. We need gravity for the rest of the infirmary to be operational. C-Can you do that for me?” 

Grace nodded. He asked you to stay still, then he was gone. 

Grace had been out of your sight for no more than two minutes, but it was hard to gauge time with how incessantly your arm was burning. It felt like forever. It felt like he'd never return. You breathed shallowly in your cot as you stared up at the ceiling and did your best to stay conscious. 

Then, the world shifted. You held your breath, thinking it was another wave of vertigo. But then your hair fell over your face and you realized that gravity was making a cautious return. Up and down were re-established in a slow, careful descent. 

It felt good to be oriented, but worse to feel pressure against your broken arm. You let out a strangled, breathless cry, your right hand instantly locking onto the metal frame of the cot as the extra weight crushed you into the mattress. Your vision, already swimming with static, began to fade into darkness.

​“I know, I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” Grace yelled, stumbling as his own feet slammed into the newly formed floor. He nearly ran into your bed upon his return. His glasses slid completely off his nose, dangling from one ear. “I did it. Gravity stable. What now?”

“Shit.” You gasped. “Shit, shit, shit.” You inhaled a deep, unhelpful breath. “Grace, you have to set my arm.” 

“What?!” 

“You do. You have to do it. Armando's not going to with that broken valve. You need to set my arm before he can operate.” You held your good hand out as if to stop him from bolting. “You just — i-it's just one big snap into place, okay? Then I'll pass out, then you can fix the valve.” 

“You're insane!” 

“I'm out of options, Grace!” You were hyperventilating by then. The monitors next to you were going haywire. “You can do this.”

Grace tugged on his hair. He was going to be sick. “Can't I just fix the valve first?” 

“No!” you yelled. He hadn't heard you yell that loud before. “No. Please. Set the arm. I want this over with. It hurts. If you take any longer the injury will be irreparable. You have to do it.” 

Grace froze, momentarily shaken by the desperation in your voice. ​He looked at your face, streaked with sweat, pale with shock, twisted in an agony he doubted he could comprehend. He inhaled a deep, steadying breath. This was the least he could do. 

​“Okay,” Grace breathed, his voice suddenly losing its frantic pitch. He swiped his dangling glasses off his ear and shoved them into his jumpsuit pocket. He didn’t want a clear view of this. “Okay. I’m going to do it.”

​He stepped to the side of the cot, his boots slamming heavily against the floor. He positioned himself over your left arm. Up close, under the harsh infirmary lights, the distortion was stomach-turning. The sharp, jagged edge of the radius was pushing so hard against the underside of your skin that the tissue was white and bloodless, a mere breath away from tearing through.

​“Hold onto the rail with your right hand,” Grace commanded, hands hovering over you. “Don't let go. Don’t move.” 

​You locked your right fingers around the cold titanium frame of the medical bed. You closed your eyes, squeezing so hard your face creased. You took one last ragged breath. “Do it.”

​Grace didn't give you a countdown. He knew if he paused, he’d lose his nerve.

​He clamped his left hand firmly just above your elbow, pinning your upper arm against the mattress to anchor it against the crushing centripetal force. With his right hand, he gripped your wrist, his fingers locking tightly over your cold, purple-tinged skin. ​Then, with a guttural grunt of exertion, Grace leaned his entire body weight backward, pulling your wrist down and away from your shoulder with everything he had.

​The universe fractured.

An ungodly wet grinding screech echoed within the flesh of your arm as the overlapping, shattered ends of the radius and ulna were forcefully dragged back past one another. The sharp shards of bone plowed through muscle and fascia. ​A raw, piercing scream tore from your throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated torment that vibrated through the metal frame of the bed. Your spine violently arched off the cot, fighting against the padded restraint straps as every nerve ending in your upper body flared into a blinding nova of pain.

To Grace’s horror, the job didn’t end there. He felt the horrific, structural resistance of the bones, and with one final, agonizing heave, he gave the wrist a sharp, aligning twist.

​SNAP.

​A heavy, sickening thud reverberated through your arm as the two main shafts of the bone finally slid back into their parallel tracks. Instantly, the pressure on the radial artery released, and a hot, throbbing rush of restricted blood surged back into your fingertips.

​At the exact same moment, the automated splint on the counter sensed the alignment. With a sharp hydraulic click, it shot forward, wrapping around your forearm and clamping down to lock the newly straightened limb into place. 

​But you didn't feel the splint. The overload to your nervous system was too much. Your eyes rolled back, your grip on the metal rail went completely slack, and your head fell heavily to the side. The world mercifully went black, plunging you into deep, silent unconsciousness. 

​On the monitor, your heart rate plummeted from its frantic peak, settling into a steady thumping.

​Grace let go of your wrist, stumbling backward until his back hit a wall. He slumped down against it, sliding to the floor, his chest heaving as he stared at his trembling, sweat-slicked hands. He was hyperventilating, crying, tugging on his hair again. He wanted to throw up. But he also wanted to be sure you were alright. 

​Above him, Mary’s voice chimed with a serene indifference. “Vascular occlusion resolved. Distal blood flow restored to 100%. Bone alignment within acceptable parameters.”

​Grace sat there for a moment longer, timing his breaths to the steady beeping of your heart rate. 

​“Right,” he choked out, aggressively wiping his cheeks as he forced himself back up. “Not done.” 

Compared to the horror of setting your bones with his bare hands, fixing the valve was a walk in the park. Mary had been there to guide the repair, and soon enough the rest of the medical systems were operational. More hands protruded from the cot. They snipped your shirt off and injected you with needles and tubes. Armando wore an oxygen mask over your peaceful face. They whirred and hummed and then a scalpel was slicing through your skin. 

Grace did not do well with blood. Back on Earth, he felt dizzy at the sight of a drop. But he could not look away from you. He held himself as he stood over your unconscious body and watched as mechanical arms operated on yours. He didn’t leave until the process was done. It had taken hours, and the balls of his feet had ached and numbed, but he wasn’t satisfied until he had confirmation that you were stable. 

When the tension finally bled out of him, it hit his knees first. Grace sank straight into the floor, head dropping to his hands. He cried into the ground and stayed there until he could cry no longer. His lungs burned with a weariness that felt heavier than any force the ship could pull. 

He didn’t think about going back to his quarters. Instead he dragged his blanket and pillow from his bed and pulled them through the corridors, clumsy in his exhaustion. He laid them out on the floor beside your cot and collapsed there. He wedged himself into the tight gap between your bed and the diagnostic console. The space was cramped and ridiculous for a man of his size, but it was the only place he could bear to be. 

Lying there on his side, his cheek pressed against the rough fabric of his pillow, he stared up at the underside of your cot. The position was devastatingly familiar.

It brought him right back to those terrifying first weeks. The fog of his amnesia had been so thick and suffocating, and you had been nothing more than a stranger with a stable heartbeat on a monitor. He remembered watching you until his eyes could no longer do so. Now, he would do it again. He would wait for you to wake up no matter how long it took. 

The hours blurred into a disjointed montage of isolation.

Grace lost track of the ship's artificial day-and-night cycles. He lived in the increments between your medical readouts. Every three hours, the overhead console would hum, cycling a fresh dosage of targeted analgesics into your IV line. Grace would instantly sit up at the sound, his eyes scanning the data, verifying the diagnostics and checking your skin temperature before allowing his head to drop back onto his pillow.

He tried to pass the time. He brought your navy moleskine notebook into the bay, holding it under the dim tertiary lights. He traced the crude, jagged diagrams of Astrophage membranes and Petrova formulas he had scrawled just days before. He filled the empty margins with frantic sketches and lists — anything to keep his brain moving. But the science felt flat, and the math was useless. He felt as though the universe’s worth had shrunken down to the hitching breaths of the man on the bed next to him. 

He ate his space ramen cold, sitting on the floor with his knees pulled up to his chest, his eyes never leaving your resting profile. The plastic mask obscured the lower half of your face, fogging slightly with every exhale you took.

The twenty-two hours of orbital settling had long since passed. Outside, Tau Ceti held the Hail Mary firmly in its gravitational grip, spinning the ship through the silent, perfect curve of its new home. 

It was late. 

The world outside was dark, and cold, but the lab was warm and lit by the steady hum of monitors. 

A desk lamp cast long shadows across the tiled floor. 

There was so much work to be done and so little time to do it. 

The edges of the room were washed out like an overexposed photograph, but the feeling in your chest was heavy and whole. You were focused on a task, hunched over a surface, pen in hand, scrawling something down into your familiar navy-colored notebook. 

Something was distracting you. 

Someone was distracting you. 

Everything sounded far away, but you could hear the unmistakable cadence of Ryland’s voice. He sounded lighter — softer. He had nothing to be afraid of here. 

Since when did you call him Ryland? 

Hands.

Fingertips.

You could feel him breathing on the back of your neck. You could hear the smile in his words. 

That's enough for tonight, Captain. 

How annoying. Couldn't he see that you were busy?

Stay on your side of the lab, Grace. 

Slowly, deliberately, the tips of his fingers trailed an agonizingly gentle line up the sleeve of your shirt, tracing the curve of your bicep, sending a wave of electric heat straight to your spine.

You snapped. With a low laugh bubbling in your throat, you dropped the pen. 

You caught his wrists and surged forward, using your weight to pin Ryland back against the edge of his desk. 

A pile of folders shifted beneath him, but neither of you cared. He let out a breathless, triumphant gasp, his hands instantly wrapping around your neck to pull you down.

A kiss. 

Warm. 

Familiar. 

Secret. 

Beep. 

Beep. 

Beep…

Your eyelids felt like lead. 

You moved your good hand first, fingers twitching against a rough but thin sheet. The sensation of friction jarred your brain further into consciousness. A dull throbbing ache pulsed in your left arm, muted and distant under a heavy blanket of narcotics. 

Slowly, your eyes blinked open. 

You felt good, all things considered. You were sure you had the morphine to thank. The ceiling of the medical bay took shape above you. You sluggishly turned your head. The plastic straps of the oxygen mask shifted against your cheek. Your arm felt like a distant object. Curious, you commanded the limb to move. It rose with a heavy reluctance, floating up into your line of sight. You blinked, attempting to draw your swimming vision into focus. Your forearm was encased in a thick, rigid medical cast. It locked the limb straight, while your exposed fingertips looked slightly pale against the stark white bandages. 

You felt good. Wait, you thought that already. Boy, those meds sure were working. 

You sat up, tugging the oxygen mask from your face. 

Grace was on you in a millisecond. “Whoa, whoa, whoa! What do you think you’re doing? Lay back down!” his hands were on your shoulders before your head could even clear the pillow. 

“Narcotics,” you mumbled, your voice sounding like it had been dragged through gravel. The oxygen mask was dangling uselessly around your neck, puffing a gentle hiss against your collarbone. You had a dazed look in your half-lidded eyes. “These are. Good. You should try.” 

“Okay, that’s nice. Please lay back down.” Grace was crying again. His warm eyes glistened with tears. 

You reached your good hand out to touch his cheek. 

“I’m so glad you’re awake,” he whispered. Despite his emotional state, he was still making sure you weren’t hurting yourself. He let you sit up, but kept a close eye on the needles and thin tubes that poked out of your skin. 

“I’m fine,” you insisted. To prove your point, you craned your neck, which triggered your vision into a slow, dizzying spin. Your hand shifted on Grace’s face, thumb clumsily catching the edge of his crooked glasses and shoving them further up his nose. 

“Don't move, just—please, don’t move,” he begged. He didn't pull away from your hand on his cheek. If anything, he leaned into the touch, verifying that you were actually warm; actually alive.

“It'll take more than just a couple of rocks to keep me down,” you slurred. “How long was I out?”

“Three days,” Grace muttered. The answer broke out of him like a sob. 

The resistance in his posture completely collapsed. His forehead dropped against your mattress, landing next to your good arm. His fingers slid down from your shoulder to lock tightly over your right hand. His shoulders shook as the last 72 hours of terror finally gave way to a wave of relief. His tears soaked wet circles into the sterile sheet of your bed.

“You did good,” you muttered.

You ran your functioning fingers through his hair, petting his messy oil-slicked curls. You didn’t know what else to do to comfort him. The sight of him so thoroughly broken by the thought of losing you was doing funny aching things to your chest. These, the painkillers couldn't numb.

“You’re a terrible patient,” he mumbled into the mattress. “An absolutely terrible patient.”

You hummed out a laugh. 

His hand blindly reached for yours. When he found it, he didn’t let go. He squeezed every time his chest hitched with another shuddering breath. He stayed like that for a long time, letting the weight of the universe bleed out of him onto the edge of your cot. 

“C’mere,” you said. You shifted your torso to the side, wincing slightly as the automated splint on your left arm gave a tiny, protective whir to adjust for the movement. You tugged at your blankets with your right hand. You made space for him on the bed; which was hardly any space at all. 

Grace lifted his head from the sheets, staring at you, bewildered. His eyes were red-rimmed and swollen. “What?”

“Lay with me.”

He looked at the tiny gap of mattress you’d cleared. “What?” he repeated.

“C’mon, Grace,” you slurred, your eyelids drooping as another wave of warm drowsiness rolled over your brain. You gave his hand a clumsy, insistent tug. “Who’s gonna fuckin’ see? Lay with me here — I’m cold.”

He could’ve gotten you another blanket. But he had to be numb to reject the offer to be held. Tired and sleepless himself, Grace crawled into your cot. He was hesitant and careful not to touch your broken arm, but he was also embarrassed at how little convincing it had taken him to lie down next to you. 

The rest was automatic. Grace somehow knew that he laid with his back to your chest, and you somehow knew that your good arm went over his waist. Your chin rested above his head. The mattress was entirely too small for the both of you, but it was impossible to feel uncomfortable when the warmth of another body was there to cushion your every ache. 

You slotted against each other like you'd done it a hundred times before. Grace was too exhausted to have realized this. And before he knew it, he felt himself drifting closer to proper slumber. 

“How did you figure out how to activate the centrifuge?” Your voice had gone low and sleepy. It made Grace’s stomach flip. 

“It just came to me,” he whispered. 

You smiled. “That’s good.” 

“I did this to you,” he muttered, now loopy from his own sleep depravity. His fingertips traced idle shapes on your good arm. “I didn't watch the monitors. I should've been able to tell you there was incoming debris.” 

“Wrong.” You nuzzled into his hair. “The Petrova scope wasn’t the only thing damaged. The housing sits right over the main radar antenna — the ship’s main computer couldn't see the debris because the broken scope was blocking its eyes.” 

You felt Grace curl into himself. 

“Mary couldn't have known,” you insisted. “The radar itself was broken. Didn’t even transmit to my suit. You didn't mess up. You gave me four seconds of warning in a total blind spot. If you hadn't been there, I’d be dead.”

Grace went entirely still against you. 

“You saved my life,” you whispered, your eyelids feeling heavier by the second. The morphine was pulling you back under. “Don't do it again. Bad for your heart.”

A tiny, breathless huff of a laugh shook Grace’s chest. 

Grace drifted the rest of the way down until his cheek was against your pillow. His breathing fell into a slow rhythm, matching the steady beeping of your heart monitor. One of his hands remained loosely tangled in your right fingers. You were a protective dead-weight anchor that kept you both pinned to the bed.

The medical bay faded around the edges. The harsh fluorescent lights dimmed in your consciousness, replaced by a thick, safe silence. You didn't think about the four light-years you had traveled, or the memories yet to return, or the dying suns, or the extent of your new injury, or the difficulty it would add to succeeding in your mission. You held onto the warm man beside you and let the momentum of the Hail Mary carry you both into a deep dreamless sleep.

…

“Blip-A, detected.” 

[voidedscripts]

𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐁𝐨𝐲𝐬 𝐖𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝 𝐊𝐢𝐬𝐬 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐈𝐧𝐜𝐥𝐮𝐝𝐞𝐬...

↬ depicts: ken, henry letham, and the driver

↬ warnings: some freak shit with henry, but nothing nsfw

↬ notes: there's sort of an established relationship between you and the guys here! can you tell i don't really write a lot of kissing scenes... don't answer that

𝐊𝐞𝐧

• the first time ken tried to kiss you, it was quite possibly the most awkward thing in the world. a combination of too much teeth, and an odd amount of smacking noises to accompany it. if you hadn't known any better, you would have thought he was trying to replicate something off of a cartoon show.

• actually. knowing ken, thats exactly what was going on.

• he gets better at it, the two of you make sure of that. you had originally introduced kissing lessons as a joke, but ken had been so damn excited about learning that you couldn't find it in you to say no— even if your face felt like it was on fire the whole time. thankfuly the doll didnt seem to mind.

• its a lot for him to remember at first ("don't rush into it, the other person may be caught off guard," "some teeth is okay, but too much and you'll get hurt," "take care of your dental hygiene," "make sure that they aren't trying to pull away before,") but youre a good enough teacher that he can't bring himself to care.

• really the whole thing is a charade merely disguised as lessons in order to spend disgusting amounts of time together. but when both of you are sitting on your living room couch, one hand on ken's chest and the other cupping his jaw softly while you plant a sweet kiss on his lips, you can't help but think it was the greatest idea you'd ever had.

you pull away from ken for the first time in nearly a minute, tongue coming out to dart at your swollen lips as you looked at him.

the blond was sitting against the far side of the couch, chest heaving and eyes scruntched up at the corners as he looked at you. his shirt (a tasteful hawaiian flannel, with striped shorts and flip flops to match) was wrinkled and unbuttoned. he looked, for a lack of better words, dumbstruck.

"is it always like that?" ken asks after recovering a little, scooting towards you more as he asks the question. his tone is one of excitement and wonder, and you cant stop a grin from breaking out on your face. "can we do it again?"

"woah woah, hold your horses cowboy." you huff out a small laugh, not missing the way his head perks up at the mention of horses. "give me a second to breathe. i don't know exactly how your lungs work, but i need at least a minute to recover after a kiss like.... that."

"was it not good?" came the next query. you heard the blatant insecurity in his tone, and read even more of on his face. you couldn't stop your chest from seizing a bit at the sight, immediately doing your best to reassure him.

