hi friends. letting everyone know that requests are open and welcome!
i’ll be writing for male and/or nb readers! cis or trans, but if not specified in the ask (in the case of smut) i’ll probably go with amab
i’m up for writing male and female characters, not strictly mlm. also, requests can be romantic or platonic, but again, unless stated otherwise they will be interpreted as romantic
fic masterlist here!
• • •
DO request: fluff, angst, smut, hurt/comfort, hurt/no comfort, headcanons, etc.
i WON’T write: graphic depictions of s/a or rape, incest/pseudo-incest, immoral age gaps, underage sex, age play, race play
character/fandom list below ⬇️
DC (COMICVERSE OR DCU)
MARVEL (COMICVERSE)
STAR WARS
INVINCIBLE (TV)
SUPERNATURAL
RYAN GOSLING CHARACTERS
• ryland grace (phm)
• holland march (the nice guys)
• colt seavers (the fall guy)
• sierra six/courtland gentry (the gray man)
• dan dunne (half nelson)
• officer k (blade runner 2049)
• sebastian wilder (la la land)
• lars lindstrom (lars and the real girl)
• henry letham (stay)
(always feel free to ask if i write for another fandom as well)
OKAY, RECEIVED. ( PART 2 )— RYLAND GRACE x Male!READER
SUMMARY: Distance means nothing to the destined and the damned.
# # TAGS: Epistolary, Transcripts, Single Dad!Reader, Doctor!Reader, Teacher!Ryland Grace, Miscommunication, You've Got Mail Type Beat, Petrova Taskforce
## WARNINGS: No Beta, Formatting this was a Nightmare. This fic contains a lot of media, but don’t worry as alt text is available. I find that it's quite difficult to read this in light mode, so dark mode is recommended. Edits made by me, images sourced from Pinterest. Basically I've just fucking lost it. Enjoy.
There is no specification of the reader’s height nor form but there is specification of his handwriting. Please Pretend That You Write Like That.
PETROVA TASKFORCE
ARCHIVAL TRANSCRIPT
TRANSCRIPT ID: COMM-LOG-INT-88
FREQUENCY: CH-09 (INTERNAL SECURITY / MEDICAL RELAY)
DATE: ▇▇, ▇▇ / 20:15 UTC
[ AUDIO START. ]
[20:15:02] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Watch-Command, this is Attending Physician, Unit B. Metabolic panels for Sector 4 are complete. Requesting clearance to log off the active medical net for the evening. Over.
[20:15:15] WATCH-COMMAND (MILLER):
Copy that, Doctor. Metabolic logs received by central grid. Clearance granted at 20:15 hours. Secure your handset and switch to standby status. Over.
[20:15:17] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
[ AUDIO FEEDBACK. ]
This thing on? Over.
[20:15:19] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Birdie, what did I tell you about using the tactical frequencies? Switch to the house channel. Over.
[20:15:22] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
House channel is very quiet and no one responds to me. Over.
[ SILENCE. ]
[ FAINT CHATTER. ]
[20:16:02] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I’m bored. Over.
[20:16:05] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Young lady.
[20:16:08] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
What’s for dinner? Over.
[20:16:13] WATCH-COMMAND (MILLER):
Hab-Deck-B, be advised this frequency is reserved for operational data and emergency triage. Clear the net. Over.
[20:16:20] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Hi, Miller.
[20:16:23] WATCH-COMMAND (MILLER):
Hi, Miss Birdie.
[20:16:30] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Apologies, Command. The civilian asset will be contained. Heading to quarters now. Unit B, actual, out.
[ AUDIO START. ]
[20:17:05] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Okay, I'm on twelve.
Birdie, do you copy?
[20:17:11] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Loud and clear!
[20:17:16] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
What are you botherin’
us for.
[20:17:22] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Nothing. Just wanted
to chat.
[20:17:27] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Okay.
[ PAPERS SHUFFLING. ]
What do you wanna
chat about?
[20:17:35] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I dunno. What did you
do today?
[20:17:41] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Lotta tough work. We’re doing as many trials as we can, putting folks to sleep.
'Course the issue isn't actually getting them to sleep. We can throw a dozen different sedatives into the line and knock a subject out in under two minutes. The real problem's the metabolic maintenance.
[20:17:54] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Medically-induced comas are so fascinating.
[20:18:04] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Yeah. It's like a pause button. They could close their eyes in your lab, sleep for four years, and when they wake up, it'll feel like only hours have passed. You're like -- removing them from time.
Super cool.
[20:18:08] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Other twelve-year-old kids don’t usually think so.
[20:18:13] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
They’re missing out.
Oh, hey! I got so much mail today! Everyone wrote me back and I got a bunch of gifts!
[20:18:25] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
[ BACKGROUND CHATTER. ]
Run the analysis again.
Thank you, Doctor.
What sorta gifts?
[20:18:34] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
It’s so funny.
I have six winter hats now.
They're all from my friends.
[20:18:43] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Winter hats?
[20:18:47] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Yeah, they think I’m in Antarctica, remember?
[20:18:52] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Oh, yeah.
[20:18:56] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I love them all.
I might as well wear them around the facility. They’re pretty cute.
[20:19:07] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
That’s nice.
You got a favorite?
[20:19:12] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Yeah, there's this fox one. Wraps around my ears.
I got a ton of
stickers, too.
Olivia gave me fifty
sheets.
[20:19:24] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
That’s too many stickers.
[20:19:28] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
No such thing!
[ STATIC. ]
[ SILENCE. ]
[20:19:50] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I miss them. Over.
[ STATIC. ]
[ SILENCE. ]
[20:20:12] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
I know, baby.
[20:20:18] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
[ SIGH. ]
[20:20:23] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
I wish things
were different. Over.
[20:20:30] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I don’t.
Don't ask me to go
back again.
[20:20:36] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I’m okay as long as
you’re here. Over.
[ AUDIO END. ]
PETROVA TASKFORCE
ARCHIVAL TRANSCRIPT
TRANSCRIPT ID: COMM-LOG-INT-88
DATE: ▇▇, ▇▇ / 20:45 UTC
[02:45:01] [ AUDIO START. ]
[02:45:04] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _This is Dr. ▇▇▇, Attending Physician and Lead Coordinator for the Comagenesis Division, Petrova Taskforce. Recording audio log from Auxiliary Lab Four, Observation Suite B.
>> _I am accompanied on deck by senior research leads Dr. Annalise Bautista and Dr. Ethan Jackson.
>> _The time is... 0245 hours.
[02:45:32] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _We are currently observing Subject 0-42, cleared for Trial Phase 3-B at approximately 1800 hours yesterday following a titrated intravenous infusion of the revised neuro-suppressive cocktail.
>> _Current physiological vitals are stable, but highly volatile.
>> _Core body temperature is holding at thirty-four point two degrees Celsius. Heart rate is suppressed to twenty-eight beats per minute.
[02:45:58] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> [ DISTANCE VOICE, SLIGHTLY MUFFLED. ]
>> _I'm seeing a minor spike in baseline levels. Cortical micro-arousals are beginning to register in the occipital lobe on Monitor 2.
[02:46:09] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Copy that. Increase the paralytic drip by zero point five milligrams per hour. Let's keep the receptors dark before the twitching triggers a full cycle.