"it was amazing ken, really." you spoke with a broad smile. you weren't just saying that, either. compared to the first kiss he had given you, this was worlds ahead. better than some of your past partners, if you said so yourself— not that they provided any real competition. none of them had tasted like fruit or whimpered when you ran a thumb over their jaw. god, you could listen to that sound all day...

"there are different kinds of kisses is all." you continue your explanation, weaving your fingers with kens in the meantime. running your fingers over his pulse point, you feel it jump a little. "some are shorter, some are rougher, and some are more intense. doesn't mean one is better than the other— that decision is up to you and your partner."

"that's you, right?"

"yes buddy, that's me." ken preens at you, doing a little arm pump at the confirmation that he was right.

"so which one do you like more? 'cause i could do all of them— can we do all of them? i mean, if you want to!"

right, back to the task at hand.

you feel a mischevious grin tugging at the corner of your lips, reaching out to grab the proverbial opportunity that had been given to you.

"i don't know ken, i've never thought about that before. you know, we may just have to try them all. what do you think?"

the giggle he lets out is a good enough answer for you.

• theres a certain charm to the way that ken goes about asking you for a kiss after he gets the hang of it (or about as much "hang" that a living doll can get). sort of akin to a child who wants to ask for something, but is too shy to speak up. more often than not, you'll find him hovering around or behind you. never close enough to touch, but definitely close enough to crowd. he barely registers it either, only stepping back if you ask aloud, and always with a bit of a crestfallen expression. its those moments that you have to take the extra time to explain 'no ken, i'm not mad, i need you to move so i can reach the stove'

• you've, essentially, created a monster. a tall, beach blond monster who can only be satiated with a kiss. good luck trying to explain the do's and don't of PDA to him... you're going to need it.

𝐇𝐞𝐧𝐫𝐲 𝐋𝐞𝐭𝐡𝐚𝐦

• with henry, the kiss always comes from a sense of desperation. a crushing need to be close to you, to grab you as tight as he can and not let go— almost like he's afraid you'll dissapear into smoke if he doesn't.

• his favorite place to kiss you, aside from the obvious, would be your hands. he positively preens when you run your hands through his hair or dance them across his face as gentle as can be, so it's no surprise that he takes a special interest in them. henry always leans into them with a careful look, placing a slow kiss to your palm or knuckles before saddling closer by your side to plant more. they're never less passionate than the ones he pressed to your mouth, just.. different.

• henry likes knowing that he's yours, and vice versa. a kiss reassures him, in a way, that you're still there— wherever there happens to be that day. often times it's your appartment or walking down the streets together. occasionally a shop or two if no one seems to be around to complain.

• theres a deeper part of henry, a darker part of him, that yearns for the taste of copper during a kiss. the urge to bite at your lip until blood spills into his mouth, tongue immediately soothing over the mark in reassurance, is constant. even in the sweetest moments those feelings will show their ugly head, prompting a shudder to roll through his body at the very thought.

• occasionally, he imagines you doing the same to him.

henry is burning up. he can hardly breathe as his hands search for purchase on your clothes. he's panting heavily, pupils blown out to the point where you could barely see the ring of blue around them. his head feels like it's full of static— his lips even more.

a stray drop of blood drips onto the floor unceremoniously, barely staining the tip of his shoe. a few more lie beside it, having fallen just moments before. a testimony to the teeth-shaped indent on his bottom lip that tasted like you.

you're in no better shape than henry is, really. you're breathing just as hard as him, and there's a splotch of red smeared messily by the corner of your mouth, ("like lipstick," henry thinks faintly) although he knows it isn't yours. did he want it to be? no, that was for later.

"was that okay?" you have the audacity to ask him that while he struggles not to beg for more. you, staring at him with a curious expression and that worried look in your eye— as if you hadn't just given him everything he wanted.

henry doesnt answer you; not verbally anyways. he doesnt need to when he's already back to kissing you again, practically moaning into your mouth as he tastes the tangy salt and blood between you all at once. you reciprocate the action, your tongue occasionally poking at his wound in what he hoped was an attempt to tease him. it was filthy and quite possibly derranged, but that made him love it even more.

• freak to the max about that kind of stuff, what can i say. "always the quite ones," as you once put it. he had just taken another drag of his cigarette at that, blowing the smoke to the side as he grinned that small grin of his. the one he knew you loved.

• any sort of relationship with henry letham of all people is going to be weird and sort-of-macabre, and by extent the kissing, but the two of you make it work. he'll ramble on about the work of the late-great tristian rêveur while you lie there next to him patiently, a little bit of his blood still clinging to the corner of your lips. it's not perfect, but it's undoubtedly and irrevocably the two of you, and that's all that matters.

𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫

• okay. we've all seen the movie. there's no sense in pretending that this man would kiss you with anything less than the passion of a thousand supernovas. that's just a fact.

• whether you believe it comes from a place of self-confidence and heat, or a much more desperate part of him, driver will always give you his undivided attention. thats just who he is. methodical— obsessive, even. every word and small touch to your back as he pulls you closer is carefully planned out beforehand.

• it's a sign of trust to him, really.

• he's no stranger to soft pecks on the cheek or lips, don't get me wrong, driver just prefers the ever-encompasing feeling of your mouth on his, tongues dancing around each other as you both take your time mapping out each individual detail. everything about you is intoxicating to the point where driver wants to drown in it.. sometimes he thinks he just might. wouldn't be the worst way to go.

• he definitely uses chapstick. nothing too flavorful, (unless you like that, then he'd reconsider) just enough to keep them from cracking or drying out. he finds that it makes for a much more enjoyable kiss either way, and you agree.

• it's also my strong belief that driver has definitely forgotten to take his toothpick out once or twice before going in for a kiss, resulting in a little poke. you always wave it off, but the first time it had happened he'd looked positively mortified (or about as mortified as he could get). thankfully, driver's been pretty mindful about it since then, always making sure to toss the thing or settle it behind his ear before pecking you.

• in spite of the rest of his fast paced lifestyle, driver is not really a big fan of PDA. it's simply too much attention on somebody with too many criminal ties, and he'd rather die than risk your saftey. but on the off chance that he's feeling risky, it's usually after a nice cruise through the streets with you.

driver's steady hands are cradling the sides of your face as the two of you stand beside his car— a new one he just picked up from sharon. you had asked to tag along that day, always jumping at the opertunity to be in the front seat with him. his favorite habit of yours was how your hand always seemed to find his on the road, fingers interlocking as you let him whisk you away on whatever road he had in mind.

the flickering white light from above casts an irregular shadow across driver's face while he recalls all of this. it draws out the intensity of his eyes as his gaze darts from your eyes to your nose and to your lips. even here, standing in a dingy underground parking garage, he can't help but think that you looked stunning.

your own arms were wrapped around drivers middle, squeezing lightly as you admired him back. the two of you often had moments like this. moments where driver seemed incapable of doing anything but soaking you in, almost overwhelmed with the realization that you loved him just as much as he loved you. living on one's own for so long takes its toll on the importance behind human touch, and driver had been deprived of it (of you) for far too long.

nothing was said as you craned your head slightly upwards, lips carefully capturing his own in a soft kiss. nothing had to be; it was a familiar motion between the two of you by now.

driver accepts the display of affection with a barely audible hum, showing his appreciation as his mouth begins to move in tandem with your own. he can taste the faint remnants of the toothpaste you used this morning before he picked you up, and it brings him comfort. everything about you to him is comforting. safe. the one part of his life that he's been allowed to really, truly enjoy. and enjoy himself, he would.

eventually you had to break away, much to driver's disappointment. if he had it his way, he'd be glued at your side at all times, there to angle your lips towards his at any point. but then again, if he had it his way, nothing would end up getting done. your appartment had seen enough evidence of that— you'd lost count of the amount of times you'd shown up late to something because driver couldn't keep his lips (or hands) off of you.

you reach to press one last kiss to his lips, an unspoken promise for more. "come on, let's get inside before someone complains."

"let them." came his only response before dipping back down for another. he ends up chasing your lips instead, mouth twitching into a barely-there smile as you pull away with a teasing laugh. you're already making your way towards the elevator, grinning at him as if to say 'catch up'. you barely make it there before he's got you by your wrist, interlocking your fingers and pulling you into his chest gently.

"sucker." you mummble against his jacket, but driver hears the unmistakeable smile in your tone.

as he leans down for yet another kiss, he can help but think that you're right.

[mossrat]

Hihiii

Would you maybe be willing to do a part 2 to the Colt Seavers fic where reader like takes him home to make it up to him?

Could possibly contain overstim, maybe some more edging?

If not, it’s totally fine, thank you!!

colt seavers x male reader (pt 2)

tags: smut, bottom colt/top reader, a lil 🤏 more edging, overstimulation

a/n: hi anon u might be psychic i was originally going to include overstim in the first part but cut it cause i got lazy 😭... no complaints here he is Exactly where he wants to be!!

part 1

- MINORS DNI -

˗-ˏˋ ✸ ˎˊ-˗

"You're insatiable."

"Mhm."

"I'd suggest a chastity belt but you'd probably be into that."

Colt barks a surprised laugh against your collarbone, breath warm against the dampened skin there. He cranes his neck up, blue eyes crinkled with mirth, and digs his chin into your sternum. His beard stratches the thin skin there, but you pay it no mind.

"I'm not hearing a refusal," you add, feigning shock. Colt rolls his eyes but foregoes an answer. Instead he turns back to your chest, peppering kisses across the bare expanse.

Sighing, you drop your head onto the pillow and let him have his fun. You'd barely gotten through the front door after an agonizingly contactless drive back from the wrap party before Colt damn near jumped you, and within seconds you'd ended up sprawled laterally across the bed. He'd tried to kiss you once you'd both settled into the car, but the Uber driver had shot a look so stern through the rearview mirror neither of you had the nerve to even stray from your sides of the back row.

He pulls away from sucking a faint bruise into your pec only so he can shuck his shirt off, and when he resettles, the press of bare skin-to-skin makes you hum with satisfaction. Your fingers automatically seek out his head, sliding into his hair—not pulling just yet but twirling longer strands around your knuckles. A wordless reminder that despite your positions, you’re still the one calling the shots, and at any point you could easily guide him wherever you want him.

He hums a long, throaty sound at the sensation, nipping your skin once more with playful levity, and skirting his broad palm up your shifting ribcage. It comes to a stop a mere few inches from your armpit, where he swiftly flicks his thumb over your nipple.

Clambering back up to your eye-level, Colt draws up a slanted smirk, the tips of your noses brushing. He’s so close his face is faintly out of focus, but the rapidly-rooting desire gleams starkly in his eye, impossible to miss.

“Hi,” he hums, gaze trained low on your loose mouth.

“Hi, handsome.”

Much to your delight, Colt goes pink within a matter of seconds, mouth shifting and twisting with bashfulness. One of your hands slips down to his cheek, feeling the blooming warmth there.

“What do you need?”

Colt’s eyebrows furrow, ever so faintly, eyes darting low for a split second. “You know.”

At that, you mirror his expression, albeit with a far more dramatized edge. Your head tilts against the comforter in mock confusion.

“Hm, I don’t think I do. You’re gonna have to tell me. In great detail, preferably.”

Colt’s head wilts, lands roughly onto your shoulder with a defeated puff of breath. You scrape your blunt nails against his scalp just to feel the suppressed tremor that lances through his shoulders.

“You’re a sick man, you know that?” he bleats. “A sick, evil man.”

"And yet, here you are," you counter, folding a leg up to press your inner thigh to his hip. The pressure of his half-hard cock is impossible to miss with this angle. Self-satisfaction blooms in your chest—it's hard not to get a big head when it comes to Colt, such an eager little thing, wrapped right around your finger.

He plants a brief, wet kiss to the knob of your collarbone, blindly drawing one arm back to paw at your raised thigh, hips driving down to press clumsily against yours. It knocks a lovely, low groan straight out of him, reverberating through you as he finds a jerky pace.

"Come on, sweetheart, you've got no problem humping me like a dog but you're too embarassed to use your words?"

Colt, fully hard now, freezes against you, fingers fixed like claws into the meat of your thigh and his free arm holding some of his body weight off of you, forearm trapped under your upper back.

"Unless you want to get off like this," you taunt, tone loose with indifference. Colt's head shoots up straight, almost knocking into your chin in his haste. His pelvis rolls again, though a movement so shallow and brisk you figure it was more of an automatic impulse. His hand beneath you wriggles up your back, curling around the curve of your shoulder to prod at the nape of your neck.

"Fuck me? Please?" he breathes into your mouth, brows pinched and hair askew—the image of need.

"There you go," you murmur with delight, soft despite the thrill of heady arousal his face and quiet plead have roused under your skin. "Was that so difficult?"

You don't give him any time to reply, hastily tipping him over onto his back. This strong thighs catch your hips instinctively, grinning up at you like the cat that got the cream. Little does he know you were always bound to end up like this—despite your far superior capacity for concealing your own arousal, you've been near dizzy with the urge to fuck him senseless since you hauled him into that tiny bathroom well over an hour ago.

You both shed your pants and briefs, and while Colt battles with his pair caught on an ankle, you retrieve the lube from your bedside drawer. With this, you waste no time, pumping a generous amount onto the pads of three fingers and smearing it around with the same hand's thumb, while you toss the bottle aside and settle on your haunches in between his thighs. His legs are bent and draped over yours, feet planted on the mattress behind you.

Hard and leaking already against his toned stomach, bathed in the yellowish light of your bedside lamp, flushed all sorts of pink and red, Colt is gorgeous. You say as much, rendered a little breathless as you skim your dry palm up his flank and watch it quiver with a sharp intake of breath. You draw it back down, settle your thumb in the crease where his thigh connects to his body.

Your first finger goes in with little resistance and a contented sigh from below. At first you simply press in and pull out to the last knuckle in steady, cyclical motions, gently working lube and looseness into him. Colt's got his head perched on one folded arm, the other lax on the mattress, loosely extended to draw mindless patterns into your kneecap.

It's when you work a second finger into him that you start having some fun. You crook your fingers sharply upward, testing. Colt sucks in a shuddering breath, jolting as though suddenly shocked.

"Ooooh, boy," he says, a little strained. His gaze abandons the ceiling to peer at you down the sharp line of his nose, mouth slanting with dazed amusement. He must read something in your eyes, because suddenly, his own narrow pointedly. "Don't be mean."

"I didn't do anything!"

"I can see you—" he waggles a finger at you. "Scheming."

"Alright, settle down," you dismiss, swatting his hand away as you scissor your fingers, and then snicker when he grits out a low moan, head straining back against the bed. Your free hand drifts to the bend of his knee, drawing it up, closer to his chest. "Hold here."

Breathing out hard through his nose, Colt hooks his palm under his thigh, dutifully securing it in place.

During the press of your third finger into him, you clasp your hand over the back of his, watching his face tighten around a half-swallowed sound. You keep pressing in deeper until you can't, fingers angled unward and drawing firm circles with them that make Colt's hips jump, his arm soar up to cover his eyes.

Alternating your motions, scretching and pressing and circling and retreating, you watch him crumble at your fingers. Something like awe captures you, gawking at the massive swelling of his broad chest and the surges of precome leaking out of his slit, pooling in the dips and valleys of his straining abdominal muscles.

"Jesus," you breathe out, releasing his hand to grip the base of your own cock—hard just by watching him. It hits you then that you haven't come at all tonight; no wonder you're so pent up. Keeping a firm ring around yourself, you pick up the pace of your fingertips, itching to reach for his dick as well but mostly wanting to see how far you can push him, just like this.

Colt's low moans are cut short by a blurt of your name, snipped with pleasure. You watch his nails fade into a ghostly white, curling fiercely into his thigh.

"Hm?" you ask absentmindedly, refocusing again on the way your fingers disappear into him, blood thrumming through your head, joined only by his fractured groans and the wet sounds of your ministrations.

"Wait, wait—ssshhit, 'm really close."

"Hold on, hold on baby."

"No, no wait, I'm ready, 'm gonna come, I can't—"

You curl your fingers up again, and reach over with your thumb to press it flat against his perineum.

Just as his hips drive up, grinding sloppily onto your fingers in a raw instinct to chase his orgasm, you slide your fingers free entirely, watching as his cock dribbles onto his skin and he sags, moaning feebly into the crook of his elbow.

You soothe the tremors caught in his extended thigh, using both the remaining lube on your fingers and scooping up some of his pre in order to slick yourself up.

“I said don't be mean,” Colt grouses, peering mournfully up at you. You slide your palm over your tip a few times, grasp tightening over the muscle of his thigh, and an airy chuckle slips out of you as you line yourself up.

“You said stop, I stopped,” you reply with innocent lightness, lowering your torso to peck his ruddy cheekbone. His exasperated sigh rolls into a deep hum when you finally press into him, inch after steady inch.

Pleasure fizzes and thrums under your skin, dizzy with the tight heat around you, clenching spasmodically. You muffle a long sound of your own into his chest, rolling your hips deeper even once you’ve bottomed out.

“Oh, fucking—Jesus,” you grit, stuck to his chest with your mingling sweat. Colt is mostly silent beneath you, save for the hitching irregularities of his breath, catching and stuttering with every lazy grind of your pelvis. He’s released his leg at some point, and now both hands are clinging to you, one planted on the small of your back and the other strewn across your shoulder blades.

“You feel so good, Colt,” you murmur once the initial flare of bliss has ebbed into a steadier constant. You nose at the hollow of his throat, pulling out a few inches and feeling his cock twitch against your stomach. “So tight, perfect for me.”

“No need for flattery, baby, you’ve already got me in your bed,” Colt ribs, but his voice is a little wheezy, a little dazed, so it falls somewhat flat. You push back into him—not quite a proper thrust but something approaching it. You lift your head just in time to see his face crumble, pushing out a stilted huff. Unable to tease any further, you settle into a deep, steady pace, though not yet rough.

“I know, but you love it.”