[02:46:21] DR. JACKSON:
>> [ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
>> _Adjusting the line now.
>> [ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
[02:46:35] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Think this one'll work?
[02:46:39] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Too early to tell. Cross your fingers.
[ SILENCE. ]
[ FAINT SHUFFLING. ]
[02:46:58] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Hey, what do you guys think about Stratt?
[02:47:04] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> [ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
>> _What about Stratt?
[02:47:08] DR. JACKSON:
>> _I don’t know. Just - -
>> _Stratt.
[02:47:13] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Like, a general idea?
[02:47:16] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Yeah, something like that.
[02:47:20] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _I’m not sure.
>> _She’s very severe, I guess. In a good way. She gets things done regardless of how crazy it may seem.
[02:47:31] DR. JACKSON:
>> _She feels a little disorganized to me.
[02:47:35] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Disorganized?
[02:47:38] DR. JACKSON:
>> _I mean look at us --
>> _We’re synthesizing coma technology for astronauts she hasn’t even recruited yet.
>> _And even when she does recruit them, the probe’s not set to come back for another month. We don’t know what’s dimming the sun.
>> _Is that her next plan? To send astronauts to the sun?
[02:47:58] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _You think that’s disorganized?
>> _She’s literally thinking twenty steps ahead. I don’t know what you mean. Even if we don’t have the data on the sun yet, we can still try to look for other solutions out there in space.
[02:48:12] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Out there in space?
[02:48:15] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _I don’t know. I’m not an astrophysicist.
[02:48:19] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _I have an audio log running, I don’t think now’s the best time to gossip.
[02:48:25] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Just edit it out later.
>> _What about you, ▇▇▇?
>> _What do you think about Stratt?
[ STATIC. ]
[ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
[ SILENCE. ]
[02:48:45] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Subject status?
[02:48:48] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Subject is stable.
[02:48:51] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Nothing’s going to get in Stratt’s way.
>> _Good for humanity. Bad for the people around her.
[02:49:01] DR. JACKSON:
>> _How’d you get saddled into all of this, anyway?
>> _I hear you took some convincing.
[02:49:08] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> [ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
>> _The convincing is downstairs in the mess hall eating ice cream.
[02:49:15] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Wait, that’s your kid?
[02:49:18] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Geez, Ethan. ‘You been living under a rock?
[02:49:22] DR. JACKSON:
>> _I don’t ask questions, alright?
>> _I see a girl running around the facility I think it’s one of the senators’.
>> _I didn’t know ▇▇▇ had a kid.
[02:49:31] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Now you do.
>> _Status?
[02:49:35] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> [ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
>> _Ah, shit.
>> _Encephalogram is smoothing out but the delta wave amplitude is still dragging. It’s not locking into the hibernation state we need.
[02:49:48] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> [ LONG EXHALE. ]
[ SILENCE. ]
[ STATIC. ]
[02:50:02] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _As the logs will corroborate across the past three cycles, the data suggests that while we can successfully induce a prolonged, deep comatose state without immediate cellular degradation, the threshold between true metabolic stasis and irreversible brain death remains narrow.
>> _We are trying to perfect a chemical suspension that can keep human beings alive, asleep, and entirely unmonitored for years in a deep-space environment.
>> _To be entirely frank for the record... the trials have a long way to go.
>> _That’s it for Phase 3-B. In the meantime, we will reconvene.
[02:50:41] DR. JACKSON:
>> _You guys wanna go out for lunch?
[02:50:45] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Very funny.
[02:50:48] DR. JACKSON:
>> _What? This great new place just opened. I think it’s called the West Side of the Facility?
[02:50:55] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Do you have a single serious bone in your body?
[02:51:00] DR. JACKSON:
>> _You? ▇▇▇? C’mon, let’s get drinks.
[02:51:04] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Can’t.
>> _I’m the division’s representative for tonight’s plenum.
[02:51:10] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _I have literally never seen you outside of work.
[02:51:14] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Which makes me a good representative?
[02:51:18] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Which means you probably have five minutes before you drop dead.
[02:51:23] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _That’s funny, Anne.
[02:51:26] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _I got news from that plenum you’re going to attend, though.
[02:51:30] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> [ SHUFFLING. ]
>> [ FAINT THUD. ]
>> [ PAPERS RUSTLING. ]
>> _There is a difference between news and gossip.
[02:51:39] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Oh, c'mon.
>> _All I was going to say is I hear they’re recruiting more people. Making more divisions.
>> _They’re looking into microbiologists.
[02:51:50] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> [ FAINT LAUGH. ]
>> _I matched with a microbiologist once. On a dating app.
[02:51:56] DR. JACKSON:
>> _You’re on dating apps?
[02:52:00] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Was. Alright? It was a while ago.
[02:52:04] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _And? Then what?
[02:52:07] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _What do you mean, then what?
>> _Then I got shipped to the pacific and made to do all this work.
>> _I don’t talk to him anymore. I wish I still did.
[02:52:19] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Maybe you’ll meet a new one on the Taskforce.
[02:52:23] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Right.
[02:52:25] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _No, c’mon. Maybe you will.
>> _I mean just this morning I saw a printout in the office.
>> _I think they’re planning to recruit this guy named Ryland Grace?
[02:52:38] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> [ OBJECTS CLATTERING TO FLOOR. ]
[02:52:41] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Dude.
[02:52:45] [ AUDIO END. ]
ⓘ The preceding transcripts were recovered from the central USS Kilauea auxiliary comms unit. The names of particular dependencies have been redacted in compliance with the International Non-Disclosure Act regarding the Petrova Event.
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.”
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.
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.
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.
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.
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 steadily 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 to himself. “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 lazy, metallic loops, its faint clinking traveling up the steel braid and vibrating directly 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!”
“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 mechanical 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 and synthetic neuro-blockers into your IV line. Grace would instantly sit up at the sound, his eyes scanning the data streams, 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 jagged 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.
The voice 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 felt himself crawl 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, loopy from his own dose of 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.
Yk I’ve had this idea of like something to do with six. Maybe six meeting reader who is in like a similar program to the sierra program n he only ever finds out ab it because they’re told to collaborate? Could lead any which way after such tbh thats where idea ends 😓
Alternatively, something to do with Henry Letham. Anything would do, fluff, angst, anything n all. I needa rewatch the movie lwk tho cuz I got soo lost towards the end n I’m not sure if it’s because I watched half one day n the other another day or what 😓😞
henry letham x male reader
tags: sleepy morning fluff, sickfic, established relationship, canon divergence; everything is Okay, kind of proposal (it's henry after all)
a/n: this was genuinely so hard to pick dude i love them both </3 but i rewatched stay the other day and had to see him happy and cherished 😞😞
✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏
Henry stirs very slowly. Awareness reaches him in faint threads, knitting itself together as the memory of his dream already begins to fade and he becomes aware of his body again. It's a far kinder awakening than the harsh blaring of his many alarms wrenching him from sleep most days of the week, even with the faint achiness present in his limbs.
Warmth crowds in from all sides—the flattened pillow against his cheek, the rumpled blankets and sheets he's buried in, his own body heat, soaked into the mattress beneath him—and still he's cold. He's quick to notice its terrible absence in his foot, where it sticks out from under the covers, and just as swiftly he pulls it back in, curling into himself.
In the same motion, eyes still pressed loosely shut, he swings his leg back, searching out the man-sized furnace he shares a bed with in hopes of leeching some warmth.
When instead he finds a vague spot of ebbing warmth in the empty space behind him, Henry huffs mournfully into his pillow, prying his eyes only halfway open. He blinks a few times, eyelids sluggish and achy with an already-rooting headache, and attempts to focus on the clock on his nightstand. Drowsy as he is, he might as well be staring at it through a glass pane. A very foggy, very thick glass pane.
He turns to the window next, figures he'll have a better shot at gauging the time there—it's light out already, but the sun seems muted, pale, and isn't pooling inside the way it does around noon, so Henry estimates he can sleep in for another hour or two.
He stretches his limbs out, quivering all the way to his teeth, and then goes boneless back into his pocket of warmth right as the bedroom door creaks softly.
Henry's eyes squint back open where they'd fallen shut during a jaw-aching yawn, and more warmth finds his chest at the sight of you heedfully slipping back inside. His gaze slips when you turn to shut the door, down the expanse of your bare back and the low-sitting waistband of your shorts. How you aren't freezing your ass off is beyond him. Then again, you haven't been saddled with a particularly stubborn fever for the last several days.
"Oh," you say upon spotting his drooping, sleepy blues gazing up at you. "You're up early."
"What time'sit?" he mumbles, rolling over to face your half of the bed and patting your vacant spot with his palm.
"Just past eight," you reply as you crawl up the mattress and settle in beside him. "How are you feeling?"
"Where'd you go?" He demands in lieu of an answer, distantly aware of how disgruntled the question comes out, but sue him, he doesn't enjoy waking up to an empty bed anymore, especially after he had to banish you back to your own place for a few nights so he wouldn't get you sick before finishing with your finals. So, he just tucks his nose against the junction of your shoulder and neck and sighs.
"Had to take a leak, I need your permission to get out of bed now?"
Henry hums noncommitally into your shoulder, holding his tongue but swinging a thigh over your hips. Instead of a true response, he jerks both ice-cold feet out and presses them cruelly against your legs, snickering when you hiss. With great might you power through, and slip a hand up out of the covers to press flat against his cheek, then forehead.
"We might have to go to Urgent Care if your fever doesn't break," you hum, a thread of worry tightening your voice. Henry is quick to shake his head with dismissive looseness. Neither of you own a car, so he'd rather avoid paying for a ludicrously overpriced Uber—and the thought alone of stepping into a subway station in his state, with all its sounds and smells and lights, makes his head pound. Still, it hurts less than it did yesterday, and far less than the day before.
"I'll just sleep it off," Henry mumbles into your skin, weaseling a flat hand between the back of your ribcage and the bed, effectively trapping you. Already, that same sinking weight of tiredness makes itself known again in his limbs. "'M already feeling better."
Your fond puff of breath falls into his hair, followed closely by your fingers, which begin sifting through dark, sleep-mussed tufts and scratching gently over the base of his scalp. The sensation sparks feathery little chills racing down his spine, in response to which he noses further against your neck.
He has a feeling he won't be able to fall back asleep, but he keeps his body loose and his eyes shut, just to bask in the moment for as long as he can. You, on the other hand, seem to have no problem dozing off again—seeing as you had your last final exam yesterday after a particularly punishing exam season, so Henry understands, and when he eventually angles his neck up to watch your sleep-soft face, does so quietly, gingerly, so as not to disturb you.
He props his head up on his open palm, heel pressing into his temple. Your stomach rises and dips in even waves beneath his leg, eyebrows loose on your face, lips parted a mere hair's breadth.
Henry's chest feels funny just watching you. He itches to scour for his sketchbook—wherever the hell he left it—and capture you on its blank pages. But he's too tangled with you, and preserving your peace at the moment takes firm priority.
He can hardly believe it, even still, that he gets to have this. Gets to have you. For months you'd existed to him as some unattainable wonder, one he'd only permit himself to appreciate from measured distances: across a lecture hall or a few benches down from you at the subway station. Then, somehow, you'd spoken to him, your eye caught by one of his paintings at a portfolio exhibition, and the two of you hit it off so smoothly, you'd gone out to a 24-hour diner after the event and talked all night. He'd been buzzing by the time you two parted ways in the early hours of the morning, both from all the coffee he'd downed as well as the elation of having finally, properly met you.
He's endlessly fascinated by you, in a way he never is with other people. With art, certainly—maybe even a particularly good song or poem, but never people. People are fickle and frustrating, often cruel, prone to disappointing him. But since that evening you first spoke to him there was a sort of good-natured disposition to you, in the way you spoke but also in how you listened. He was so certain he'd scare you off once he'd started speaking, quoting Tristan Reveur and detailing the admittedly bleak inspiration behind his painting—but you were fascinated, seemingly as rapt with his words as he was with you.
He's pulled out of his reverie when you crack an eye open.
"Do I have toothpaste on my face or something?"
A tiny smile curls at the corner of his mouth, shaking his head as he skims his palm from your ribs along your warm, bare chest and up your neck. His palm lifts, only to leave his fingers tracing your jaw, all the way up to the hinge below your ear. Meanwhile, your own drifts lazily up and down his back over his loose sleep shirt.
"I love you," he murmurs, very matter-of-factly, swinging his thumb around to the other side of your jaw, catching it in an infirm grip. "Know that?"
"I had my suspicions," you reply playfully. "I love you, too." He feels the faint shifting of muscles under his fingertips as you draw up a soft smile. Your eyes don't stray from his mouth for an instant, but Henry keeps your head fixed on the pillow. Despite your efforts, you are endearingly easy to read.
Your hand strokes higher, the heel of your palm ultimately falling into the shallow dip between his shoulder blades and applying a degree of pressure that's more a question than anything else. Henry purses his lips, angling his head slightly away.
"You'll get sick," he says when your brows gather in a frown.
"I got my flu shot this year."
"Go back to sleep, you look exhausted."
"I should be telling you that," you grumble, still trying to urge him down into a kiss with the hand on his spine. Henry shakes his head in fond exasperation, curling his fingers to scratch down your jaw—and you seize the opportunity in order to dart your head up.
Fortunately for your immune system, regardess of the defeated groan you soon make, Henry just about manages to intercept the kiss with his palm, sealed over your mouth.
"Stubborn," he muses, pressing the pad of his thumb underneath your chin to feel it shift as you swallow, peering up at him with a cross of betrayal and amusement. Your tongue darts out, poking wetly at his hand, but Henry holds his ground. It'll take much more than that to gross him out.
If only to appease the pitiful edge to your expression, Henry ducks his head, presses a few fleeting pecks to your temple and the top of your cheek over his fingers. Your fingers drum insistently over his back, but your eyebrows loosen faintly once he leans his upper body over yours. The warmth of your breathing chest seeps into his, his skin oversensitive and tingly the way it gets when it's feverish but soothed by your body alone.