His brows furrow and swiftly release, gazing up at you with his half-lidded eyes a little bashful. “I wouldn’t say love…”

“Oh, come on. There’s no shame in this bedroom. You love being good for me. My good boy.” To punctuate, you give a particularly firm thrust, letting your whole body roll with it, angling yourself deeper into Colt. He responds as expected: jolts and utters a wavering moan into the ever-narrowing space between your faces, fluttering around you.

You're struck, suddenly, with a fondness so potent it nearly makes the climbing rhythm of your hips falter. Colt clings to you and shakes and moans so beautifully, fitted to your body as though tailored to it. He digs one heel into your ass and involuntarily scrapes his nails down the soft arch of your spine—marks which he'll later kiss and mumble apologies for. He's so perfectly tight on your dick, taking you with such ease and enthusiasm you can only bask in the gales of simmering pleasure that rip through you with every deep thrust and clench of his spongy insides.

"You're staring," he manages after an indecipherable stretch of time, head pressed back against the comforter, a vaguely Y-shaped vein bulging in his throat. You tamp down the urge to bite into it, in favor of leveling his gaze.

"Can you blame me?" you huff, shifting your weight onto one forearm in order to bring your other palm to his jaw, propping your thumb up under his chin to keep his head held back and lovely throat exposed. He rolls his eyes but otherwise ignores your comment, and instead you watch in steady increments as his orgasm approaches.

His brows warp and pinch closer, blinking unevenly until his eyes eventually stay screwed shut; his breath hitches, his throat bobs.

"Close already?"

"Shut up," he groans, though any attempt at frustration is cheapened by the high-pitched quality of his voice. "You shouldn't've—teased so much... earlier—shit..."

"Mhm," you hum, reluctantly releasing his jaw in order to reach blindly behind you, finding his knee and hitching it up to your ribs. The new angle has Colt yelping, squeezing around you like a vice, hips lurching up to meet yours.

He's so loud when you fuck him, it's addictive. Even more so as he's approaching his release, when whatever scrap of dignity he has left flies out the window and he gets particularly whiny. You lean down, drink them all in, hips not relenting for an instant despite the quiver of strain in your thighs and arms.

"It's okay," you murmur into his cheek, dazed, warm and buzzing all over, "it's okay, baby, come on."

He sounds almost suffocated when he comes, shuddering harshly beneath you, clamping down on your cock and spurting across your stomachs. You can feel the tremors in his arms on your back, in his inner thighs where they're pressed against your bare skin. You fuck him through it, only slightly decelerating. He continues to tighten and spasm, even as he begins to come down, and your head spins.

He finally sags beneath you with a cross between a groan and a deep sigh, nails relenting on your poor back, swiftly replaced by sweat-sticky, circling fingertips.

At some point during his orgasm, your face sunk into the crook of his neck, breathing in his musk and just barely keeping yourself from picking up a harsh pace, in search of your own release. Still, the steady, even rolling of your hips soon makes Colt whine.

"Gimmie a—s'too much, give me a minute," he gasps, though his pelvis gives weak, tentative twitches against your own. You don't answer to that, sunken deep into your long-neglected pleasure, now that you've taken care of him. You release his knee in favor of palming at the rising and falling width of his ribcage; it's mostly unintentional, the way you begin pounding into him harder, movements rushed and somewhat snipped with urgency.

Colt grunts, fingers tensing on your skin again, into the indents his nails have surely left. He appears split on whether to grind down onto you or attempt to writhe away from the stimulation, bordering now on painful. The breathless cries of your name, uttered just above your ear only amplify the heat surging through you, condensing in the pit of your gut.

"Too much—s'too much," he repeats, thrashing beneath you, breaths coming in so quick they stumble over each other.

Despite it, he's still hard between your bodies.

"Want me to stop?" you manage through your own trance, between lazy licks and bites to his pulse point. From this close you can hear the tiny huffs each harsh thrust knocks out of him, and when he gives a rather telling wet sniffle your cock twitches.

Colt hums and moans and whimpers, makes all these addictive little noises that draw you further to the edge, but he says nothing. You take it as what it is, and let animal instinct take the wheel. Your thrusts grow sloppier, arhythmic, jackrabitting into him and fueled only by your approaching orgasm and Colt's cries of pleasure-pain.

You come with a low moan that feels ripped straight from your chest, wavering at the tail end as you dump your load into his twitching insides, near overwhelmed by pulse after pulse of warm pleasure. It lasts ages—at least it feels that way to you, and by the time you surpass the peak and roll through the aftershocks, Colt tenses and follows right after you. You crane your neck down just to see the pitiful two, three surges of come his dick offers up, and pull out when he starts to hiss with true discomfort.

You sit back on your knees, palms holding his own apart in order to watch your come trickle out of his hole. You certainly can't get hard again, not this fast, but you feel your dick give a weak jolt at the mind-numbingly erotic sight.

With a curse muttered under your breath, you reach over the side of the bed and pull up the first thing your fingers graze—which turns out to be your discarded boxers. You clean up his stomach first, then some smears on your own, and finally his ass.

Despite the weight of exhaustion enfolding you and the general achiness in your legs, you shuffle off the bed to grab some water from the kitchen, an opened bag of chips held shut by a plastic clip, and once back in the bedroom, two pairs of underwear.

Colt chugs most of the water, but stops himself before finishing it, smiling bashfully up at you when he offers the few sips left. You thank him anyway and down the rest before crawling back in beside him.

He hisses when he tucks himself into your boxers, legs drawing up slightly.

"Dude, I think my shvantz might fall off," he solemnly says, rolling into your side and propping his upper body onto one forearm. You snort, eyes shut but hands easily seeking him out.

"Your what?"

"Totally worth it, though," he says in lieu of an answer. You feel him pepper soft kisses along the side of your face, leading ultimately to your mouth. "Didn't even know I could do that."

He settles agaisnt your shoulder with one palm pressed flat against your stomach, thumb sweeping lazily.

"The more you know," you hum, sinking your fingers into his sweaty hair. You probably should've showered. Oh well, you can do laundry tomorrow.

"We are doing that again, though, right?"

"Oh, absolutely."

[horrorofdietcoke]

perfectly fine | driver x m!reader

tags | casual, smut (dryhumping, coming in pants, the usual), driver x male reader, actor reader, undefined relationship, established relationship words | 1.7k request? | by anon summary | driver is your stunt double, and after a day of filming you unwind in your trailer with some dry humping

notes | send in requests! (especially sub! / bottom! ryland grace). writing a fic for someone without a name was an experience. can't wait to do it again for the next one lol. i was going to jump straight into smut, but i've developed a bad habit of making some plot pre-smut. reblog if you liked it!

you cringed at the metallic screech of the car crashing into the metal pole. almost instantly, the response crew ran across the open set and swarmed the car, fire extinguishers in hand like they’d done this a million times before. which, you supposed they might as well had considering how many stunts were in this movie alone.

you stayed put, watching with bated breath as your stunt double was helped out of the racecar. he had his helmet tucked under his arm, already moving away, even as the physicians tried to check him over.

at their insistence, he stayed put for a few moments, giving a nod in response to the medical team’s questions. his eyes met yours briefly.

for a moment, the world seemed to blur. everyone else fell out of focus, except for him. maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was just your imagination—but you could’ve sworn you saw the barest curve of a smile on his face. a private acknowledgement, meant just for you.

“alright, great work everyone!” kristoff, the director, clapped his hands a few times, breaking the private trance. “don’t forget! we’re back here tomorrow at six, sharp! great work today, guys. great work.”

you nodded briefly at the director, already turned towards your trailer to avoid being pulled into another conversation. while you normally loved to speak, especially about your work and passion, there was something you were more interested in that evening.

you lingered behind, letting your steps slow without making it obvious. your eyes flicked back, and there he was again. wearing that same faint, almost smug smile, held just long enough for you to catch it. it was just a little more deliberate than last time, enough for you to be sure that it was directed to you. meant for you.

you responded with a subtle motion toward your trailer, careful and casual. his nod back was just as discreet, and the stupid little grin that crept onto your face felt completely justified.

by the time you got to your trailer, the chaos of the set felt distant, replaced by the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the sound of the door shutting behind you. you leaned back against it for a second, trying to let your blood settle.

the adrenaline from the stunt, even as a bystander, hadn’t left you completely. seeing the way he handled the car, twisting and turning as if it was an extension of himself… it left a feeling in your chest that you didn’t even bother trying to name. you’d spent the last few weeks trying not to name it.

you kicked off your shoes, almost walking past before doubling back to rearrange them a little bit neater. the smell of leather and coffee was strong in the trailer, a mix of all the costumes and cheap drink you’d consumed in the past weeks. when a short knock sounded on the door, you weren’t surprised.

you merely turned and found him slipping inside the trailer before anyone caught him. he still had some grease and fake soot on his face—remnants from the stunt he’d just completed. his short hair was sticking up in places, like he hadn’t bothered to smooth it down after removing his helmet.

“hey there, hotshot,” you smirked teasingly, leaning your hip sideways against the inside of the trailer. “i was wondering how long it’d take for you to get here.”

your grin widened when he didn’t even roll his eyes in response to the teasing. instead his smirk turned sharper, and your chest tightened at the sight.

“would’ve been quicker if i could teleport,” he said.

you laughed at that, head tipped back as you couldn’t hold it in anymore. you saw the crinkle in his own eyes before he stepped in towards you. your laughter died, but the smile remained on both of your faces as the distance between you closed in two steps.

“hey,” you whispered, unable to stand the silence.

your hand lifted, brushing lightly over the back of his neck. you watched almost in awe as he leaned into it, lashes fluttering shut for a moment. he didn’t use words, but you could understand him anyways. your noses nearly touched, breaths mingling as your lips drew nearer.

you closed the gap, mouth moving over his slowly at first. getting reacquainted after an entire day apart. your other hand lifted to graze his hip, and you pulled him closer. his hips knocked into yours and he let out a sound so sweet that you had to pry apart his lips to drink it up. the hand on his hip drifted to the small of his back, before dipping lower and resting on the curve of his ass.

the corners of his lips tipped up enough just for you to feel it into the kiss. you grinned back, nipping his lower lip before letting your lips trail down. you settled your lips against a spot below his neck where a fading hickey still remained. 

“makeup department give you any trouble?” you murmured against his skin.

“not as much as medical,” he responded quietly after a moment.

you smiled and bit the spot again, before soothing the sting with a swipe of your tongue.

he let out a low hiss, his fingers tangling into your hair as you began to suck the spot. after a few moments, he began to get impatient, if the way he repeatedly tugged on your hair was any indication.

“eager,” you teased with a chuckle, pressing a kiss to his pulse point.

“we’re on a time constraint,” he responded, sharply tugging at your hair once again. “i’d rather not have the janitors walk in on us again.”

“that was one time,” you defended yourself while smiling stupidly. “and they never recognized you. besides, i thought i apologized for that already. multiple times.”

“you did,” he said. “but i’ll still bring it up.”

your eyes crinkled with your grin, but you let him back you up onto the couch in your trailer. the leather creaked below you as you sat down, getting comfortable. you pulled your shirt off and threw it aside, arms spread over the back of the couch as you looked up at him.

he was standing still above you, brows slightly furrowed as if he was contemplating something.

“what?” you laughed. “getting cold feet after four weeks of this?”

he shook his head simply, taking off his own shirt as well before settling onto your lap, his knees on either side of your thighs. you raised a brow, about to ask him if you should take your pants off first, when he rocked his hips suddenly.

the moan you let out was echoed by him, a sudden sound in the quiet of the trailer.

“fuck,” you murmured, bringing both hands around to settle onto his hips. you tilted your head back, letting him come down to mark the column of your throat.

“let’s do it like this,” he said against your skin.

your response was lost as he rubbed his clothed erection against your own, this time more deliberately.

“y-yeah,” you managed to ground out. “like this is perfectly fine.”

your hands on his hips guided his slow rocking, while your own hips twitched upwards to chase more of that friction and meet him in the middle. your mouths were pressed together again in a kiss, but it was little more than an exchange of moans and heavy breaths. he ground his hips faster, and you could feel his cock twitch despite the layers between you.

you wanted to say something, anything, but your brain had short circuited so that nothing was clear except for him and the way he moved against you. the way he fit, like a missing puzzle piece.

one of your hands slid down from his hips to the globe of his ass, and squeezed.

“fuck,” he responded breathily into your own mouth.

you felt him reposition himself slightly, reangle just so. in a way that the friction was nearly unbearable as he continued his motions. the shape of his cock was already familiar to you, but the way it pressed against your own like this had to be a form of heaven.

“i’m—fuck, i could cum like this,” he murmured, lips wet as he spoke against yours.

“then do it,” you responded, the breath suddenly knocked out of your lungs. just the thought of bringing him over the edge like this was enough to make your cock twitch in your pants.

he bit your jaw, and then picked up the pace once more. you rocked your hips up each time, meeting him in the middle of each movement. the layers of fabric between the two of you, and the way you could still feel the outline of his cock made you desperate for relief. you rubbed against him quicker, whispering a mixture of honey-slick encouragement. you didn’t even think they made sense, the words leaving your mouth, but you were too far gone to even care.

you felt him drop his head against the crook of your neck, just barely covering up the sound of his broken moan as his movements slowed down. it took a few moments for your lust-addled brain to catch up, but then you felt the wetness of his pants against your own. heat rolled low in your stomach, and it didn’t take long for you to follow him over the edge.

you panted quietly, one hand rubbing his lower back while the other brushed the short hair along his nape. when he finally lifted his head, his forehead was drenched in sweat, and he was flushed a pretty pink. he looked wrecked, considering you guys hadn’t even taken all of your clothes off. you were sure that you didn’t look any better.

you couldn’t help but brush back some of the sweaty strands against his forehead. “remind me to do this again soon.”

this time he rolled his eyes, a quiet laugh escaping him. “if you don’t get dressed and get out of here before the janitors come by, there won’t be anything happening soon.”

you watched with a fond smile as he got up, collecting a shirt off the ground and prepared to make his way back to his car. you stayed close behind him the entire way.

maybe you’d be getting your repeat performance sooner than expected.

[mlmmetalhead]

Driver x m.reader

summary: another stressful night, another time he seeks you out.

SMUT MDNI

tags: established relationship(?), softdom driver, no penetrative sex, driver doesn’t get off, handjob, leather kink, cum eating.

Driver had become acquainted with your little evenings. Usually after another one of his outings as a getaway driver, he’d seek out the empty side of your bed, his nose buried in your neck, inhaling the smell of sweat and your natural musk, and all of it was so relaxingly human, so normal, so unlike anything he was.

When your lips would find his, he usually would roll over on his back and let you take care of it, only occasional mewls and whines leaving his mouth. Tonight, though, he felt more appreciative than usual. You understood that by the way his hands wandered down your chest in stomach, still covered by leather as if he felt he wasn’t worthy of touching you with his bare hands, like if he got rid of the barrier between you two it would make the encounter too real.

You chuckled into his mouth as his still fully clothed thighs settled on both sides of yours. “This is new..”

Driver’s lips left small pecks on both the sides of your jaw before your eyes met his, those akin to a puppy, indescribably sad, but before you could ask what was wrong, he started talking: “Can I please take care of you tonight?”

The request felt a little bit like cold water being dumped over your head. You blinked at him and a flustered grin spread over your lips: “Y- yeah, I guess, I mean..” you opened your mouth again to ask a supplemental question, but it died down in your throat as you felt Driver’s hands quickly undoing the button of your pants and sliding down the fly.

What has gotten into him, you wondered for a while if something huge happened at the last getaway, if some big change is coming because what else warranted this—

Your mental spiral was interrupted by the sensation of leather wrapped fingers sliding over your cock. A sound got knocked out of your chest at the sensation and Driver’s lips curved in a shy smile as he slowly moved his hand over your length, a dusting of pink on his face. His thumb brushed over your slit and he made a small content noise at the shiver that got out of you.

“This okay?” He asked, tone gentle and attentive, all the while his hand continued slowly moving up and down, his eyes darting from your cock to your face for signs of discomfort.

You made a sound of agreement and leaned back against the headboard, closing your eyes at the sensation of the leather gloves on your length, the smooth material getting warmer from the combined heat of your member and Driver’s eager hand.

You felt the mattress dip as he leaned in suddenly, chasing your face as your noses bumped into each other, his hand not losing any speed but maybe changing the angle a little bit. You opened your eyes to be met with the adoring state of his blue ones, that shy smile still on his lips when he leaned in to capture your lips in a kiss once more, this time a little more demanding, his tongue prodding between your lips and curiously swiping your teeth and the roof of your mouth.

You couldn’t help the noise you made into the kiss and you felt the leather on your dick get a little wetter with a drip of precum rolling down your shaft.

Driver made a small sound of content into your mouth, before pulling away and going for your neck instead. For some reason, you’d expected he would be more rough than this. Slow and tentative kisses across the spread of your neck, his lips still a little wet from your previous kiss. His breath hit your sensitive skin and you couldn’t help the way your hair stood up at the way the tip of his nose grazed your skin.

“Good?” He asked suddenly pulling back up, nudging your nose with his. The whole time, he continued jerking you off at quite a punishing pace, you wondered if this is how he usually touched himself, maybe even to the thought of you.

You nodded and breathed out a heavy sigh, licking your lips. “Good.” You murmured, your hips couldn’t help but move slightly upwards into his gloves palms, but Driver was all too eager to accept this movement. He circled your head with his index finger, sliding under the crown and tracing it gently, his glove now soaked with your arousal. He leaned his head back onto your shoulder, smiling softly the whole time as your hips bucked into his hand more.

“You’re doing so well..”

He murmured against your skin, and you could swear you’re falling apart just like that. He pressed another slow, wet kiss into your clavicle and you just wish in this moment he was more of a talker.

His hand balled around your length in a fist now, maintaining a rough up and down pace. After a few moments, you weren’t even sure how but you caught yourself on the feeling of the familiar knot tighting up in your gut, knocking out a sound out of you.