When your free hand drifts up to his narrow wrist and pulls it down, Henry doesn't resist, just straightens and blinks down at you. You kiss him, finally, and he allows it because he can very rarely deny you anything—and whatever, he's sick, he thinks he deserves a kiss from his (very mulish) boyfriend.
It's warm and chaste, but far from a quick peck. You finally return to his hair, cupping the back of his head to keep him in place while your lips slide with familiar ease against his. He thumbs blindly at your collarbone, slipping his eyes shut. Like a switch suddenly flipped, Henry forgets why he was even so adamant on not allowing you to kiss him. Well, he doesn't forget, exactly, just decides very promptly that if you do get sick, he'll gladly nurse you back to health, just as you've been doing with him.
The kiss fractures every now and again, though continually reconnects after half a beat, both of you reluctant to pull away.
Henry curls further around you when a shiver zips through him, one he isn't entirely sure is attributable to his sickness. His chest is so tight, heart stuttering under the immensity of his adoration he doesn't know what to do with it. He has to get it out somehow, put it down on paper with charcoal and paint. Feels he has to make something out of it, or else it might slip away and he won't have anything to show for it.
"Love you," he repeats against your lips, reaching up to the side of your neck, feeling under his pressing index finger the steady thump of your pulse. "Marry me."
Your smile ends up being what fully breaks the kiss. You scratch distractedly at his scalp, going a little cross-eyed as you try to meet his gaze, noses knocking.
"What a proposal. Very romantic," you tease, but Henry doesn't laugh—though not for lack of fondness. Strangely enough, he's completely untroubled, not embarassed nor anxious over what you may think or say, whether you'll be put off by the idea or move to pull away.
You won't. He knows you won't.
"I'll buy you a ring, I'll get you flowers, whatever you want," he continues, darting between both of your eyes. "You're it for me."
"Alright, loverboy." Your hand on his head comes around to cup his cheek, tracing the bag under his left eye with your thumb. "Let's think about this for a minute—"
"I'm not just saying it. I mean it."
"I know you do," you say, ever patient when it comes to him. "I'm just thinking logistics here. We're college students working minimum wage, baby."
"It doesn't matter," Henry says, smiling minutely, shaking his head despite knowing you're right. "I'll ask my parents for some money."
You laugh, and his forehead drops to your shoulder, huffing in faux defeat. It's so damn cold in this room; he presses himself flush to you, thighs and hips and chest melting into you under the covers, wishing he could crawl into you and curl up there, soaking up the heat that runs like a current under your skin. He presses his mouth to your neck for a few seconds, if only to warm his lips, and then you twist your head down, meeting his eye. He clears his scratchy throat.
"So, not a no?"
Your lips twitch, eyes tired but open and earnest. "Not a no."
He kisses you again, disregarding his prior concerns—he just can't help himself. Soon, you're both smiling too much to sustain it. Without looking away, Henry searches under the covers for your hand. Once he finds it, he lances his slender fingers between your own, imagining the feel of a smooth golden band around one of them. Imagines, for the first time in a long time, growing old, and doing it beside you.
"Get some sleep," he quietly says, then, somewhat cheekily, "Mr. Letham."
You snort, but comply and let your eyes drift shut.
ooooohhhhh you wanna do a colt seavers x cowboy!reader pt 2 soooooo badddddd 🤞🕯 (pls)
colt seavers x cowboy reader (pt 2)
a/n: wowie y'all loved this one !!! i was expecting it to #Flop lowkey but two anons asked for a part two and i am just So kind. come get y'all food friends
(also i keep getting weird disappearing notifs in my inbox so . i hope i haven't lost any requests but time will tell ig </3)
˗-ˏˋ ✸ ˎˊ-˗
a week after meeting you, colt somewhat manages to convince himself you forgot all about your interaction, and the promise you made—though promise feels charged when he thinks about it, like something far more significant than the offhanded comment you probably only made to be polite.
you cross paths on set a few times, locking gazes across a field or stable crawling with crew members—it's always the same: you'll tip your head, offer a crooked, faint smile in the shade the brim of your hat stretches down your face. and colt... will short-circuit. every time, without fail. on a good day he'll at least manage a smile back, but if he's particularly caught off guard by your suave charm, he'll go hot in the face and make some ambiguous gesture between a wave, a thumbs up, and a peace sign.
so. things are not going smoothly. he's not entirely certain what "things" refers to, either. it's fine.
he manages. at any given point in time while on set he is dreadfully hyperaware of your presence, like a blaring neon sign that just can't escape his peripheral. he fumbles a few stunts, earns himself a stern talking-to by dan, who for all his sharp judgement still hasn't discovered the source of colt's sudden and recurring abstraction.
you approach him again by week two of production. it's just past eleven PM after a particularly punishing shoot; most of the exhausted cast and crew has scattered by now, eager to return to their beds to start it all again tomorrow morning.
colt is not one of them, despite how his body aches—literally and figuratively—for a comfortable bed. his reasoning, of course, being you, lingering across the ample barn, harper's reins roped around your fist as you chat with one of the equine veterinarians they keep on set for any stunts involving the horses.
he's been working at his jumpsuit for the better part of five minutes, pretending to fumble at the buttons and zipper because once it's off, he won't have a reason to stick around. he just can't get enough of you, from the shape of your strong legs, to your stubbled jaw, hell—even to the glinting spurs on your aged boots. is he into that? somehow? jesus.
when he drags his eyes back up to your face, he finds it staring right back, eyes a little squinted and unreadable in the dim lighting. he jumps, and very un-subtly feigns a sudden fascination with the stained wooden ceiling, hands finally zipping his jumpsuit open. heartbeat stuttering in his ribcage, colt clumsily steps out of it, balls it up and tucks it under his arm.
his flighty bee-line toward the barn entrance is cut short by your voice, calling out. he gazes mournfully out at the dark, open field just outside before stiffly turning around.
you approach with harper in tow, looking tired but amused. behind you, the vet gathers her things and makes her exit. you nod and politely bid her farewell as she passes. when you turn back to colt, the temperature in his face has only dropped a few degrees. he's suddenly very grateful for the dimness.
"hey, partner," you tease, and he swears you deliberately deepen your accent to punctuate the joke, but the low, friendly drawl of your tone makes him forget, briefly, what you're even referencing.
"hey. hi—uh, partner." he makes a sort of hat-tipping gesture, which he manages not to grimace at when you laugh.
"i've been meaning to talk some more," you say after a short pause. "but things have been so hectic and all..."
"right. yeah, no, of course. me, too. i wouldn't want to approach you while you're working, or distract you, or anything."
you level a meaningful look at him. he's too battered and scramble-brained to read into it before you're speaking again: "you can distract me whenever you like."
jesus christ.
colt chuckles, strained and airy, and glances down at his shoes.
"okay, yeah, cool. good to know."
"are you...?" you cut yourself off, lower lip twisting faintly as though chewing on the inside of it. you cram your thumbs behind the buckle of your belt, hands hanging casually. colt has to scrape his gaze off of the general area to meet your eye again. "you still interested in those lessons?"
colt's reply is lightning-quick. "of course i am. how else am i ever gonna ride off into a beautiful sunset?"
you grin, tipping your head to the side. "you planning on doing that soon?"
"it's on the bucket list."
you laugh again, earnest but soft with tiredness. harper blinks boredly at the two of you, ear twitching.
“great. how’s sunday?”
and so you settle on sunday around noon. it’s the cast and crew’s day off, and colt is grateful for the agreed time to meet outside the horse stables—only so he can sleep in and shed some of the amassed exhaustion he’s been building since production started. he has to be sharp, lest he embarrasses himself in front of you.
(who is he kidding? he’s probably going to do that anyway, sleep-deprived or otherwise)
he hypes himself up the entire drive from his hotel, blasting his playlist so as not to let his mind wander, and subsequently panic. it’s just horseback riding. with a disarmingly handsome, real-life cowboy. no biggie.
you’re already inside when he arrives, combing through harper’s long mane and whistling to yourself.
colt's hope to quietly oberve you from the door for a moment backfires when you immediately turn over as he steps inside, catching his eye. you smile and wave him over. colt doesn't think he could deny you if he tried—he doesn't, of course, and walks up to you.
"well, don't you clean up nice?" you say, eyeing him up and down, still half-smiling.
colt, suddenly, is flooded with warmth, looking down at his outfit: a black fitted tee under one of his nicer flannels, jeans, and a pair of suede boots. he'd tried for a casual, just-threw-this-on look, but then again, he had definitely not just thrown it on, and spent the better part of twenty minutes rummaging through his bags before leaving.
"thanks," he breathes out. "you, too. i mean, you always look nice."
your own smile warps, something a cross between flattered and humored. you nod in thanks, and move to set harper's brush aside. she's already saddled up, nudging colt's palm when he extends it toward her.
"alright. get on her, c'mon," you say, looping the reins a few times around your fist, clapping him once on the shoulder.
colt sticks his foot in one stirrup and hoists himself into the saddle, missing the warmth of your hand the instant it leaves his shoulder. god, he really is screwed.
harper snorts as you lead her out of the stables, and colt is glad you're minding the path because he can't look away from you.
harper comes to a steady halt in the flat plot of land behind the stables. you hand him the reins.
"right," you say, absentmindedly picking something out of harper's mane. "it's easy once you get a hold of it. to move forward, gently squeeze her sides with your legs. to stop, you lean back and pull slightly on the reins. straighten your—here."
you step forward, reaching up, and colt has merely a split second to brace himself before your hand settles on his mid-back, gently coaxing him to straighten it. your chest brushes against his knee. he keeps his gaze pointedly ahead.
"there, that's it," you hum, withdrawing. "easy, right?"
he nods jerkily, squeezing the life out of the leather in his fists. "yep. easy."
you give him a few more pointers before he moves, most of which he fortunately registers. a few are lost on him, but he gets the general idea. you step back and he coaxes harper into a calm stroll, steering her around for a bit before picking up a bit of speed.
during it all, you linger where he started, arms crossed as you watch him. ocassionally, you'll shout out a tip or correction, but for the most part, colt holds his own pretty well. it is fun, he realizes, but he still regularly circles back to you, just to chat for a minute. that's even more fun.
he rides for about an hour before harper grows antsy, and you call her back. when colt moves to hop off, you extend a hand to him and catch his in a firm grip. for half a second after his feet hit the dirt, the hold lingers, fleetingly, and then you release it.
the two of you stroll up to the stables, where you park harper before a water trough at the rear end of the structure. she happily ducks her head to drink.
"you're a natural," you tell him, grinning under the spring sun, one elbow perched loosely atop the white fence circling the plot.
colt huffs, shaking his head modestly. "beginner's luck," he deflects, warm in the ears. "harper’s really great." he reaches up, strokes harper's firm shoulder muscle.
"she's a saint," you say warmly. "had her since i was seventeen. trained her myself."
colt hums curiously. he's deciding which of the cluster of questions on his tongue he wants to ask first when harper's head comes back up, snorting and sighing sharply a few times. colt looks at her, concerned for a brief moment until he hears you chuckle, stepping up to grab her reins.
"alright, girl, settle down, don't be throwing a fit now," you grumble, patting her neck as you guide her away from the trough. you turn back to him. "she's angry i got her working on her day off. mind if we continue another time?"
colt shakes his head, gesturing openly toward the stables which harper is longingly gazing at, still puffing.
so the three of you head over back to harper's pen, where you pull her saddle and halter off and hang them up right outside the dutch door.
"hey, thanks for this. i had a good time," colt says once you've stepped back out and come to a stop in front of him. he's leaning his shoulder against the aged wooden wall, picking absentmindedly at his cuticles over his stomach.
you nod graciously. "the pleasure was all mine. maybe i could sneak one of harper's doubles for next time, we could ride together."
colt isn't entirely sure why that thought makes his stomach flip with a tiny thrill. he shrugs, feigning composure. "as long as it's into a beautiful sunset, i'm down."
you laugh down at the dirt and straw-covered ground, then bring a hand up to scratch at your jaw, tendons flexing subtly under your skin. colt swallows thickly.
"sounds nice," you say, looking back up. you level him with a new look, now—still bearing that friendly warmth of yours, but denser, now. heavier. your mouth holds it's faint slant, the smallest of lingering smiles, and colt can't deny, even with his impressive talent in doing so, the way your eyes trail over his face. darting from his eyes, to the messy sweep of his hair, down his jaw and over his mouth.
he indulges, and allows his own to lock onto your lips as well, faintly chapped but looking unbearably kissable. he drifts, almost involuntarily, and smiles dopily when you mirror the motion.
when there's nothing but a few inches of charged air hanging between your noses, colt feels a strong hand settle on his hip, thumb mindfully slipping underneath the hem of his t-shirt, slow enough to give him time to stop you. the rough texture of your calloused pad scrapes gently over his hip bone, and his chest shrinks.
"this alright?" you murmur, forcing your attention from his mouth just long enough to meet his eye.
colt foregoes an answer, and instead locks a palm around the nape of your neck and pulls you in for a kiss.
it's tentative and warm at first, just a motionless press of impatient mouths, but then he feels you smile lightly into it and squeeze his hip.
of course, he thinks, damn near annoyed by it; you kiss just as skillfully as everything else you do.
his fingers flex against your neck, skin thrumming with a staticky buzz as you tip your head, deepen the kiss. your second hand comes up to smooth the small of his back.
with clumsy, knocking feet, he’s maneuvered to the side, rotating until his back is pressed against the wall and your chest is pressed flush to his. he clings to you like a lifeline, experimentally sweeping his tongue over your lip.
a blunt, unquestionably irritated snort snaps you both out of your daze, and you break the kiss with a forlorn sigh. colt remains frozen under your hands, unable to so much as glance away from your face, your kiss-slick mouth, as you turn over to face harper, whose head is sticking out from her stable, peering at the two of you with one critical eye.
"yeah, yeah, we're going," you tell her through a low sigh, and then face colt again. your thumb is still circling the sharp cut of his hip, and you seem just as reluctant to look away from his lips as he is from yours. he watches them pull into a fond smirk.