“Close…” is all you could muster up as the words seemed to only egg your partner on, his hand speeding up and gripping your hardness tighter, the leather leaving a pleasant but somewhat weird feeling on its skin as you twitched in his hand.

“Please…” in his low voice with a crack is all it takes to take you over the edge, opaque whiteness painting Driver’s crimson glove. As your breath heavied and he placed another kiss on your neck, he brought the hand that has been previously busy up to his face and licked the white streaks away from it, glancing up at you periodically to make sure you were watching.

As his gloves came off and he slid under the blanket next to you, Driver buried his nose into your neck and inhaled the smell of sweat and sex, his breath more shaky than usual. So normal.

[dqrkhold]

𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐯𝐢𝐭𝐲

𝐑𝐲𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞 𝐱 𝐌!𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒 : After hours of frustrating research and mounting stress, Ryland finally gives in to the distraction he’s been craving. What starts with a nervous offer of Skittles and a hesitant kiss quickly turns heated as he’s bent over his cluttered desk, papers and textbooks scattering around him while he lets himself forget everything except the person touching him. | drabble + porn without plot

𝐌𝐃𝐍𝐈 + 𝐅𝐃𝐍𝐈 mature content below.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒 : Smut, Dom!Male!Reader, Fluff, Sub!Ryland, Moaning, Praising, Sex over textbooks, M!Reader (giving), swearing, Explicit Content, Cum, Dirty Talk.

𝐌𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 | 𝐑𝐞𝐪𝐮𝐞𝐬𝐭

The desk is a disaster. Papers scatter across the mahogany surface, textbooks stacked precariously at the edges, their spines cracked open to dense equations and annotated notes. He'd offered you the Skittles first—held out the half-empty bag with trembling fingers, a nervous gesture that betrayed how badly he wanted this distraction. “You want some? Before we... I mean, if we're going to—“ His words dissolved into a mumble, cheeks flushing crimson as you took the bag, set it aside, and pulled him into a kiss that said yes, we're going to. Now his ass hits the desk edge, scattering papers further. A textbook slides off and thuds to the carpet, but he doesn't care. He's already making that noise—a high, needy whine that escapes his throat as your hands find his hips and yank him forward.

You take your time undoing his belt. He squirms, fingers digging into your shoulders, rocking his hips into your touch with pathetic urgency. When you finally free his cock—already hard, flushed and leaking at the tip—he gasps, head falling back. “Oh god,” he moans. You guide him to turn, pressing his chest down against the scattered papers. His palms flatten on a diagram of some molecular structure, smearing the ink. You don't care. He doesn't care. His ass angles up, jeans bunched around his thighs, and he looks back at you with wide, wet eyes.

“Please just—“ He swallows. “Fuck me Hard. I need to not think about anything except you inside me.” You line up your cock against his entrance, using your spit as a lubricant. The tip presses in—just barely—and he freezes, breath held, waiting. You push in. He cries out, a raw, broken sound. His forehead drops to the desk, scattering pens and a coffee mug. The papers underneath him shift, a few floating to the floor. He's so hot inside, so tight, gripping you like he's been starving for this. You grip his hips and fuck into him, slow at first, letting him feel every inch of the stretch.

His whines fill the room—loud, shameless, broken into fragments every time you bottom out. “Yes—yes—right there—don't stop—“ He's babbling, lost in it, and the papers beneath him are getting soaked with tears and drool. You grab a fistful of his hair, pulling his head back. His eyes are glazed, his mouth open. “Look at you,” you growl, fucking into him with increasing pace. “This is what six hours of work gets you. Bent over your own desk, getting your brains fucked out.”

“Oh god,” he moans, the words slurred. “Oh fuck, yes, yes…”You slam into him harder, gripping his hip with your free hand, fingers digging into the skin hard enough to leave bruises. The desk squeaks against the floor from the force of it, papers scattering everywhere, and Ryland just takes it—moans into it, pushes back against every thrust, his body completely surrendered. “I'm gonna come,” he warns, voice high and wrecked. “I'm gonna—fuck, I can't hold it—“

You reach around and wrap your hand around his dick, stroking in time with your thrusts. That's all it takes—one pump, two, and he's coming with a broken scream, spilling hot over your fingers and onto the papers beneath him, his whole body shuddering through the orgasm. His ass clenches around you, milking you deeper, and the sensation drags you over the edge too. You pull out just in time, painting his lower back with thick ropes of cum, watching it drip down the dip of his spine and pool on the desk. He collapses, chest heaving, face pressed into a mess of equations and diagrams and his own release.

For a long minute, there's only heavy breathing and the faint rustle of papers settling. Finally, Ryland turns his head, one eye cracked open, looking up at you with a dazed, sated grin.

“...Worth it,” he whispers. “I was getting nowhere with that research anyway.” You grab the Skittles bag from where you'd tossed it earlier, shake a few into your palm, and offer them to him. He takes them directly from your hand with his lips, crunching lazily.

𝐓𝐚𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭 ~@magicstarbits @capsicleforever @loverclear @gayaristocrat @godjustkys @sluttyhusband @carnalcrows @amor-xoxo @loverboyisaac @gayaristocrat @manlover0729 @cronasluvr @celestiallightking @spnfanboy777 @elreystories @billyloveworld88 @its-ares

© 𝐃𝐪𝐫𝐤𝐡𝐨𝐥𝐝 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟔

[abracadaverdog]

Holy Shit

holland march x male reader x jackson healy

almost 3.5k words, not beta’d

part 1, part 2

Holland hasn’t even tried to contact you since the night at Jackson’s apartment, and you’ve given up hope of ever seeing him again-because you refuse to go out and run the risk of seeing him out of sheer embarrassment- so it’s a surprise when you finally get a phone call. But it’s not from March.

Jackson Healy takes you out to dinner, but there’s more than just a meal on his mind. You’ve happily set his plan in motion.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW minors do not interact. reader is written with a penis, but no other appearance descriptions. no use of y/n. receiving hickeys, jerking off, frotting if you really squint, m/m/m threesome (no penetrative sex), marchly have a sexually charged domestic in the middle of it all and you don’t mind. pet names (baby, doll, darling, sweetheart.), age gaps (healy calls reader ‘kid’ and then i never bring it up again because i forgot) jackson plans this to prove a point to march. about..something ? anyway they’re both possessive and annoying and unaware they like each other . cumming in pants

a/n: i’ve really gotta stop writing in the middle of the night. but i’ve been stuck on this for like a week and got inspiration thanks to several cocktails. 2am is my writing sweetspot but it’s when i get flare ups in my hands so excuse any spelling mistakes/typos. i’ve tried to fix them all as i go

The call came around 6pm, and you half expected it to be one of your friends, chewing you out for bailing on the bar for the millionth time in the last few weeks, but the shame of potentially bumping into March had kept you confined to your shitty apartment each night.

You answer with a hesitant 'hello' and statement of your name, bracing for a barrage of annoyance at your lack of presence.

"Hey, it's Jackson Healy." You stop dead where you'd begun pacing, the phone damn near falling from your hands.

"Oh god- Hi Jackson, oh god- I was going to come by and apologise sooner! I've just been so caught up with work- was there anything broken? Oh- Did anything need cleaning? I'll pay for it I swear I-" He cuts your rambling off with a gravelly laugh, and you have to lean against the wall at the sound. God, you'd met the man once and he's already got you hot under the collar.

"No no, don't you worry yourself about that, Loverboy took care of it." The laugh makes your chest tighten, and you're suddenly very glad you're home alone so no one is there to witness the bashful grin that tugs at your lips.

"Oh." Is all you can think to say. The mention of March almost stings, because for a brief moment, despite all your mess and chaos, you believed you and him could've been something. Even if that something was a long series of sleazy meetings and teasing fucks. You'd take it.

Maybe Healy could take you instead-

"Are you uh- how have you been?" You stumble through the question, eager to listen to him speak again. it's shameless, the way you want nothing more than to hear his gravelly voice until the end of time.

"Good thanks- yeah.." He trails off, but only for a moment. "Are you free tonight?" The question has your brain short circuiting, and you stammer, resting your forehead pathetically against the wall. What the hell was going on with you?

"Oh uh-yeah-yeah I am." Gone was the confidence you possessed drunk, and you side eyed the fridge- but Healy doesn't let you get that far.

"Good. I'll pick you up in 30 minutes. Wear a nice shirt, we're going to a restaurant."

Holy shit.

Exactly 30 minutes later there's a knock at the door, and you open it with shaking hands to see Healy, resting against the doorframe, glasses perched on his forehead. "You look good." He holds his hand out expectantly, and your heart leaps into your throat as you take it.

"Thanks, you look good too." You settle on answering, and he simply grins, letting his hand slide over your arm to sit nicely on the small of your back as you move to lock your door.

"No need to be nervous." Healy hums, a little closer than he probably needed to be, practically caging you against the door before stepping back like nothing happened.

He keeps his hand firmly on your back as you walk down to his car, and your heart thrums when he opens the door for you to climb in, winking before rounding to the drivers side.

You sit in an oddly comfortable silence as he drives you to the restaurant, and you spend approximately 99% of that time split between wondering why the hell he's taking you out to dinner, and coming to terms with the fact you absolutely do not care.

Healy is a severely attractive man, and if he wants to drag your sorry, embarrassed ass to a restaurant for no clear reason, you’re absolutely going to let him. And only partly because you think it might lead you back to March, who had been avoiding your calls.

“Here we are.” The restaurant he parks outside is nice, much fancier than you could ever take yourself too, and you’re pleasantly surprised when he once again circles the car to open your door and help you out.

“Thank you, Jackson.” You hum, expecting him to pull away now you’re in public, but instead he loops his arm around your waist once more, guiding you towards the door.

“Don’t mention it.” He flashes a casual grin, but something in his eyes tells you that you actually shouldn’t mention it.

Dinner is oddly rather uneventful, Healy spends most of the time probing about your life, though you do get the feeling that he may know more about you than he lets on. Mainly on account of the fact that neither him or March knew your name, or even where you lived, and yet he’d called you up and successfully shown up at your front door without so much as a confirmation. Surprisingly, you realise that that fact doesn’t quite set you on edge like it should, and you find yourself more charmed than freaked out. Healy had insisted you owed him absolutely nothing- not even an apology- for what had happened at his apartment, and this was purely a dinner to ‘clear the air’ and fix first impressions.

Healy, as far you were concerned, was an absolute gentleman- and a handsome one at that.

★

“Do you want to come back to my place?” The tension had been thick through dinner, and between his lingering glances and the hand that had somehow found its way to your thigh under the table, your answer was a no brainer. An opportunity to spend more time with the man staring at you like you were the only person in the whole world, was not an opportunity you were going to pass up. You probably looked a little too eager to say yes, but you were way past worrying about being pathetic. That embarrassment could wait until later.

You hadn't been back there long when there was a knock at the door, and whilst it caught you off guard, he didn't seem surprised at all, and turned to you with a warm smile. "I think you're gonna like this, hmm?" He didn't elaborate, and you stared at his broad back as he walked to open the door.

"Healy?" It was March, you were sure of it, and you thought your heart might leap out of your chest with how fast it was beating now.

"Good. You're here." His fingers wrap around March's shoulder, and he all but drags him into his apartment, pushing him towards your space on the sofa as he recalls some event from the day, though it cuts short at the sight of you, sitting on Healy's sofa, a beer in hand.

"March." Your eyes are wide, and his are too. It takes him several seconds of open mouth gawking at you for him to resume his usual composure, a smirk pulling shakily on his lips.

"Hey doll." He winks, but you don't quite think he's fully confident in the gesture, because his grin slips just a moment later. "What-What's happening here?" The reality seems to hit him, because he sounds scandalised as he spins on his heel to jab at Healy. "Not fucking cool! You-You can't ruin my night with him and then steal him!" They're arguing with each other like you aren't there, and for some reason that has a warmth growing in your stomach, and you find yourself awfully fidgety all of a sudden, eyes flicking between the pair of them.

"What? Do I need to ask your permission to take a guy out? March you're ridiculous! You don't own the kid!" Something stirs when he calls you kid, and the almost empty beer bottle slips from your fingers, the noise of it hitting the carpeted floor has them both turning to you.

"I'm sorry-I should go I-" The speed at which they both move towards you is almost startling, and you struggle to pick one to look at.

"No-" They both say at once, followed by a shared glare.

"No, you don't have to go." Healy insists, shooting another pointed glance at March, before moving to sit on the sofa beside you, only for the other man to mirror it at your other side.

Oh.

Oh.

You're starting to think Healy had a little more than a dinner date and a drink at his apartment in mind, and his lack of surprise when March showed up suddenly makes sense.

"Darling." His voice is a deep hum that rattles deliciously in your chest, and you find yourself magnetised to his side, leaning just a fraction closer to him as he speaks. "I wanted to make the other week up to you." His hand slips effortlessly onto your thigh, hooking around the inside of your leg to part it slightly. Your breath hitches and a small sigh escapes your lips, though you hear a grumble of complaint to your right, where March is pouting.

"Yeah and -! Well I wanted to, too." Granted you'd only seen the man twice, but the March you were experiencing now was so far stripped back from the overconfident sleazy talker that you knew, in a way that was almost unnerving.

"Yeah yeah." Healy waves his hand dismissively towards him, which only seems to aggravate him further.

"Doll-" One hand grabs at your knee, the other moving to grasp at your cheek, pulling your attention over to him. "C'mere." He hums, drawing your lips to meet his, feeling them stretch into a smirk as your mouths met. March was back. He makes out like a man starved, tongue slipping across your lips before prodding into your moth, swiping behind your teeth, the hand on your face curling gently around your head to keep you steady, pressed to him.

"Fuck-" You almost forget Healy is there, until there's a weight shifting beside you, and the hand on your thigh wretches your leg into his lap as he sinks just far enough behind you to begin to mouth rather sloppily at your neck.

Your curse into March's mouth, and he simply swallows the sound eagerly, squeezing at your thigh the way Healy is too, and you're swimming now, your brain feeling like mush as they both manhandle you in their own way.

"My turn." There's an actual growl from Healy, who swats at March from behind your back until he reluctantly pulls back, eyes shining as they fall to the string of spit that connects your mouths. "There you are, sweetheart." The deep tone of his voice is sinful as he helps tilt your body towards him, enough that your head can turn to meet his own in his reclined position, partly under you. The strain on your neck makes you whine, but you don't have it in you to care, your only focus falling to Healy, who's now about to eat you alive, enough that you once again forget that theres a second person in this scenario.

A second person, in fact, who's now ripping at your shirt buttons like they personally offend him, huffing angrily when one gets stuck, halting him in his path to sucking bruises into your skin again. "Perfect." He mutters when he's finally pulling your shirt open, practically climbing onto you in order to position himself to begin mouthing across your chest.

"Leave space for me, March." Healy barely pulls back enough to talk, and his words end up half muffled by your lips, but March seems to get the message regardless, waving a dismissive hand halfheartedly towards his friend, mouth barely leaving your skin.

You’re whining and whimpering now in a way you don't think you ever have before, the overwhelming feeling of having two men pawing and kissing you making everything buzzy. You feel almost delirious, and it's not helped when March begins to grope at your chest, groaning against the expanse of your neck as he rubs a thumb repeatedly into your nipple.

You break apart from Healy to pant, head resting uselessly against his shoulder, and you can barely think of where to place your hands, one gripping at March's shoulder as he continues his work, the opposite entwining with Healy's. "Fuck." You curse softly, and you only feel more lightheaded when Healy grabs at your waist, using your linked hands at one side and his own at the other in order to wrestle you firmly into his lap, his chest against your back.

"You okay, darlin?" You can feel the vibrations when he all but groans into your ear, feeling you writhe as March continues ministrations, barely affected by all the change of position.

"Y-Yeah." Your voice catches in your throat as March's lips slide over your chest again, much to both of their entertainment.

"March- I said fuckin' leave some room for me." Healy reaches around you, just enough to tangle a fist in March's hair, pulling his head away, much to his protest.

"I'm busy here, asshole!" He snaps, peering around your head in a way that makes you wonder if there's a little more going on that a simple hookup. It feels like you've unknowingly entered into a relationship that doesn't know it's a relationship yet.

"Yeah? Well go be busy with yourself!" March's eyes narrow at him, and it's like you're not even there now, because he's shuffling back off you, enough that he can lean around to prod Healy in the shoulder.

"You're the one who invited me, dipshit!" He huffs, and yeah, this is starting to feel a little too much like a domestic dispute you shouldn't be part of.

"I invited you here to give you a fuckin' lesson on how to treat a man properly!" Healy's thick arm wraps around your torso, and he pulls you just a fraction closer to him, enough that you can feel the weight of his hard cock beneath you. Holy shit. Holy shit holy shit holy shit. You chant it in your head like it can save you from whatever the hell was about to happen, but your heart knows you want nothing more than to be stuck between whatever messy situation was currently unfolding.

"You're always trying to one up me, Healy!" March's voice has that same shrill tone as when Healy had come home to interrupt you both, and you so desperately wanted to pick apart whatever dynamic they seem to have trapped themselves in, because he looks damn near seconds away from crying. "You can't just let me have this!" Healy scoffs behind you, and he barely registers the whine he pulls from you when he shifts in the seat, he's far too focused on the argument he's having.

It's almost hot, in a weird way. He's still dragging pleasure from you whilst also pretty much pretending you don't exist.

They're so wrapped up in each other they're barely even focusing on the entire reason they'd brought you here.

"Let you have 'this'?" He shuffles again, unsettled in his annoyance, and you have to bite back a groan as he does so- you have no idea how he's staying so...calm and so unfazed. "You don't even know his name, March!" He gawks at you both for several seconds, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to find words to say, coming up empty.

Instead however, he chooses to make a daring move, and unceremoniously grabs at your dick, not dissimilar to how he'd done so in the bar bathroom, and you have to bite back a yelp at the sudden friction.

"I know he likes this." He snipes back, and you barely comprehend what's going on as his mouth is back on yours, and you simply sink into the overwhelming feeling again, because Healy begins to shift his hips repeatedly upwards.