A gun slots neatly between your lips, and within seconds your quiet night in devolves into something you could never imagine. You have to make a choice: die for your old crew, or pray the gray man kills them before they find you sold them out
The Gray Man pays you a visit, and he leaves with a new kink.
warnings: 18+ MINORS DO NOT INTERACT. gunplay, canon-typical violence, dub-con (but not really, you’re way too into it even despite the power dynamic), no solid physical descriptions of reader aside from having a penis, boot worship lowkey, boot humping/dry humping, coming in pants, spit as lube, anal sex, court discovers dacryphilia for a moment there, minor blood mentions, protected sex, intense power dynamic, court calls you good boy a few times, praise
a/n: this was a request from the lovely @aichmoph0bia !!! oH MYGOD. this was so fucking fun to write . THANK UUU <3 i hope it lives up to ur expectations ^_^ also shoutout to my bf for indulging my questions and helping me figure out if certain positions were possible as a tall guy. anyway i locked in to finish this at 10:30pm and it’s currently 4am and the sun is rising. the things i do for gay porn xx wouldn’t trade it for the world
"Shhh." You barely hear the hum before a hand covers your already closed eyes, stretching to apply pressure to the apples of your cheeks with a thumb and forefinger, the back of a hand pressing to your forehead. "Shh shh shh." The voice whispers, and you lay rigid beneath their hold. Fuck. "Open your mouth." They hiss, voice harsh, and something sparks in your mind to make you comply, dropping your jaw open, still barely there, brain clouded with sleep. "It's okay, it's okay." It would be comforting in any other context, the way he then hums gentle and calm, though the familiarity has your stomach twisting in knots.
The gun makes a soft *clack* as it knocks against your teeth, your lips pulling back in a grimace, blinking blindly against the curve between their fingers, desperate to peer at them. Even if his voice sounds familiar, you can't place it. "I want you to keep that there, okay?" Despite your better judgement, you ignore any self-preservation skills that had once been present in your work, and you nod as much as you can in their grip, teeth biting down on the muzzle. "Good, good." They soothe in a way that should be mocking, but instead sends a thrill of something down your spine.
"Who-" You barely manage to speak around the gun, and it comes out more as a gargle, your tongue pressing up against the cool metal. You can taste the gunpowder residue, -it's been fired before, and it simply affirms that the man above you will have no issue with putting a bullet straight through your head.
"Thats non of your concern." He sounds almost condescending as he peels his hand away just enough for you to get an eyeful, though you can barely make out any features in the low light.
The man towering over your prone form is much larger than you could ever even dream of being, and you don't fancy your chances at hand to hand if it comes to it. That had never been your speciality.
So for now you accept his word, and nod slowly, compliant to the mystery man currently holding your life in his rough hands.
Even in the darkness you see his eyebrow quirk up as you wrap your lips just a fraction tighter around the muzzle, an impulse you're too tired to fight against. Something about a deep-seated reaction to submit to any man that presses something against your tongue. "Now," He starts, voice so controlled it puts your current whining and whimpering to shame, and for an awful moment, you decide you'd let him keep the gun in your mouth until the end of time if it means he'll keep talking to you that way. "I'm in need of some information, okay? I'm after some of your old associates." You should pull back as he crouches at your side, but every fibre of your being wants to shift closer to him, your body drawn to the heat of his.
He shifts the gun from between your teeth, instead slotting it flush with the inside of your cheek, the stretch beginning to split the plush of your lower lip. "Now, I know you know these men, alright? So don't you try and play innocent with me." The way his words drag from his throat makes your stomach clench, and you have to hold yourself still to stop from literally writhing on the sofa. There's a scolding, in the back of your rational brain, reprimanding yourself for acting like the fool you currently are, because there's no way you should be biting back the urge to curl around the man at your side, you should know better than this- but your lower body decides that it doesn't care.
"C'mon, sit up." His voice shifts just a tone gentler, and he pats your cheek twice, almost as if he's attempting to wake you up from whatever spell he's cast over you. "Atta boy, there we go." He almost teases, and you want to whine at the praise, nuzzle against his hand as he shoves the gun back between your teeth, but you resist. It's possibly the only smart choice you make now, and you have no idea how long it will last before your resolve cracks and you give in to your baser instincts. Probably shamefully quick.
"On your knees." The way he delivers it is so sure and commanding that it has you moving without a thought, and you wonder if he can sense the waves of need radiating off of you, despite how much you fight against it, pressing your thighs together. "Hands behind your back." You clasp them at your lower back at a speed that would be mortifying for any onlooker, and you stare up at him for approval, chest thrumming when he nods.
You can't quite decide whether you want him to notice your squirming or not, as you readjust your position in a pitiful attempt to scrape back some sort of dignity. But luck is not on your side, and the friction from your movements has you momentarily keeling forward. Not the time not the time not the time- you chant desperately in your head, and your eyes roll up for a moment before you squeeze them tight. Not now. Not here. Not with him. Whoever he even is.
"Listen to me, alright?" You struggle to imagine a scenario in which you don't listen to the menacing, and extremely handsome murderer, and nod- too eager again, but you hear him hum in approval. The warmth in your lower belly coils into something much nastier, and if it continues on like this, you're not sure how long you'd be able to hold on. "You're a loose end I can't have running around, but if you tell me what I want, maybe you'll get lucky." You hear his boots squeak as he moves to crouch in front of you, so close that his breath fans over your face- but it's gone as quick as it arrives. "Open your eyes."
You see the exact moment he notices it, with the little light glowing from the lamp across the room, you watch his eyes track down to your lap. "Are you..?" He starts, before trailing off, and you expect him to pull away, maybe pull the trigger and end it all- but he doesn't. He stands back up and frowns, brows tugging, casting harsh shadows over his face. He should look more menacing like this, but the adrenaline coursing through your body just makes your pulse beat harder at the sight of him. "You like this?" He speaks like he can't quite decide whether he wants to judge you or not, and his gloved hand reaches to catch your cheek, tilting your head upwards, just enough for him to see the spit dribbling down your chin. "Fuck." He curses softly, and mostly to himself, shaking his head. You're absolutely fucked.
"You like this?" He asks again, and you nod quickly, tears beginning to bead in the corners of your eyes. Whether you're crying from the pain of your lips stretching around the muzzle, or whether it's the shame and fear of it all, you don't know, but the man doesn't seem to care. "Use your words." Something seems to shift in the air around you as he speaks, and the sight of his tongue rolling across his lips makes your chest tighten. He's staring in a different way now, and through blurry eyes you can almost see a smirk tugging at his mouth when you try to speak around the gun.
"Okay-" He takes in a deep breath, and so far in your short interaction, it's the only time you see him falter. His eyes close for a second longer than needed, he rolls his shoulders, and his neck follows. He's uncertain, that much is clear, unsure on the change in dynamic this meeting has taken. If you were smarter or quicker, you could use it to your advantage, but instead you gaze up at him with a stupid lust, and before your brain catches up to your first sign of potential freedom, he snaps back again.
You both spend several moments just staring at each other, tears sliding down your cheeks as his lips curl back into a smile. "You gonna do something about it?" He cocks his head, angling it down to speak at you like you're nothing but a dog at his feet. He's teasing now, mocking in a way that just amplifies the coil of heat low in your stomach.
"Mhm?" You can barely even manage the whine around the gun, and your lips split further with the movement, a fact that seems to have taken his attention.