"Every guy likes that, idiot." He huffs, but makes no attempt to push him off you, not even when March begins fiddling with your zipper.

Healy's hands are tight around your waist as he jerks beneath you, each lazy roll upwards of his body bringing another wave, which you groan about wantonly into March's open mouth. It's clear but the way they're both moving now, that this has long since stopped being entirely about pleasuring you for the sake of it, and more about each proving a point to the other. You don't have it in you to even be mad, not when it all feels so good.

"You're so good for us, yeah?" Healy praises, one hand slipping forward to untuck your shirt as March tries desperately to get your trousers open without looking down and disconnecting your lips.

"Mhm!" Is all you can whine in response, feeling boneless against Healy, who appears to be hellbent on groping every part of you now with the hand that's not massaging your hips.

"Isn't he good, March?" He prompts, and you're unsure if it's just a ploy to get March to pull away, because the second you're not kissing, he's attempting to draw your mouth to his with a hand on your neck.

"I've claimed his mouth." March huffs, and suddenly he's on you, knees barely fitting over yours and Healy's combined, staying upright with an arm hooked around his partners back to anchor him on, the other working you out of your trousers, too eager to even try to pull them down. "You get his ass and chest." Once again, they're talking about you like you aren't there, and you catch them both glaring at each other over your shoulder.

"Not very gentlemanly of you, March." He grins, bucking up into your clothed ass again, jolting you to jerk your hips forward yourself, meeting March's hand.

"You know, I don't think he minds." He grins, wrapping his fingers around the head of your dick, squeezing gently.

“Fucking hell.” Your head falls forward to rest on March’s shoulder, and your hand drops to his lap, beginning to mirror his movements, palming him in time with the way he’s jerking you off.

Not one to miss out, Healy watches with a slack jaw for several moments, eyes fixated on where your dick presses to the fabric of March’s straining trousers, before he begins to buck up in time with both of you.

There’s a chorus of moans happening from all 3 of you, and you thank whatever in the universe is watching over you that not only does Jackson live above a thriving comedy club with no neighbours to complain about the sound, but also that you’ve somehow even ended up in the current situation. Someone out there is looking out for you.

“Kiss him.” Healy grunts, his hand moving back to resume his earlier ministrations across your chest, tweaking your nipple between his thumb and forefinger. This time, March doesn’t argue back, and eagerly dives forwards to make out, all sloppy and messy, pushing you backwards and down onto Healy, who groans at the feeling, cursing into your ear, his pace quickening.

“Fuck.” March is panting, and you’re both slobbering over each other so much that you can barely keep your lips together, spit dribbling down both your chins.

“Shit.” The feeling is starting to get so overwhelming you can’t even concentrate on kissing back, and instead begin to cry and babble incoherently into his open mouth, not that he seemed to mind, especially when it just spurred him on to jerk you off even faster.

“His hearts racing, I think he’s close.” Healy’s hand had settled between your pecs, and he used the grip to move you in time with his thrusts, dragging you slow down against his cock with each movement.

“C’mon baby, you gonna come for me again? Third time’s the charm.” He practically purrs, a hand on the back of your head tilting it down so you can watch the way you’re now humping both his fist and his clothed bulge, your precum wetting the fabric, along with strings of spit dripping from your lips. “Come on, say my name doll, come for me.” He urges, almost as desperate as you are, watching the way your hips begin to stutter.

Your mouth opens to shudder a cry of his name as you come undone, only for thick fingers to bully their way into your mouth, muffling your words around them. Healy had genuinely shoved his fingers in your mouth so you don’t call March’s name.

“Fuck!” March is close behind you, coming in his pants for a second time, grinding up against your palm, and it seems to only be when he throws his head back, that Healy, with eyes trained solidly on his partners body, cums beneath you with a heavy groan.

Holy shit.

“You guys need to like..make out or something, I’m so serious.”

[horrorofdietcoke]

always home | l. glanton x m!reader

tags | fluff, luke glanton x male reader, circus worker, undefined relationship, established relationship words | 2.1k request? | by anon summary | an evening with luke between cities

notes | send in requests! i'm trying to show a sort of different side of luke. he's not very fluffy in general, but i think in a more stable environment he could've been esp since that's what anon requested. also, trying a new layout, with the photos. thoughts? reblog if you liked it!

gravel crunched below your feet as you wandered through the narrow alleys of the circus set-up. the sound mixed with the distant hum of generators and the metallic screech of tent poles being dismantled somewhere nearby. you’d been with the circus long enough to know every crooked pathway between the trailers and tents by memory alone. different cities, but the same layout each time.

it was home, no matter how strange or temporary. home until the sunrise. home until the trucks were loaded up, and the whole thing disappeared down the highway and towards the next city.

most of the tents were already halfway gone. the string lights always came down first, leaving everything dim and shadowy once the sun disappeared. then the tarps, and finally the metal framework holding it all up. within a few hours, there would be no memory of this place besides for a few forgotten flyers and a flattened grass field.

performers and crew wandered around in loose groups now that the night’s shows were over. some lingered near the near-empty food trucks, while others packed equipment away between conversations. a few kids still hung around too, sticky fingers clutching cotton candy while they shyly asked performers for autographs.

others from the circus were already peeling off into town, finding someone willing to keep them company for their last night in town.

“coming down to calvy’s?” lydia asked you as she walked by, carrying a folded tarp over one shoulder.

you glanced over at her. she’d been a trapeze artist, until a bad fall had shattered her ankle a few years back. nowadays, she helped out with set up, takedown, and advertising. everyone who worked behind the scenes of the circus, like yourself, had a more fluid set of responsibilities when it came to the job. 

“don’t know about tonight, lyd,” you shrugged. “luke doesn’t really come out to party on the travel nights, you know that.”

“then make him,” she shot back immediately, turning to walk backwards so she could keep speaking. “seriously. he never says no to you.”

you laughed under your breath, “that’s not true.”

“oh, please,” lydia rolled her eyes. “come on. everyone’s going.”

you raised your hands in surrender. “i’ll try.”

“attaboy!”

you shared a fondly exasperated sigh with one of the chainsaw juggling clowns—taylor or tyler, you always had trouble telling the twins apart—as he walked past with someone hanging off of each arm and a shit eating grin just visible through the makeup. you snorted under your breath at the expression, barely refraining from rolling your eyes.

the clown makeup was apparently a turn on to at least somebody, no matter what city the circus stopped in.

you continued on your way, weaving between workers dismantling equipment while drills whined somewhere far behind. metal clanged against metal in uneven bursts as poles hit the ground. the air smelled like a mix of gasoline, cigarette smoke, and sweat.

eventually, you reached the biggest tent left standing. the pride and joy of the circus.

every event at the circus had its own set of admirers, of course. the chainsaw juggling clowns from before, the trapeze artists, the magicians—every single performer. but the one event that drew the most fans, no matter what city you stopped in, was without a doubt, ‘handsome luke and the heartthrobs’.

the metal globe races always packed the tent with people shoulder-to-shoulder. they loved watching the motorcycles tearing it up in the cage, all while luke grinned like he didn’t have a single survival instinct in his body.

and honestly, he knew exactly what he was doing with every charming interaction.

you stopped a few feet away from the tent entrance, but your gaze found luke immediately. he stood outside, surrounded by a small cluster of kids, leaning lazily against the railing while signing wrinkled flyers and ticket stubs and fairy notebooks. his white t-shirt clung to his upper body, slightly damp in the aftermath of his show. the tattoos on his arms rippled with every movement.

a lit cigarette rested between his lips, mostly forgotten as he focused on writing his name.

he looked unfairly good all the time. especially after a show. all flushed skin and messy hair and adrenaline lingering between each breath. he looked like he belonged under the stage lights.

you lingered for a moment, before walking toward him. his eyes lifted automatically, finding you through the small crowd immediately. The second he recognized you, something softened in his face.

“alright, i gotta go,” luke told the kids as he straightened up. “have a good night guys. and, uh, myles, quit bothering sophia.”

the little group burst into laughter while luke ruffled the boy’s hair. he tossed his cigarette down and crushed it beneath his boot on his way over to you.

“hey,” he murmured once he stopped in front of you.

this close, he smelled mostly like smoke and rubber, with an underlying scent of your cologne—he must’ve stolen that in the morning before leaving the motel. the thought made you smile to yourself.

“hi,” you responded just as quiet. “got any plans tonight?”

luke laughed shortly, before schooling his expression as best as he could. the corners of his lips tipped up into a smile anyways. “dunno yet. why?”

“calvy’s?”

he groaned immediately, which only made you laugh.

“oh come on,” you reached forwards to nudge his shoulder. 

“lydia put you up to this, huh?

“maybe.”

luke rubbed a hand down his face. “everything’s moving to the next city tonight. i like to leave with the circus, you know that.”

“you’ll survive if you leave a few hours later.” you bumped his foot with your own. you tried again. “we’ll leave early if you hate it. promise.”

he looked at you for a long moment before sighing dramatically. “yeah, alright. fine.”

you grinned triumphantly as you laced your fingers with his own and pulled him away. “knew you loved me.”

“didn’t say all that,” he murmured, even as the smile gave him away.

“didn’t have to.”

a few hours later, calvy’s was loud enough to make your head spin.

most of the circus had shown up at some point. performers crowded around tables littered with empty glasses, while music rattled through the walls loud enough to feel in your chest. somebody had dragged people onto the tiny dance floor near the jukebox, and now half the room swayed drunkenly beneath the string of coloured lights.

the air smelled like cheap beer and old wood, but you were drunk just enough not to care.

“sorry taylor,” you murmured after you accidentally elbowed one of the clown twins while squeezing through the crowd.

“it’s tyler,” he corrected you.

you lifted your drink apologetically, “close enough.”

he laughed and waved you off with an easy grin.

you finally reached the bar a second later, and a moment after that, spotted luke sitting alone on one of the stools.

he’d abandoned his jacket somewhere, leaving him in his faded white tank top that exposed the tattoos crawling over his arms and shoulders, and the muscles rippling beneath them. his short blond hair was messy from him running his hands through it all night, and his cheeks were slightly flushed from alcohol.

he looked warm and comfortable. your chest tightened at the sight, a stupid little flutter.

“hey,” you grinned, leaning sideways against the bar. you spoke slowly to avoid slurring your words, “what’s a pretty thing like you doing all alone tonight?”

luke snorted, tipping back the rest of his glass before setting it down. his eyes dragged slowly over you, amused and fond all at once. 

“came here with somebody,” he responded just as slowly. “then he ditched me to do some shots with the magicians.”

you gasped quietly. “well, that’s just rude. now, i’d never abandon a pretty boy like you for something as shallow as tequila,” you responded, a hand over your heart in your best attempt to be earnest.

he grinned at you as he tilted his head, a fond twinkle in his eyes. if a year ago, you’d known that luke would one day publicly look at you like this, you wouldn’t have believed it. now, you’re not sure how you could’ve imagined anything else.

“dance with me?” you held out your hand. “i’ll make it up to you.”

luke eyed your outstretched hand, before slipping his into yours. his palms were rough with callouses from years of working around engines, warm despite the cool rings resting on his fingers.

“alright,” he said you pulled him up. “do your worst.”

the two of you stumbled onto the dance floor, laughing quietly under your breath. eventually, the two of you settled near one of the darker edges of the room.

string lights glowed softly overhead, casting warm amber light across luke’s face. shadows settled along the sharp lines of his jaw and cheekbones. his blond hair fell messily along his forehead, damp with sweat.

you sighed as the two of you swayed slowly, hands caressing each other lazily with a kind of familiarity that only really came from all the time you’d spent together.

“you look unfairly pretty in this light,” you murmured quietly, almost afraid to speak any louder.

luke huffed a laugh, his nose brushing lightly against yours. “yeah? you’re not exactly hard to look at either.”

warmth spread low in your chest, a fondness that you would’ve never thought was possible. you leaned forward to press a lazy kiss against the hinge of his jaw.

“you wanna get out of here?” you asked softly against his ear.

luke shivered, bumping his forehead against yours. “yeah, let’s go.”

the night air was cold against your skin, even more so after the heat from inside the bar. it served as a shock, almost sobering you up. your arm automatically slipped around luke’s shoulders as the two of you started down the sidewalk, towards the motel.

at the look he gave you, you merely shrugged innocently. “what? i’m just making sure you don’t freeze to death.”

luke laughed quietly, brushing back his blond hair with his free hand. “such a gentleman.”

“i try.”

he leaned closer anyways, so you took it as a win.

the streets were mostly empty now, washed gold beneath flickering streetlights. your shoulders bumped together every few steps, hips and legs brushing as you continued your way down.

everything felt soft around the edges from alcohol and exhaustion. but beside you, luke felt steady.

by the time you reached the motel, both of you had gone mostly quiet. tiredness settled heavy in your limbs while you dug through your pockets searching for the room key.

behind you, luke rested his chin against your shoulder while staring absentmindedly up at the sky. 

you could feel the warmth of his breath against your neck, smell the whiskey still lingering faintly on it. his hands slid beneath the hem of your shirt lazily, rough fingertips brushing warm skin.

“moon’s pretty tonight,” he mumbled.

you glanced up briefly before looking back at him.

his hair glowed pale beneath the motel lights. sleepy blue eyes blinked back at you slowly, soft around the edges in a way luke only ever got when he was tired.

you smiled a little helplessly.

“yeah,” you agreed quietly. “still think you’re prettier, though.”

luke snorted, ducking his head with a laugh as you finally for the door unlocked. inside, the motel room looked exactly as shitty as ever. dim yellow lighting, faded wallpaper, and the air conditioner that rattled like it was on its last breath.

it’d be your last night here, at least for another year. 

luke kicked his boots off haphazardly near the door, before peeling his shirt off. he tossed it aside, a trail of clothes following his journey to the bed. your own clothes joined his, and then you climbed in beside him a second later. the mattress creaked loudly at the added weight.

“i’m surprised this thing hasn’t broken yet,” you murmured, laying on your side so that you could face luke. he lay on his back, head turned to face you.

“if we didn’t break it last night, it’s probably never going to break,” luke responded with a smirk as you chuckled. luke drowned it out by pressing a sleepy kiss against your lips.

“fair point,” you conceded without argument as the two of you curled up against each other.

outside, the sound of trucks and other motel patrons was still loud. but in here, you were in a world of your own. with your arms around each other, you were both home.

[mossrat]

HI pls i would love some colt action 🙏🙏🙏 i want that man edged and whimpering STAT pls and thank you

colt seavers x male reader

TAGS: smut, edging, dacryphilia, sub colt, praise kink, come eating, reader is both an asshole and a sweeheart and colt is #Whipped !!!

A/N: the way i started this thinking it was gonna be a lil blurb .... colt seavers your power is immense (also this is not beta read and very loosely proofread so pls excuse and lmk of any mistakes)

- MINORS DNI -

˗-ˏˋ ✸ ˎˊ-˗

It’s hard to tell, at the moment, how exactly Colt ended up here. He could surely piece it together if he really tried, if he scoured through his short-term memory enough—but that proves a tricky thing, considering the amount of alcohol in his bloodstream and (perhaps even more potent) the heady pulse of arousal thrumming through him.

It most certainly is not a combination he’s unacquainted with, in fact quite the opposite: he knows not to question it and to instead welcome the wet, eager mouth sliding across his throat with clinging arms. His head meets the wall with a muted thump, the little ache there soon swallowed by the far more thrilling sting of teeth at his jugular.

The switch had been jarring, at first. You’d been so patient, so gentlemanly in those first days after he’d impulsively kissed you in the empty set of a hospital parking lot. Not the most romantic setting for your first kiss, sure, but you’d looked so damn handsome under the wan gleam of the moon, and he’d been buzzing with adrenaline from leaping out of a fifth story window an hour prior, so he just couldn’t help it.

Those following days had been mortifying for him—but he suspects merely amusing for you, as you waited for him not to panic whenever you tried bringing it up. He noticed the lingering touches, the hungry sweep of your eyes when you’d duck into his trailer to call him to set, the fleeting glances to his mouth while he spoke. Anyone could’ve read that as what it was. And Colt did, for the most part.

But despite his occupation consisting of being thrown off buildings and set on fire on a regular basis, Colt can be quite the coward. Especially when it comes to pretty, outrageously charming men.

It took him a week and some change to muster up the courage to properly ask you out, which only stepped into his reach upon realizing that if you hadn’t gone running for the hills yet, then you probably wouldn’t any time soon. And maybe after a particularly lewd dream involving you, too, though that he'll keep to himself.

“Colt,” he feels vibrate against the hollow of his throat. He hums absently, fumbling for the back of your shirt, only to shove it out of the way and slide his palms up your warm back. “Stop thinking.”

“Yep, right, sorry. No more thinking. All empty up here. Starting now.”

Your airy puff of laughter falls against his overheated skin, drawing up goosebumps in its wake. His fingers flex against the broad expanse of your back.

He’s half-hard already, though he’s certain it can’t have been more than a few minutes since you hauled him into this tiny bathroom, hidden away in the mansion rented out for the wrap party. Much to his embarrassment, you’re quick to take note of this, and reach down to drag your knuckles along the top of his belt, hooked underneath his shirt.

“Eager,” you hum, low as if to yourself. With a final kiss to his pulse point, you straighten back to eye level. You meet his gaze, steady and collected as ever, and Colt has the itching urge to shrivel under your quiet scrutiny, feeling heat bloom up his face, near feverish at the tips of his ears. He clutches you tighter, drawing you in closer in hopes of getting your mouth back on his, but you only smile—so tender it’s almost patronizing, and his cock gives a feeble throb in his jeans.

“You really want this, huh, angel?”

The pet name dunks him into a full-body warmth, pooling like slow-moving magma low in his belly. A frustrated sort of groan wobbles out of him, lunging forth in search of another kiss. Ever quick, you dodge him, sliding the hand in his hair down to his jaw, where it grips him steadily. You click your tongue a few times in soft reproach, but press a thigh to his aching crotch nonetheless.

“You look so pretty like this, you know that? I figured I’d appreciate the view for a minute, but it seems someone’s too needy.”

Your name falls from his lips in a ragged huff, unbalanced and more pathetic-sounding than he’d like to admit. His hips, driven by their own volition, roll in erratic grinds against the meat of your thigh, seeking far more than what the meager friction provides.

You smile at him once more before pressing a lingering kiss to the corner of his mouth, then to his chin, and finally to his lips. Allowing him to part your own with his tongue, your second hand dutifully works on his belt and fly. His heart kicks out wildly, a jackrabbit against his breastbone, when you manage to shove his jeans halfway down his thighs with one hand.

A few seconds of nothing at all precedes the sensation of your hand cupping the tented front of his boxer briefs, and it’s in spite of himself that a wet moan cracks through his chest. You swallow the sound happily, thumb sweetly scrubbing across his bearded jawline while your palm follows the length of him, up and down.

“Hmmn—Jesus,” he manages, molars gritted to dust as he tries not to buck too desperately into your warm hand. Only grinds and chases after it when you teasingly withdraw.

There isn’t a single light on in the bathroom, but the moonlight pours in through the tiny overhead window and somehow you stand out in stark relief against the dim blue background. Your eyes, faintly narrowed and a far darker shade than usual, track his every movement, attention evenly split between his face and the rolling of his hips. You’re looking at him as though studying some fascinating experiment, drinking in every minute reaction at the smallest exploratory motions of your hand. Colt burns with arousal.

“Could you come like this?” You ask after an amount of time that is completely lost on him, and the sudden breathy quality of your voice sounds something like awe. Like you’ve made some big, beautiful breakthrough.

Colt, on the other hand, is clawing at your back in a way that’s sure to leave marks and too focused on the blissful angle he’s found, dragging his cock right up against the hollow of your palm. It takes a moment for your words to reach him, and an even longer one for him to piece together their meaning.

“Mhm,” he hums, forehead meeting your shoulder, suddenly feeling it very heavy.

In return, you hum as well, learning the rhythm of his pelvis and matching it, slower yet firmer. Colt’s never been one for this sort of stimulation—more often than not the texture of his boxers makes it all more uncomfortable than pleasurable, but the sheer, fiery want swarming him head to toe could make him come with you just uttering the order.

He’s brought back, fleeting but very vividly in the way drunken abstraction often is, to the dream he had of you—no more than a few nights back.

In it, your skin had been so warm under his fingers, your voice so low and wrecked and your eyes lit with such desire he’d woken up hard and panting and mournfully empty.

The memory alone draws a little surge of pleasure forth, twisting into your neck, sucking in your familiar scent with mounting desperation. His skin crawls with hot anticipation, rutting quicker, harder against your deft hand.

Pleasure rolls over itself, snowballing deep in his navel, sparking down his sweat-sticky thighs; he sucks in a shuddering breath and—

You pull away.

He moans in frustrated dismay, ass coming off the wall entirely, chasing after your retreating palm, but within seconds the building crescendo of his orgasm has wilted away, back to a low baseline of thrumming arousal.

You shush him when he makes another pitiful sound into your clothed shoulder, absentmindedly carding your fingers through the hair at his crown. He will admit, the feeling does somewhat soothe the ache of a denied orgasm. A little.

“We’ve got all night, no need to rush.”

Colt huffs. “We’re in a bathroom at a Hollywood party, if there was ever the need for a quickie, it’d be right now.”

Your answering laugh is quiet and deep in the chest, and it rumbles through his own and settles there, warm.

“Not like anyone will come looking for us. Besides…” You pull back, gripping onto his hair just enough to meet his eye. “You’d stay here all night if I asked you to, wouldn’t you?”

Colt blinks. Considers, quite seriously, the risk he must be at of spontaneously combusting. His cock throbs and throbs, and the way you’re looking at him, keeping a lovingly firm hold on his hair, only makes matters worse.

He doesn’t give you the satisfaction of answering that question; you both already know the answer, anyway.

Next your hands find his waistband, hooking two fingers into either side and sliding it down just enough to free his cock.

It isn’t the first time you’ve seen it, but the satisfied sound you make shoots a pulse of heat straight down into it. You reach down, encircle the base with your clever fingers, and Colt sags against the wall. He pulls one hand out from your shirt to latch on to your tricep, shoving out a shuddering exhale.

“Look at you,” you croon, beginning to languidly pump your fist, all loose and steady. Colt’s thighs quiver.

You’re gonna be the death of him. He just knows it, down to his bones.

“Please,” he grits out, hoping to meet your gaze and inspire some kindness but you keep your own low, fascinated by the ruddy, leaking image of his dick twitching in your fist.

You make an acknowledging sound, but Colt has a feeling you aren’t really getting it. The stimulation is somehow too much and not enough, all at once. He gives a few tentative rolls into the circle of your fist, and when you utter no word of dissent, he begins fucking into it in earnest.

His moan falls muffled into your throat, a place where he comes to realize he could stay forever, breathing you in, getting off on your clever hands and dizzying words.

“What would they all think out there, huh? Seeing you like this. So desperate to come.”

He’s close again already; his pace grows arrhythmic, shallow, sucking at the base of your throat when he isn’t tucking low moans into the skin there.

Your free hand smoothes down the back of his head in an almost petting gesture, thumbing his tip once before pulling away entirely.

Colt’s moan warps, halfway through, into a strained sob, bucking into empty space as his cock weeps pre onto the tile below. He cries out your name, a dragged-out sound of raw need.

“I know, I know,” you sigh into his hair, still stroking it with sure fingers.

“You’re being mean,” Colt whines against you, the arm still crossed over your back dropping to your hip and palming it insistently.

“I just wanna make you feel good,” you reply, the fan of your breath sending shivers down his sweaty back. “At least until I can get you in my bed and fuck you properly.”

Shit—Colt damn near comes from that alone. He whines and his hips jerk wildly, taken on life of their own. For the first time since he’s gotten to know you, he tries very hard not to think about you fucking him within an inch of his life, lest he comes untouched, and as much as he wants to release all the circling, built-up pleasure in him he wants to do it when you let him.

So, he just screws his eyes shut, and mumbles a weak, “okay.”

“Attaboy,” you tease, squeezing the nape of his neck once before returning your free hand to his dick.

A steady breath rolls over into a fractured hum, stretching on with your sparse, gentle touches—a thumb across his slit, a drag of knuckles down the underside, then a graze to his balls. Sweat slides down his heaving chest, longing to bury himself back into you but held back by your hand on his nape.

Observing his slow unspooling, you make a low sound, vaguely resembling a growl.

“God, I wish I could fuck you right now,” you lament, squeezing the head of his cock lightly. Colt yelps, skull knocking against the wallpaper. He eyes you through the narrowed slits of his eyes, draws up something he hopes looks like a smirk.

“You could.”

You shake your head. “No. I really want to take my time with that.”

Colt groans—more agitated than pleasured this time, and digs his thumb into the flesh right above the curve of your hip bone. Your ministrations on him are far more relaxed now, lax and distracted, like some absentminded reflex, and it should be frustrating, but he finds himself reluctantly enjoying it. Your collectedness before his shaky, desperate frame.

Your palm begins making these tight, quick circling motions against his tip, thumbing underneath the head with a pointedness so determined he's certain you'll let him come this time. His body responds in kind, kicking into high-gear and frantically chasing release. A very faint, very fleeting thought crosses his mind that you never even had to spit into your palm—he's damn near soaked your palm and fingers with a seemingly endless supply of precome, and the glide is so utterly frictionless, product of your clever motions and his overwhelming want that it makes his head spin.

He's hardly aware of how loud he's being, bucking like an animal into your hand, baring his throat for your nipping teeth, unraveling in your firm hold. You murmur into his skin, things that are completely lost on him amidst the roaring of blood in his ears, the deluge of pleasure bursting through him—so acute it makes his eyes prickle and his vision warp.

It builds quicker than ever, almost too intensely, his steady quivers deepening into involuntary, full-body jerks. His jaw falls open right as he feels himself approaching the summit, tensing in preparation.

Then you're gone again, and he's ripped right back down. With a wet sob, his tears finally spill over, searing against his warm cheeks. He knows better than to seek you out with his hips again—but they don't seem to get the memo and continue twitching, grinding into nothing.

His mind is empty, scraped hollow and reduced to its most basic instincts; he doesn't register his own frenzied weeping or the near bruising grip he has on you, only tightening as his pleasure slips away like a receding tide. All that he processes is his arousal, so trapped and pressurized it almost hurts, and you, brushing the hair out of his eyes and cooing, as though comforting a small, startled animal.

"Please, please," Colt manages, voice thick with tears, wet-cheeked and aching. You tut softly, and lean in to kiss each streak of salt on his face. It's so tender it makes Colt choke on a sad bleat, sniffling.

"You think you can do one more?" you ask, and maybe if he weren't so muddleheaded he'd catch the fond, facetious lilt of your tone, but panic rises before he can quell it, and his grip on you tightens abruptly. Tears threaten to gather again.

"No, no—I can't, please, I can't do it, I'm sorry—"

"Hey, hey." His teeth clamp shut, blinking hard so your warm expression comes into focus through his tears. "I was joking, angel. You've been so good, so patient. I think you deserve to come, hm?"

Colt's tongue, suddenly, feels stuck to his palate, thick like honey. He nods, though, quite fervently, and flushes warm all over at your sweet answering smile. You lean in to kiss him, closing the gap between your chests and caging him in with your forearm pressed to the wall behind him.

When you finally take him again, it's with a firm, committed grip and quick motions. You're crowded in so close to him he can barely fuck into your fist, pelvis trapped against the wall. He's completely at your mercy, subject to whatever you may decide as his bliss swells, even quicker this time around.

He trusts you, and the way you're looking at him, swiping rogue tears away with your free hand on his cheek, entranced by how he cries—it all makes him shudder.

Pleasure becomes greater than him, so all-encompassing he can't keep his eyes open, rolling so fiercely through his limbs like a ceaseless electric current he briefly fears his legs giving out. It's sharp and blunt and sweltering all at once, crowding into every inch of him, throbbing in his cock, pouring out into your fist.

You watch him unblinkingly.

His own orgasm takes him by surprise. Strikes all at once, so intense he's silent through most of it, shaking and spurting over your hand, onto the floor below. He pulses with it, wave after wave of devastating pleasure, and you pump him through and whisper candied praise into the shell of his ear, coaxing every last drop of come and shudder of bliss out of him, until he sinks against you with a high moan, spent.

His cock continues to twitch through the aftershocks, softening in your still palm, which you're kind enough not to move anymore. His head feels stuffed full of cotton and air, though terribly heavy against your shoulder. Your arm comes off the wall, running a hand along his firm upper arm.

"I love watching you come," you chirp, all warm and lighthearted like you've just won the lottery. Colt grumbles incomprehensibly against your collarbone, letting his eyes slide shut as the world drifts back to him in chunks. You soon release his arm to make him decent, keeping your dirtied hand hovering off to the side.

"Okay," you say, wrapping an arm around his mid back. You pull him off the wall, and turn him over—he goes like a ragdoll in your grip. "There you go, good?" you ask once plopped him down on the toilet seat lid.

Colt manages an inelegant nod, humming his confirmation for good measure. He's better than good—better than great, in fact, but no such word is really coming to mind at the moment and he doesn't feel like speaking, anyway.

You nudge his legs apart in order to crouch down between them. With your elbows perched atop his knees, you peer up at him, eyeing him thoughtfully to make sure he's being honest.

He leans into your hand when you reach for his cheek like a purring cat, certain that were he able, he absolutely would be doing so. Your thumb stretches out, delicately tracing the slightly puffy skin under his right eye, and he watches, then, as your gaze falls to your other hand, still bearing some pale streaks of his come. You quietly regard it, look at him thoughtfully, and then bring your knuckles to your mouth.

His crotch throbs when you lick the come right off your skin, holding his eye with something like a challenge gleaming in your own. You move to your thumb next, sweeping your tongue across the webbing at the base of it. You peer up at him through the fan of your eyelashes and Colt thinks he could almost get hard again, just by watching you. He doesn't think he's ever watched something more erotic, and it's in a stranger's bathroom at a wrap party after the most intense orgasm he's ever had.

Once satisfied, you lower your hand, and reach out with both to zip his fly and do up his button. You lightly smack the outside of his thighs and rise to your feet.

"You with me?" you ask, reaching out, palms upward. He makes haste in taking them, letting you pull him to his feet. He can't help but kiss you again, holding on to either side of your face like you might duck away. You don't; you simply indulge him.

Only when he pulls back for breath, do you speak again, eyes glinting with mischief. "Wanna get outta here?"

[thousandheartstender]

erid mornings

ryland grace x masc reader

cw: sex (m/m), fluffy sex, maybe a little heavier on the fluff than the smut, established relationship

a/n: i can't believe i haven't written anything smutty for him yet and tbh i feel like this barely counts.

grace is needy.

usually is in the mornings. demanding attention before you can get up, clinging to you like he's your only tether to this moment. like if he lets go, grace will open his eyes to find he's alone. that he always has been.

most mornings are like this. they were aboard the hail mary, and they are on erid now.

ryland's grip only becomes harsher on the muscle of your shoulder and back, when one of those mornings turned suggestive, until it wasn't much of a suggestion at all. until he was pulling you down and over him. almost eager once you finally drive into him. and admittedly, it had been a while. since college at least. feels every bit as good as he remembers. but there's something familiar, like a shriek that dies in ryland's throat. thankfully.

regrettably, it's replaced with a short cry that ryland isn't quick enough to stifle in the crease of his arm.

it's just too much.

he hadn't thought about it. with your hands brushing up his sides, skimming up his ribs, it was admittedly hard to think of anything. grace never had a chance to think back to all those little touches on the hail mary; hands that just barely grazed each other, and every bit the coward he couldn't remember, he never tried for more. never asked, despite wanting it; every clumsy bump while you got used to no gravity and how he flushed something horrible with each one, because it wasn't affection, but it was something. it was embarrassingly enough at the time, until it wasn't; every simulated night on the hail mary you spent laying a little closer than necessary. both of you were as willing to acknowledge it as you were willing to stop. so one of you, usually grace, slipped away in those faux mornings, picking up where he left off in the lab a few hours before.

ryland couldn't say when that avoidant streak broke. when all those gentle touches, when every bit of intimacy you both vied for, weren't so unspoken. just that at some point, before erid, it didn't feel so impossible to get out that 'i don't mind' when touch between you lingered longer than felt justifiable. ryland couldn't place when he came to expect you tugging at his arm, pulling him like it's easy. or when it became 'come to bed with me' instead of a passive 'you're running on fumes, man'. all in the same tone as your "don't." impossibly even, while he's entirely overwhelmed from the press of your dick inside him. while you push his arm from his face, leaving grace pouting and loud. "you're so," you don't say whiny, just trail off. but grace knows that's what you meant.

it'd have been awful if you'd said it teasing. or joking.

it might be worse that you didn't. that's it's said soft and earnest.

that was a lot. all of it always left him in awe. keeping his face flushed, leaving a tinge of red crawling down his neck and stowing away at the tips of his ears. all those touches that used to make him jump, that grace forced himself to relax into so you wouldn't stop doing them, they were so much. they felt like so much. and this was more

a good more. a lazy grasping at these mornings on erid, because neither of you were really willing to let soft moments like these just pass by, as of recent. there had been plenty that you'd never lingered on, that ended as quickly as they began. you deserved a few that stuck. that stayed, even you had to make them stay. the moments you can apricate in now that it feels like you're allowed.

so it goes. a cuddly morning becomes something more heated.

half cries, fueled by every touch, every thrust into him, pours into every kiss. panting, hesitant and sloppy against your lips while ryland grinds shamelessly down onto your dick. as much as he can pressed down onto his back. he's desperate for this, which puts a thought in your mind. "you're, fuck. baby, it can't've been since college." low and against his neck. you can feel that red that's smeared down to his chest.

it should be considered a feat of strength that you don't bite harder than ryland can handle when he speaks up. manages to answer what you haven't really processed that you said aloud yet. "s'just been toys, didn't think that counted."

[horrorofdietcoke]

sometime soon | h. march x m!reader

tags | top m! reader, semi-established relationship, mostly smut (with slight plot at the start, but it kinda gets thrown out as the fic goes on)

notes | send in requests! especially things that fit this vibe (aka smut, top reader, or anything at all). holland march makes a lot of noise in bed. no, i do not make the rules reblog if you liked it

the party—sorry, gala—was just another ridiculous excuse for the lamoreaux's to show off their wealth under the guise of raising money for sick children. the night had barely begun, but you'd arrived early to catalogue the guests.

the hosts themselves were still missing, as were most of the higher profile attendees. those that were here wasted no time in taking advantage of every feature of the party.

you waved off a server trying to refill your champagne, eyes peering over the edge of the glass as you studied the crowd. despite being a gala to raise money for... something about kids, you couldn't actually remember—the auction itself was set to start much later.

made sense why attendance was still low.

the lighting in the room was low, dim enough to relax the guests, for sure. servers walked around the room, refilling glasses whenever someone finished more than two thirds. some of those who wanted something stronger were at the open bar, taking full advantage of that. the low buzz of conversations floated around you, but listening to anyone longer than two seconds made you realize that they were all either talking about the grand chandelier, or the ice sculpture, or the live band. nothing you cared deeply about.

you stayed near the edge of the room, shoulder against a marble column, letting your gaze drift along the room. you made eye contact with a few people, and sent a confident nod in their direction each time. if you acted like you recognized them, chances were, they'd be too embarrassed to admit they didn't know you.

despite your easy acting, you never let your gaze sit on something for too long. undercover or not, a cop stare's easy to decipher if someone knows what to look for.

you were here for a reason, and it was important that you stayed unnoticed for that reason. in and out like smoke. you needed a name, a shipment, or even a whisper of something bigger moving through this room.

anything that would confirm the lamoreaux's involvement in the biggest drug operation in los angeles.

you swirled your drink, bringing it up to your mouth without actually taking a sip. you'd finished a glass of something quickly after you had entered, making sure that those present knew you had drank something. anything you put to your mouth now was only an act. your eyes moved casually, even as they catalogued exit points, recognizable guests, staff, faces—

"shit," you breathed into your drink.

at the bar—because of course that's where he was—half-turned towards you as he downed a glass of... something, was none other than holland march.

you exhaled slowly through your nose, resisting the urge to look around too fast. of all people....

he hadn't seen you yet, thank heavens for small mercies. he was talking to the bartender, animated in that loose way of his. he wore an expensive suit, already slightly rumpled. his tie was loose too, just enough that he looked ridiculous. or tipsy. considering who it was, you weren't sure if it was an act or for real.

you'd run into him a few times before. not partners. not even close. but your orbits overlapped. he took on cases as a private investigator, while you worked as a criminal investigator. cases brushed up against each other. his usually emotional and messy, while yours were grittier. but he was there often—annoying, sharp in ways no one understood, and entirely too easy to get pulled into.

and now he was here. which meant your case just got more complicated. or maybe his did.

you pushed off the marble column before you could overthink it and crossed the room, slipping between clusters of people. you dropped your glass on the tray of a passing server. your hand grazed a few arms, you let a few charming smiles and sweet words slip, and no one paid you a second glance.

a charming young man at the gala was all you were, and that's all you wanted anyone to see you as right then.

when you reached holland, you slipped into the open seat beside him.