He hums above you, and a leather clad finger swipes across your chin, smearing the mix of blood and spit into your skin. "Messy." He comments, and he visibly relaxes, he's no longer forcibly shoving the gun towards the back of your throat, it simply rests on your tongue now, but you don't try to pull back regardless. "Now, are you going to do something about it?" You feel dumb with confusion, your brain swirling with such rampant need that you can barely think straight. "C'mon." He urges, sliding a hand to the back of your head again, drawing you closer to him as he raises a brow expectantly. "You're a smart boy, aren't you? Smart enough to dig up all that information on those jobs back in Rio? You were the one who sent those brainless muscle fucks after my contract right? Figure it out." He pities you for a moment, and sticks out his right foot in front of you.
His shiny combat boot glistens, and you can just imagine him buffing them with practiced hands- hands that are currently holding your entire life in the balance. You can think of much more appealing things they could be doing- but a boy can dream. "Go on." He's getting impatient, an audible sigh as he rolls his eyes. "You're that fuckin' turned on from having a gun in your mouth, so do something about it." He kicks your knees apart, almost knocking you forward if it wasn't for the grip on your head and the gun still in your mouth.
The toe of his boot presses just enough to your crotch to have you mewling, the pressure so intense you can barely focus. "There?" He pushes his foot down again, and you have to squeeze your fingers together to stop yourself from reaching out and shoving him away. It's so overwhelming your head spins, and you bite down so hard you swear your tooth cracks. You don't even care. A fat glob of spit falls from your mouth when he pulls the gun almost past your lips, before pushing it back in, and he tracks it down to where it lands on his boot.
"Clean it." You swear for a second you misheard him, but then he repeats it again, and he seems angry now, as if he just remembered that he came here to kill you, not get you off. Shit. "Clean it, come on." The growl that pairs with his words is definitely supposed to come off as menacing, threaten you in a way the gun clearly doesn’t, but rather than fear, he's simply rewarded with a more desperate rut up against the sole of his boot. "Clean." He bullies it between your legs now, hooking under your ass to pull you close enough that if he holds the gun flush to his own crotch, your head is forced to tilt as your cheek rests against his thigh.
"There we are, there's still some brains in you after all." He clamps a hand on the side of your face, holding you tight to his thigh, nose just inches away from his crotch. It's painful- to move in the position he's wrangled you into, neck straining as you begin to shift back and forth across his boot. But it's addictive, and soon the pain blends into nothing but pleasure as you chase a high you definitely shouldn't, feeling his foot lift up in time with each desperate grind.
"You close?" You can barley answer as is, slackjaw around the weapon, so your response comes out as a garbled mess of whines and groans, nodding as much as you can whilst you're held in place. "Come." The speed at which you comply to his order is embarrassing, and even in your hazy state, the thought that you may very well die to his hands with a mess in your jeans flashes through your mind just a few quick seconds after. Fuck.
You can barely see with the tears clouding your eyes, and you feel boneless against him, panting wildly as he continues to press up into you, pain pricking through your body as overstimulation sets in. "Tell me who they are." He pulls the gun out suddenly, spit stringing to it and wetting your face when he presses it to your forehead. "Tell me." The fingers on the hand anchoring you to his thigh grab at your jaw when you go to clamp it shut, but his thumb forces its way in. You go to bite down, but he's quicker, taking several steps back until you're slipping over, held up entirely by your head as you reach out to steady yourself on his legs when he stops again. "Bite me, and I'll pull the trigger." He warns, gritting his teeth as he stares down at you, lower body splayed out uselessly across the floor.
"They-They'll kill me." You manage to squeeze out, panting through your words.
"By their hand or mine, you take your pick." He huffs, and your brain is still too cloudy to think properly, because your answer is nothing more than gibberish, as you blabber desperately against the fabric of his trousers, squeezing your eyes shut.
"I'll tell you where- I'll tell you where they are, if you promise not to kill me." You hear him laugh softly above you, and he smooths his thumb across your hot cheek.
"Good, good answer." He praises softly, and your dumb brain thrums with warmth, urging you to press closer to his legs again, pushing yourself up back to a kneeling position. "Are you telling me because you don't want to die, or because you hope I'll let you come again, huh?" He's laughing at you now, but you don't have it in you to care- because you're not even sure of your own answer. You don't think it matters. Especially not if he will make you come again.
"Tell me everything I need to know, and I'll consider it, okay?" Your chest is tight as you nod, and something twists within you, a fiery mix of dread and desire.
And so, you rattle off the information you knew, pointing to a desk shoved against a wall, a lock glinting on one of the drawers in the low light. "Key." You mumble, reaching down into your shirt to retrieve the key that had hung around your neck every day for the last 4 dreadful years of your life, and something close to relief washes over you when he snatches it.
"Thank you." He hums, before pulling it so hard the chain snaps, your head hitting harsh against the butt of the gun with the force of it jolting your neck.
"Are you gonna-" You trail off before you finish your thought- there was no way the man in front of you would keep to his word, especially not when his identity hits you full force, memories of all those nights trawling through details all coming back. ‘The Rio job.' You should've realised sooner, it should've clicked then, but it hadn't, and you'd just spilled your guts out to a man you had no business ever talking to.
The Gray Man stares down at you.
"Stand." He ignores whatever nonsense you were no doubt about to cry, and he crouches slightly, just enough to hook an arm under yours to help you to your feet, the gun sliding across to your temple, not leaving your skin even for a moment.
At least if you died now, it would be after doing something you loved- getting off. What a silver lining.
The arm slings around your stomach, holding your back almost flush against his chest, but leaving just enough room so you can both walk over to the desk. Your legs feel like jelly as you go, and he has to wrestle to keep you moving until you reach it, only for him to push you down against it when you do. "Stay." He orders, and you have no plan to disobey, tears still falling as you press your cheek to the wood, angled just so that you can watch him unlock the drawer, your hands either side of your head. "Good boy." He mocks, gun now pressed to the back of your head, and you swear you feel something hard press against your ass when he cages your body in with his own, his other hand wrenching the drawer open.
"Good boy." He repeats again as soon as he flicks through the documents, yet he leaves them there in favour of stroking a hand down your spine. "That's gotta be rewarded, huh?" He muses, and the oddly tender touch turns harsh again when the gloved hand rips your shirt up, dragging it over your head to be discarded on the floor somewhere.
Your entire body feels like it's set ablaze as you hear him hum in what you hope is appreciation, hand smoothing over your back, squeezing at your shoulder before pressing into the base of your spine to push your hips gently against the edge of the desk. You mewl at the friction, and he laughs in a new satisfaction, reaching up to pet your head.
"Tell me you want this." In a move you didn't expect, he seeks your consent, backing off just a fraction, his hips no longer pressed against your ass, though he makes no effort to remove the gun from where it's still angled at your skull. "Tell me you want this." He repeats when you don't answer quick enough, and you can still barely think properly- you shouldn't be doing this. Not with him, not with the man who's holding you fucking hostage.
"Yes- Please." You whine before your brain can catch up, and you find yourself not regretting that answer when he immediately rewards it by grinding up against you.