"you usually work fancy places like this," you said under your breath, "or is this a special occasion? if i didn't know any better, i might start to think you're following me."

you took the offered drink from the bartender, but let it sit mostly untouched in front of you.

holland turned, startled for half a second before recognition hit. his mouth pulled into that familiar, crooked half-smile.

"well, if it isn't—" he paused, eyes flicking over you quickly, taking you in. there was a moment of silence, before he said, a little hoarsely if you listened for it, "you look... good. mhm. you clean up nice. usually you just look like you're about to arrest me."

"give it time," you muttered. "what are you even doing here?"

he lifted his glass and took a deep swig, nearly choking on it. when he recovered, he managed to get out, "working." he cleared his throat, lowered his voice, and tried again. "working. i'm working. what are you doing here?"

you tilted your head towards him, holding his gaze for a few seconds. "working," you responded to his question the same way.

despite the alcohol, holland sat up a little bit straighter. something shifted in his expression. interest, excitement, or amusement. you'd put bets on all three.

"wow," he said softly. "what're the odds we both picked the same incredibly wealthy, probably terrible people to spend our evening with?"

"low," you responded. "which is why we're not having this conversation out here."

you caught his sleeve, tugging just enough that he followed you when you got up and steered him away from the bar. for once, holland didn't resist, or make a stupid comment. he just let you guide him through a side corridor, away from the music, away from the crowds.

"alright," holland finally said when you two stopped in a hallway. "you wanna tell me what—"

"drug investigation," you cut in, already aware where he was going with this. "it's active, and ongoing. we're trying to keep it quiet as long as we can. soon as they find out, they'll shut it down. but if you're out here sniffing around the same people—"

the voices were louder than the footsteps.

you could hear them approaching from the end of the corridor, even if you couldn't make them out. without thinking, you grabbed holland again, this time by his hand, and dragged him sideways, into the first open door there was.

the door shut quietly, nothing but a thin stream of light beneath the door. you caged holland against it, one hand wrapped around his lower back, while the other hand covered his mouth.

you were aware of everything all at once. the confined space, the heat of holland pressing into you, the breaths you took knocking into each other, the smell of him so strong and so close.

outside, the voices passed, laughing quietly. and then they faded.

inside, the two of you remained pressed together. your vision had adjusted enough that you could see holland, read the look in his eyes that was no doubt reflected in your own.

slowly, you took your hand off of his mouth, sliding it down along to the side of his neck. holland shivered at the movement. you tilted his head up, until you could feel his shallow breaths against your own lips.

it was hard to tell which one of you closed the distance, but then you were kissing.

you groaned into holland's mouth, who'd grabbed the lapels of suit to bring you closer. he tasted like whiskey and something lemony. you wanted to bottle the taste of him up for a rainy day.

when holland broke apart for air, you trailed your lips down to his neck, trying to find his favourite spots. he liked them all, you learned quickly, based on the breathy little moans he made each time you explored a new crevice.

heavens, he was loud. you nipped the hinge of his jaw.

any other night, and you likely would have encouraged him to make more noise. you would've drawn out every little sound and pocketed it away for a later day.

"quiet down," you murmured against his skin. "don't want someone coming over to investigate."

"this is your fault," holland moaned breathily, bringing a hand up to twist into your hair. he tugged at it, like he wanted to pull you even closer.

"shall i stop?"

"fuck no."

"alright then."

you trailed your lips lower, licking a stripe along the base of holland's neck, before moving further down his body. the cramped space made it impossible for you to be able to do everything you wanted. but you were well versed enough to do some things.

you pulled his pants and underwear down to his knees, freeing his cock. flushed and leaking, it slapped his stomach the moment it was out of its confines.

"somebody's eager," you murmured playfully.

"that makes two of us," holland shot back. he tugged your hair again, the pain only making you bite back a smile because you knew it was a mask for his own excitement.

even so, you couldn't exactly argue. so instead, you licked a stripe along holland's cock, from base to tip.

"f-fuc-k," holland gasped out, his fingers twisting tightly in your hair.

the moment you took him in his mouth, he thrashed his hips violently, rattling the door behind him. you hummed against his cock, the vibrations causing him to let out a high pitched noise, before pulling him out of your mouth.

"so reactive," you noted fondly. "but i do need you to keep it a bit lower tonight." using one arm, you pinned his hips against the door, and went back to sucking his cock.

the noises holland made were beautiful, so expressive based on whatever you did. he seemed to like everything, seemed to enjoy anything you wanted to do. like this, you knew he wouldn't last very long. but there was still something you'd been dying to do.

you released him from your mouth, pressing a kiss to his inner thigh when he made a noise that sounded vaguely like a complaint.

"relax, baby," you murmured. "just give me a minute."

you brought two fingers up to his mouth, which he welcomed eagerly. after coating them with spit, you brought them back down, circling them around his rim.

holland made a high pitched keening noise at the intrusion of the first digit, but bit his knuckles as he tried to keep it down.

"good boy," you whispered, grinning as you found his prostrate at the same time. the noise holland made above you confirmed that.

a few moments later, you eased the other finger inside, slowly stretching him out. you littered holland's inner thighs with kisses and bites, carefully avoiding his cock after that. it was flushed and leaking by then, but you knew he could handle it.

"y/n y/ln, if you make me wait any longer for you to fuck me, i am going to scream and then everyone will come to investigate," holland tugged your hair. he pouted. "please, please. just fuck me already."

"okay, okay," you chuckled faintly, leaving one final kiss before removing your fingers.

you got to your feet, unzipping your own pants to reveal your straining erection. you turned holland to face the door. he had his palms flat against the surface, with his forehead between them as he waited for you. you went slow as you pushed inside of him, turning holland's face away from the door so you could swallow his noises with a deep kiss.

when you finally bottomed out, the both of you were already panting.

"move," holland whined after only a second.

"bossy," you murmured, even as you grinned.

you tilted your hips back, until only the tip remained, and then pushed back in. you picked up the pace gradually, covering holland's mouth with your own.

the kiss was barely a kiss. more like shared breaths and moans exchanged between parted lips as you both did your best to keep quiet.

"fuck, you're so tight," you whispered, half a groan as you moved faster. "baby, you take my cock so well."

holland whined, dropping his forehead against the door again. "'m gonna cum. oh—oh—fuck—"

you slowed your pace briefly, confirming that holland had just cum, virtually untouched. you felt your blood grow hotter at that, the sight of it turning you on even more.

gripping hollands hips with both hands and dropping your forehead against his nape, you picked up the pace as you chased your own high.

"you feel good. mh—fuck—"

holland clenched around you, driving you over the edge as you spilled inside of him. he made another short noise at that sound, but it was more satisfied than anything.

he dropped his head back against your shoulder, eyes shut tight as he tried to catch his breath.

"i'm glad no one came to investigate," he breathed out eventually.

you chuckled quietly, pressing a kiss to the hinge of his jaw.

"mhm. me too. although, there is one regret i have...."

"hm?" holland opened his eyes, looking back with furrowed brows.

you leaned closer, "i am upset that you couldn't make all the noise you wanted. clearly, you like to be loud in bed. i'll need to hear that properly sometime."

holland rolled his eyes, but he did have a faint smirk on his face. "sometime, then. you'll hear it all soon."

~~~~

notes: maybe a part 2 where they record it ?

[mlmmetalhead]

Hey gang, here’s a list of the stuff I’m working on Rn, I plan on getting all of it done eventually, but what r u guys more interested in/excited to see faster?

What do I finish firstt

Ryland Grace forgets about your date night! (smut)

Colt Seavers with a famous situationship (not too sure if it’s fully smut)

Ryland Grace has a wet dream (smut)

Luke Glanton gets fucked on his motorcycle (smut duh)

Voting ended onMay 4

[mossrat]

courtland gentry x male reader

TAGS: post-film, fluff, smut, dom/sub undertones, praise kink, coming untouched (kinda), amab reader, oral, established.. situationship?, reader is a doctor and ex-cia (not sierra)

SUMMARY: after escaping from the hospital and successfully extracting claire from the guarded location she was being held in, there's only one place court can think to go. one person he has yet to see.

A/N: subby court...,. ... mmuch to think abt..,

- MINORS DNI! -

ᡕᠵデᡁ᠊╾━💥

It’s surely nearing midnight when the doorbell rings; a brief, jumping tune that cleaves impersonally through the silence of the dim house. It feels almost mocking in nature, when set against the quiet simmer of anxiety that’s become an unwelcome constant over the past several weeks. 

From your place in the bathroom, rinsing your toothbrush clean, you still. You make a move for your phone to check the time, but realize upon palming an empty pocket that you left it on the bedside table in your room. A long, unnerved stare into the darkness beyond the bathroom stretches endlessly, of such unblinking intensity you could almost swear you begin to see movement in the black. 

Only when the bell rings again, do you move. Your toothbrush slips into the cup by the sink alongside a dry, months-abandoned second. A thick swallow tightens your throat, switching off the bathroom light on your way out and letting your feet’s muscle memory guide you down the hall and through the living room. There, the darkness is notably weaker, abated by the wan threads of moonlight that spill across the floor, through the fine curtains.  

Your front door has no peephole, and although you've been meaning to get a doorbell camera installed you've not had the time nor energy these days to follow through. 

You fleetingly wish you’d grabbed your gun—then, just as swiftly, discard the thought. You're out of that life, of standing on complete guard whenever there’s an unexpected visitor at the door, of reaching for the nearest firearm at the first inkling of danger. It’s been years, coming up on four now since you left, but old habits die hard.

Your palm hovers steadily, for only a beat or two, above the handle. 

Fuck it, you think rather blandly, and tug the door open. 

The pause that follows is surely not as long in reality as it feels to you, but it is stark and charged nonetheless. 

Naturally, being closer to his eye level, your gaze latches on to Court, first. Scanning over his face, his bearing and his clothes, his bandaged palm, the nearly faded, yellowish bruise across his cheek. Battered, as per usual, but staggeringly intact. Relief swathes you whole; the months worth of built-up unease weighing your collarbones down unfurls all at once.

Next, your attention dips, settles instead on the shorter, scrawnier frame of a tired-looking Claire beside him. She’s fairing significantly better, but a pale pink burn on her cheek reveals a preview of what she must have been through in these weeks of radio silence. 

“Hi,” she says, voice turned inward but not necessarily out of shyness. You sense her exhaustion like a plume of thick smoke clinging to her lanky frame. 

She’s moving before you even fully get your own greeting out, sinking into your arms and clinging with a ferocity that stuns you, considering her state. You cup the back of her head, hair soft and clean, which hopefully means the worst has passed. Claire lingers in the embrace, clutching the back of your worn sleep shirt and burrowing her temple into your collarbone like she plans on staying there a while. 

In the meantime, you look back up to find Court staring right back. There’s that hardness to his jaw, faintly tighter than where it would naturally rest that suggests a degree of discomfort from him. Your heart clenches just at the sight of him, relief and concern equal parts to blame for your sudden breathlessness. You long to kiss him, to check out what’s got his hand cloaked in such thick dressing and ideally look over the rest of him, too—knowing when there’s one injury on the man there is always more. 

After a minute, Claire pulls away, and your hands follow her, soothing against her back. 

“You guys eat?”

Claire sniffles once and nods, dragging the heel of her palm against her eye. 

“We got Burger King on the way here,” Court offers, at which you give a faint smile. 

“Okay. Why don’t you head to the guest bedroom, kid? I’ll find you a toothbrush and some pajamas in a minute,” you tell her, pressing one hand fleetingly to her cheek before she nods and retreats. 

Now alone, the two of you turn back to each other. The breeze swings between you, beckoned in by the open door, and when you manage to tear your eyes away from Court’s steel blue pair, you finally speak. 

“You gonna stand guard there all night?”

He huffs; a flicker of amusement amidst the tension stretched through him like a taut wire. With shuffling feet he enters. Shuts the door behind him with a dull click. 

“Hey,” you murmur, planting both hands on either side of Court’s neck. Much to your satisfaction, some of his tension bleeds away at the touch, stepping even closer to circle you in his arms. 

“Hey.”

“You had me worried,” you chastise, but all of your frustrations ebb away at the feeling of him finally back in your arms. 

“I know,” Court sighs, ducking forward to plonk his forehead onto your shoulder, and you take the opportunity to press a long, warm kiss to his temple. “I’m sorry.” His back muscles ripple like weaseling little fish underneath the skin, against your circling palms; a testament to weeks worth of tension left to fester in his body.

“I’ll make you some tea, okay?”

Court expels a shallow puff of air against the neck he’s burrowed into, nodding once, sluggish, and then pulling back entirely. You gently usher him off into the kitchen, where you coax him into a stool by the island and then switch the kettle on. From there, you turn toward the hallway and stroll out of the kitchen, dragging a palm across the set of Court’s sunken shoulders when you walk past him. On the way to the guest bedroom, you stop by the storage closet and grab a thick quilt folded atop one of the metal racks drilled into the wall.

However, when a tentative knock on the cracked door gives way to a long beat of silence, you peek inside to find Claire curled up on the twin-sized bed, sneakers haphazardly kicked off by the rug. Your heart twinges with sympathy, carefully shouldering the door open and sidling inside, quiet so as not to disturb her well-earned rest. You shake the quilt out and then drape it over her small frame. She doesn’t so much as stir.

Making a mental note to lay out a new toothbrush and some clothes for her later, you back out of the room, and very heedfully shut the door.

Back in the kitchen, Court hasn’t moved an inch from his seat, forearms crossed over the laminate counter, head wilted. Neither of you speak upon your return, not for the few minutes in which you prepare two cups of tea, but Court does lift his head at one point, following your movements around with fond, tired eyes.

With a generous squeeze of honey into both mugs, the drinks are ready, and soon carried over toward the kitchen island. You slide one toward Court’s folded arms and settle into the stool beside his.

“Alright,” you sigh, turning to face Court with your whole body, “tell me.”

Court blinks down at the twirling teabag in his mug, fiddling with the paper end between three fingers, and after a long, smooth pull of breath, begins talking.

Last thing you'd heard from him, Court was to fly out to Bangkok for a regular job—before he went radio silent for just over two months. What you didn’t know was that Court’s target was apparently also Sierra, nor anything about Carmichael’s corruption—though that part didn’t surprise you as much.

He tells you about the encrypted drive, and Lloyd Hansen, and the chaos in Prague, and Cahill, all with a careful neutrality to his tone that sets you on edge. You stick a leg out, settling it against the footrest of Court’s stool and pressing your shin to his bouncing calf.

A long beat follows. Steam curls through the air between you, wisping against Court’s stubbled jaw like comforting hands. You set your mug down, nearly empty, and reach for one of Court’s forearms, thumbing over the faded tattoo there.

“Fitz?” you ask, treading very carefully. The line of Court’s mouth tightens—a fleeting twitch of motion—before he looks up, meets your eye. Shakes his head.

A long, thready sigh squeezes out of you. Your fingers tighten reassuringly, and Court then moves to cloak his own free hand over yours. He’s wearing this sad, lipped sort of smile now, a meager attempt at unimpassioned dismissal.

“It’s fine, it’s how—it was never gonna be old age, so…”

“Still. I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah,” Court grates, nodding stiffly. “Me too.”

With another slow exhale, you push yourself to your feet, drawing your arms around him and into a firm embrace, head craned low to press your mouth into the top of Court’s ruffled hair. 

For a long moment, he remains stony and sober beneath you, something that had once bothered you, years ago when he was nothing more than a nameless agent you'd be told to patch up, and you were a dispensable cog in the machine that made him so. You understand now he can't help it—rather than a front he puts up it's his nature. One forced and beaten into place, but his nature nonetheless.

Eventually, though, when the embrace stretches on long enough, his arms slide up, large, rough palms encircling your bicep and shoulder.

"How's she holding up?" you ask next, because you know better than to focus on him too much; the trick with Court is to pry him open in tiny increments, coaxing that tightly concealed vulnerability out of him before he even knows it.

Court shifts against you—possibly in a shrug.

"As well as she can be, considering. She's a strong kid."

"Yeah, she is," you sigh, craning your neck back to peer down the hall where she sleeps. Your chest aches for her—so young, and already so wounded by the world. Court expels a wary breath, smoothing a palm down your bicep to latch under your elbow.

"I hope it's okay that I... came here. If I even suspect they know we're here, I'll be gone before—"

"Hey, none of that," you butt in, turning back to him, sternly holding his gaze. "You know I like having you here. Both of you. It's a big house, gets lonely sometimes."

Court's eyes flick all across your face, quietly analytical in that charming way of his—though now you almost feel the urge to shrivel underneath such close inspection. He's been through hell these past weeks, no point in making him feel guilty for how worried and alone you've been during them.

He seems to do so, anyway.

Before he can speak, you take his jaw in one hand and lean down to kiss him—finally giving in to the nagging urge that's been screaming at you since you first opened the front door.

At that—amusingly so—Court melts, his bandaged palm drifting outward to curl around your hip, mouth warm and pliant against yours. The kiss is soft, chaste, more of a greeting than anything else. You'd missed him so terribly it's almost humiliating, and now having him back has brought all that longing swinging back into your chest like an anvil. You aren't even togther—not officially, but you have a toothbrush for him in your bathroom and a vivid mental map of every corner of his body and the first place he thought to go to when everything went to shit was here.

That’s got to count for something.

You nip at his lower lip, just to tease, and crack a sly grin when he sucks in a small, sharp inhale in response. He chases after you when you pull away, brows slightly furrowed.

"Down, boy," you chuckle, weaseling your palm against his lips when his mouth wanders down your throat. "Let me check you over."

"I'm fine," he mumbles against your loosely sealed fingers, shifting in his stool to bracket you properly between his strong thighs. "Peachy."

"Court," you press, letting your hand sink, fingers sliding lazily down his chin. He reaches up to your own jaw, scraping one calloused thumb against your own stubble—somewhat longer than how you tend to keep it. You've been taking so many shifts at the hospital that your free time has been limited to showering and sleeping. Shaving has been moved to the backburner.

He meets your gaze yet again, with that privately discerning edge that suggests a deep consideration. His face softens impossibly; it was staggering, seeing it happen the first time, back when all you knew him as was just another dead-eyed mercenary capable of unspeakable violence. By the time you met him you'd long come to terms with the fact that no amount of good you could do as a doctor would ever couterbalance the suffering most of your patients inflicted on a regular basis, so you'd cared very little to connect with any of them beyond stitching them up scribbling away all sorts of painkiller perscriptions.

But Court had, even then, snagged your attention. While still stoic and stone-eyed, almost unnervingly so in the face of some of the injuries you've seen him bear, he'd crack the occassional joke with you—mostly lame puns or give it to me straight, doc quips while he was near delirious with blood loss. He had sensed your early apprehension around him and broadcasted every slow movement, apologized whenever the pain made him jerk sharply away from your touch, and once—minutes before passing out in the middle of the medical tent in a temporary base set up somewhere in Poland—denied attention from any other medic on location aside from you. You'd been halfway across the base, not on active duty but as always on call, when you were paged and informed an agent was causing a scene, asking for you by name.

"Don't touch me! Where is he? I need—he can..." was all that you'd caught before ducking into the tent, where a small flock of antsy doctors and nurses hedged Court in, your Head Physician approaching him with a cartoonishly-sized syringe in hand, brow set.

Court had spotted you approaching in an instant, and the rabid set of his broad shoulders had collapsed.

He managed a thready, "Oh, hey Doc," before buckling against you.

As it turned out, his manic state was not only attributable to the GSW in his abdomen, but to a truly inordinate amount of drugs forcefully pumped into his bloodstream by enemy agents. He'd spent the subsequent two nights sunken in a fever so indomitable you'd almost expected him not to bounce back.

"Okay," Court says, and you blink out of your daze, finding yourself back here—not Poland, not ducking your head to war criminals, not watching Courtland bleed out against your palms.

Your hand slides down the firm curve of his shoulder, and all the way into his palm, where you weave your fingers into his and pull him to his feet. From there, the two of you shuffle into the living room, and you push him into the couch with a soft press to the shoulder.

He sheds his shirt without you having to ask—he knows this routine inside out, and for all of his paranoid rituals, born from the type of life he's lived, this is your own. You know he's more than happy to oblige, if it helps you sleep.

"You know, there are easier ways of getting me half-naked on your couch."

"I don't know," you counter, eyes narrowing pointedly at him but your tone distinctly lacking of edge. "This was pretty easy."

Court makes an affronted face at that. "What are you implying?"

"What's this?" you begin in lieu of answering, taking his badaged palm into your lap, fingertips just barely dipping underneath the bottom edge.

"Switchblade," he pushes out on a sigh. In his eyes you find a glimmer of misplaced amusement; you shake your head fondly. "In and out. Pretty gnarly."

"I bet," you say, trailing your ghosting touch up his arm, following the old, ragged scar stretching up to the edge of his collarbone. You study his bare torso, momentarily setting aside the urge to admire the view in favor of indulging the nervous doctor in you; right above his sharp hip bone on his right side, a pucker of half-healed flesh, unbandaged but still bearing that ruddy tone of recovering skin.

"Those were scissors. Same guy. Only a few inches deep, not the worst of the bunch."

You squint through the dimness—the warm kitchen light offers its tepid glow, just enough so you can search for any abnormal irritation or discharge. You find none, and move to the next: another stab wound in the back of his shoulder; a nasty gash in the thigh; an impressive collection of greenish bruises and half-faded scabs. You change dressings where required, study wounds for any signs of infection or improper healing, feel along his ribs for any fractures—and you know, logically, he's spent the last few weeks in a hospital. You know the government-funded team of professionals who treated him wouldn't have missed something as elementary as broken ribs or developing infection.

But it helps. You have to see it for yourself, that he's joking around on your couch at one in the morning and in no imminent, life-threatening peril. God knows you've seen enough of him in it to last you several lifetimes.

By the end of it, Court is boneless against the cushions, head tipped back and angled toward you. His eyes are shut but you know he's awake; he'd fought the mounting weight of his eyelids as long as he could, just watching you, but he's only human. The lazy back-and-forth sweep of his thumb where he has his hand pressed to the small of your back underneath your shirt speaks to his wakefulness.

You readily embrace the warmth the small gesture brings to your ribcage, shifting and breathing like a neutron star fit to burst. Your hand finds his soft, golden brown hair, combing it through with your fingers, hairline to crown. A pleasant hum rumbles in his chest at that, faintly reminiscent of a cat's purr, and a stupid smile pulls at your lips.

"I missed you," you whisper, hesitant to disturb the intimate silence that has taken root. Your fingers dip lower on your ensuing comb, snaking between his head and the backrest cushion. "It was close, wasn't it?"

Court's eyes scrunch, still closed, but the silence preceeding his answer tells you enough. "A few times, yeah. Was touch-and-go for a minute, according to the doctors."

He cracks his eyes open, just a sliver, to catch your reaction. The fear has never relented—not for a minute since you left the CIA. It's as suffocating as it was then, but something you've had to learn how to live with, only because you had no other choice. Leaving that life hadn't been the hard part, it had been weighing on your conscience for the better part of a decade prior, but you knew once you left, Court could very well leave on a mission one day and never come back. You'd never even know. You couldn't treat him, you couldn't swipe his file if he was under the care of another medic, you couldn't say goodbye. You couldn't bury him.

Court knew this, and still he encouraged you to leave.

His palm glides up the warm skin of your back, thumb following the track of your spine.

"Come on, you know me," he says, urging you close with a steady pressure at the center of your back, "I'm not going out if it's not on your table, Doc."

You huff out a strained chuckle, finally yielding to his wordless ask and letting him kiss you. His body is hard and warm under your lazily meandering hands, sliding from his neck to his shoulders and down his chest. On their way down, you fleetingly tweak a nipple, and grin against his mouth when the kiss fractures. His fingers flex into your back, essentially hauling you into his lap—your head spins.

Licking into his mouth, you settle with your knees buried into the back of the couch, thighs braced on either side of his hips. When Court kisses, it's like he's starving. You've learned to ration your breaths during fleeting breaks, when either of you groans or gasps. He traps your head in place with a hand at the nape of your neck, the other still exploring underneath your shirt. After a while, it gets far too in the way and he pulls it off entirely.

The press of your bare chests makes the breath stumble in your throat, the ever-present warmth in your chest simmering and dribbling low into your groin. Beneath you, he's already half-hard, always enthusiastic when it comes to you. You jostle at a tiny buck of his hips.

Court makes a low sound—your name, possibly, trapped amidst a breathless grunt. He's breathing harder now, shifting restlessly beneath you. His hands can't quite seem to settle in one place.

"Court," you hum into him, planting two fingers to his pec and pressing him firmly against the backrest. The sudden severity of your tone gives him clear pause. "Relax."

His pupils have crowded into the lovely sea blue of his eyes, shrunken them down to twin rings, stark against the flush of his skin. You spread one palm against his chest, just barely catching the frantic kicking of his heart. The other reaches down to encircle his wrist where it'd landed on your hip.

"Relax. Okay? Hold still, I got you."

Court nods, dazed and unblinking as you slowly draw his hand to your mouth. There, you press many feathery kisses, trailing from the shifting tendons of his inner wrist, along the heel of his palm, up his thumb. His breath catches when you reach the tip, grazing the flat tops of your teeth against the pad.

Tentatively, Court sinks past your lips, hooking loosely behind your bottom teeth before searching out your tongue. You seal your lips around the knuckle, buzzing with lust-tinged amusement as his flush deepens.

His thumb flattens on the center of your tongue; in response, you faintly hollow your cheeks, and that does it.

A tremulous groan cracks out of him, head dipping back against the cushion. The erratic roll his hips make feels more automatic than deliberate, but he's quick to steel himself—always so good at following your orders it makes your whole body pulse with heat.

You can feel him, hard against your clothed ass—certain the motionless pressure must be driving him crazy, you decide to spoil him a little and give a few slow grinds of your own.

"Oh—fuck," he groans, low and unsteady. His thumb presses harder on your tongue for a moment, before he catches himself and releases it. You teasingly bite down, hoping he gets the message to be rougher, but he just swallows thickly and blinks up at the ceiling.

After a minute or so, you still, thrilled at the harsh exhale he gives, frustrated. You pull off of his thumb, noting the way he stares at the fine, sagging thread of spit that clings to your lip.

"Talk to me, baby," you hum, dabbing his cheeks and jaw with teasingly innocent pecks. "What do you need?"

Court reaches for your face, catching your jaw again—smearing your own spit against your cheek—to look you in the eye.

"You wanna fuck me?" You punctuate it with a slow roll of your hips. "Wanna be fucked?"

Court can't seem to string an answer together, can't even decide whether to gawk at your eyes or spit-slick mouth. Of course you don't expect him to be able to make such a decision, but asking anyway is part of the fun. It's fascinating just how easily you can get him like this, a bit of a power trip, really, and the glassy arousal in his eyes makes you strain against your sweats.

You feign deep thought, dragging blunt nails down the swell and valleys of his abdominal muscles. They catch on the elastic of his boxers, but wander no further.

"I know," you coo when another tiny noise resounds from low in his throat, "I know. You need me to take care of you, don't you?"

Your name on his tongue has always sounded lovely, but like this—thick with need and wet with spit, it's delicious. You kiss him warmly, just to soothe, and finally relent and paw at his straining cock through the thin material trapping it. You swallow his moan, pressing with a steady, circling motion and absorbing every shudder that rips through him.

He clings to your back, huffing and grinding up into your hand. When the kiss inevitably breaks, you migrate to his throat, where sharp bites are balmed by calculated swipes of your tongue.

"Fff—fuck, oh Jesus," Court moans, finding some sort of fleeting clarity and then reaching between your bodies to palm at your own neglected erection. You can't help but groan into his skin, allowing yourself a few lazy thrusts into his large hand before gently prying it away.

"It's okay, baby," you pant, thumbing at his swollen, leaking slit. "Let me focus on you first. You're so sweet, thinking of me."

Court offers a strained hum in response, squeezing your hip once.

"You look perfect like this, Court. You're perfect, all mine."

Much to his dismay, your hand abandons his cock in order to latch on to the back of his neck, which you guide off the cushion so he can properly face you. Then, you shift your weight, resettling how you’d been positioned earlier, with the cleft of your ass applying pressure to his cock.

For a moment, you stop to think. What he needs right now, what will make him feel the best and keep him happy and blissfully sapped for long afterwards. In the meantime, your thumbs pet the stubble across his cheeks in mirrored motions. His eyebrows are pinched, faintly warped upwards with arousal, pooling with nowhere to go. He doesn’t take his eyes off of you for a second.

He’s the most beautiful thing you’ve ever seen.

You make sure to let him know this, and grin, catlike, when he squirms and flushes a pretty dark pink in the warm light. He twitches against your ass; you don’t need to look to know he’s absolutely weeping precome.

You lean in, kiss his cheekbone and brow bone, the side of his nose, the corner of his mouth. He murmurs your name again in a shattered voice, gripping your hip with one hand and back with the other so tightly you’re sure he’s trying desperately not to rut against you.

“That’s it. You’re doing so good, Court. You listen so well.”

“Don’t—” It comes out sharp, bladed through his gritted teeth but you can hear the early tones of a whine somewhere in it, and it only spurs you on more.

“What? You’re close already? Gonna come all over yourself, in your boxers?”

You don’t mean for it to come out so sardonic—it’s easy to get carried away when positioned like this, when the eyes on you are so fucked-out and desperate for you—but Court twitches again, full-body this time, and a wet moan cuts through the dense air between you.

One of your hands slip low, pivoting at the wrist to take ahold of the underside of his jaw, careful to steer clear of his exposed throat. You’d made that mistake once already.

“It’s alright,” you murmur, itching to kiss him or to continue mouthing at the sensitive spots at his neck, but the need to watch him crumble eclipses all of it. The spasmodic twitches in his thighs shake all the way up his body, and by proxy through yours. Still, the occasional half-grind against you slips through. You let them slide only because you missed him so much, and he’s been so good.

“You can come. Let me see you come, my good boy.”

Court’s head all but goes limp in your tender yet firm hold, eyes screwing shut, lips parting soundlessly.

His chest swells with a gasping breath, and his body tightens beneath you for a split second, before unraveling.

He comes with a teetering moan, sprouting from deep in the throat but still vaguely whiny in nature. You kiss him quickly so as not to wake Claire, and once his orgasm crests, he lets go and rides it out against your ass, soaking his boxers with his load.

Amidst his frantic humping the arms around your back draw you tightly in, snuffing out every inch of open space between you.

You choke out a moan yourself when your cock presses flush against his tensing stomach, fingers anchoring into Court’s hair.

He pulls away to burrow into your neck, emptying the last of his airy groans against your pulse point as his motions come to a slow, twitchy halt. At no point does he loosen his hold on you. You can feel the wetness beneath you, warm and thick.

Like earlier, you press the loose shape of your mouth into his hair, breathing in deeply, holding the smell of him close and deep in your chest. His breaths fan out across your collarbone, coaxing goosebumps to rise in their wake.

“Good?” you mumble, trying to pull back and get a look at him but rendered immobile by his unyielding arms. He nods against your throat.

You find yourself grinding, smooth and sluggish, against his stomach, eyes shut and feeling the press and drag of his hot mouth against your skin.

Finally (perhaps once he notices your motions), Court’s head straightens, and you get no warning before you’re being manhandled onto your back along the length of the couch.

“Thank you,” he whispers into a too-short kiss, one you can’t even chase after before he’s traveling down your torso in equally fleeting kisses.

“Don’t thank me,” you pant, hands finding his hair again, stretching lazily at his scalp. “That was hot.”

He shoots you a dopey grin, hands cupping your hips before he begins mouthing at the tent in your sweats. Heat flares through you, heels digging into the couch as you try to buck up into the contact to no avail.

Court wastes no time for teasing; he hooks his fingers into both waistbands and pulls your sweats and underwear down with one brusque tug, just enough to free your cock.

He presses damp, open mouthed kisses all along the shaft, glassy eyes pinned on your own. On occasion you’ll attempt to push up against the hold on your pelvis, and his fingers will squeeze once and the corner of his mouth will quirk up.

It’s embarrassing how close you are by the time he enfolds his lips around the head, but getting him off has always been a sort of extension of your own pleasure; it never takes much afterward for you to follow.

Your head spins as he takes you, inch by dizzying inch. He loves blowing you, and you love seeing him like this, hollow-cheeked and focused around you. Working his tongue in ways that make you see stars and taking you to the base, nose buried in the thatch of thick hair there.

“Court—Court, holy shit,” you pant, trying not to abuse his scalp too much but scrambling for purchase amidst the relentless flurry of pleasure swallowing your senses one by one. He’s so good with his mouth it’s unfair, and it’s only made worse by how smug he looks down there.

Your knee presses to his ribs, seeking out contact anywhere. At that, Court rubs a few clumsy circles into your hip bone, and pointedly sucks.

It’s over after that. It only takes a few swallows around your cock before your mounting pleasure reaches a crescendo, and you barely get a warning out before you’re coming into his mouth, down his happily obliging throat.

You muffle your own cry of bliss into the crook of your elbow, fucking into Court’s mouth until your orgasm begins to subside. Even then, you linger for a minute, one hand knotted in Court’s hair, his throat subtly working around your softening length, the soothing stroke of his thumbs on your hips a perfect comedown.

Finally, you squeeze out a heavy breath, tapping the back of his skull so he pulls off. You follow the sweep of his tongue across his lips with drowsy fascination. Wordlessly, he tucks you back into your sweats.

As he crawls back up your body, you steal a glance down at his crotch, and snort at the rather conspicuous stain at the front of his light gray underwear.

“You’re laughing at me?” Court grumbles, pecking up your jaw. “I just gave you life-changing head and you’re laughing at me.”

“Life-changing?” you chuckle, letting him kiss you—too flooded with post-coital endorphins to think it’s gross in the slightest. “Don’t break your arm patting yourself on the back.”

He snorts, going abruptly boneless atop of you and knocking from your chest a low oof!

“You should shower,” you murmur, tracing the curve of his shoulder blade with a forefinger. He grunts vaguely.

“I need to sleep. For a year.”

“Sure. But a pre-hibernation shower wouldn’t hurt.”

He breathes out, steady and slow and warm against your jaw. Your fingers begin instead an absentminded drumming rhythm against his strong back. An idea strikes, and you grin wickedly at the ceiling.

“I could even join,” you slyly add.

A blessed groan erupts from him, squeezing you fiercely against him. “Oh, did I miss you.”