"Good. I'm gonna fuck you, alright?" He doesn't wait for another response before his hand is sliding down your stomach, reaching quickly for your waistband- and you thank everything in the universe that you're wearing a pair of jogging bottoms, because he pushes them, along with your boxers, down with ease.
The rough fabric of his combat trousers scratches against your bare skin, and your heartbeat quickens so violently you can feel your pulse throbbing once in your cock. "Shit." He curses to himself, and seconds later you listen as he spits filthily, leather clad fingers pulling you open just enough that you feel it dribble down. "There we go." He hums, suddenly all too casual, and you jolt when he presses a thumb to your hole. "Shh shh shhh." He's crowding you now, kicking your feet further apart before leaning over, just enough to drag his teeth across your shoulder.
"I can't believe you were so desperate you sold out your crew just for the chance that I'd fuck you." He hisses, teeth grazing where your neck meets your shoulders, biting softly when he finally stops circling and pushes the digit in. "Right there?" He teases when you gasp, humming in approval at the way you begin to writhe as he stretches you open.
"Fuck!" You all but yelp when he swaps his thumb for his index and works in the middle one alongside it almost immediately.
"You're so tight." He praises, standing back to full height, but only in order to spit back down onto you again, easing the friction and burn his fingers are causing just a fraction. "There we go." He lets the gun leave your head briefly, but only to trail the cold, still damp metal up and down your spine, watching the way you arch up into it. "One more." He warns, though he allows you no time to prepare before another finger joins the others, and the feeling has you crying out.
"So loud, you hoping someone will hear and come rescue you?" He taunts, and suddenly the gun is back at your lips, taking advantage of the way you're slack jawed, drooling madly against the table, making it perfect for him to slip the weapon past your lips once more. "Hold on to that for me." He quips, still stretching you open for a few more moments, before he pulls out, leaving you gasping around the gun, feeling almost unbearably empty.
He stays silent and unmoving then, but you can't crane your neck back enough to stare at him behind you. "Do you have protection?" His tone is almost as serious as when he was interrogating you, and it sparks an urgency in your brain.
"Th-There-" It's barely audible, muffled by the gun, but you throw out a hand to point at another drawer, which he swiftly opens.
"You get fucked here this often, huh?" He's laughing again as he retrieves a condom, and you have to bite back a nod as you listen to him tear it open with his teeth.
"Here, I'll let you put it on." He shifts behind you, just enough for you to see that he'd pushed his trousers down, his cock open and on full display.
Holy shit. "Come on." He groans when you do nothing but stare, rolling the condom a little awkwardly onto his tip with one hand, before he grasps your wrist and pulls it close to continue the job.
Fuck- you think, and he echoes it himself out loud several seconds later, thrusting lazily into your hand once you'd got the condom rolled down to the base.
He's big and pulsing in your hand, and you have to swallow the wave of nerves that curl up in your throat at the sensation.
-But you're excited for the burn all the same, and attempt to wiggle your ass towards him, something that earns a pleased hum.
"I'll put you out of your misery." The joke is hardly funny, and both of you know that, the gun is still ready to fire right through the roof of your mouth, and yet you grin at him in response. "You're a sick freak, you know that, right?" He can't help but smile back, shaking his head in a way that you'd dare describe as almost fond, before he turns to the drawer again. "A well prepared freak." Something you're both grateful for now, as he pops the cap open, moving back behind you to spread it rather liberally over himself, before adding a few more squirts to you too. A gentleman.
"Breathe." The tip is cold when it presses to your hole, but spreads a violent heat within you once he begins to push in. "There we go." His hand holds your hips down flush with the desk as he eases in, groaning wantonly over you. "So tight f'me." His words are all choked up in his throat as he takes his sweet time to push in right to the hilt, and you cry out as he does so, his hips bumping against your ass.
"That feel good?" He uses the gun in your mouth to push your head up and down in a nod with an amused chuckle. "Good." He teases, experimentally drawing back just a fraction before pushing back in, moaning at the drag the action creates. You mirror his sounds around the muzzle, back arching up off the desk as he begins to move properly.
"Can't believe- that you- got fuckin' hard- from me- holding you at gunpoint." He muses between thrusts, the desk bumping loudly against the wall as he pushes harder with each one. "You like that? -Huh-? Being helpless?" He grits out, and he doesn't have to manipulate your nod now, because you do so eagerly, pressing back against him. "Risking- fuck -blowing your brains out just so you can come?" You really should be ashamed, honestly, scared more than anything, but the way he's crowded over you again and the way he's hitting deep inside you has you seeing stars. You're far too gone now to ever go back, and you don't think you want to either.
"So good." His hand slides from your lower back, curling under your stomach until he can grasp at your cock, pumping lazily in time with his own thrusts, your cries only getting louder as he does so. "Suck." He orders, and both hands move in a skilled tandem to simultaneously jerk you off and pump the gun in and out of your mouth. What the fuck was happening? The feeling is almost unbearable, especially when his pace quickens, and you swear you'll get friction burn on your cheek from how much he's dragging you back and forth.
"You gonna come again? Yeah? You gonna come from this fuckin' gun in your mouth?" The muzzle cracks against your teeth as you nod again, and you can only imagine the ache and pain you will experience in the coming days.
It's all worth it through, and you press back into him with each thrust, at least until your legs begin to shake so much you lose the footing you had, only held up from slipping off the desk by his body pinning yours down.
"Come on." He's panting feverishly into your ear, and you can tell he's close too, his hips stuttering as he pounds into you. "Come for me." He hisses, teeth catching on your earlobe, the feeling of them biting into your skin just enough to push you to your release. "Fuck-Fuck-" He groans, the grip on his gun never slipping or wavering in his hand, even when you feel him come himself, a hot warmth spreading through your lower body.
"Fuck you." He spits, forehead pressed to the base of your neck, still pumping his hips for several more moments, fucking you still through both of your highs before easing off enough to pull out.
"Fuck you." You try to speak around the gun, and despite it coming out muffled and garbled, he laughs again, though it's not as cheerful this time, it sounds almost pained.
"I'm gonna-" He sighs, and you watch him pull his trousers up without even removing the condom, and once again the gravity of his identity hits you. You just let The Gray Man fuck you filthily against the desk containing everything that could bring you and your associates down. "Thanks for this." He gathers up all the papers he can in one hand, and steps back to grab a bag you hadn't noticed him drop earlier in the night. "I really appreciate your cooperation, you know?" He's still a little breathless as he shoves the documents inside, and you watch from your position, still folded over the desk. "Any more?" You shake your head, despite the messiness of your associates, you kept your shit clean and tidy. "Good." The gun remains pointed at you as he zips the bag up before slinging it over his back.
"If you ever pull that shit again, I will not hesitate to come back and finish the job." For good measure, he presses it back to your forehead, just for a moment. "I will blow your head clean off, whether you're a good fuck or not." You just nod, head resting in a pool of your own drool and blood. "Good. Glad that's agreed." He cocks his head to the side, watching you as you lay still staring at him. "Have a nice night."
You watch him retreat towards the door, and you don't say a single thing, despite how much the words claw at your throat. He disappears as quietly as he had arrived, and you find yourself staring at where his body had once stood for possibly too long after he's gone.
You only prayed to whoever was listening that he found your associates before they found you.
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.
