𝐟𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐮𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠 ryland grace & fem!reader
𝐬𝐲𝐧𝐨𝐩𝐬𝐢𝐬 you're the medic on the hail mary and come across a photo that must've slipped from your personal supplies which changes the entire dynamic between you and who you thought was your co-worker.
𝐰𝐨𝐫𝐝 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐭 1.6k
𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐨𝐫’𝐬 𝐧𝐨𝐭𝐞 i CANNOT believe it has taken people this long to jump on the ryan gosling train. as always, i this nawt proof-read whatsoever #lewl. nerdy silly white boy with biceps, i want you.
you thought you had it all figured out.
well...most of it anyway.
you thought that you know who you are, why you're here, etcetera or whatever, but a single photograph you discovered that had slipped into a nook of the ship has single-handedly destroyed all of the progress you've made in terms of remembering yourself.
your breath shakes just as badly as your hands, and you feel a nervous pounding in your chest accompanied by a pattern of drums in your ears.
this photo can't be real.
you repeat your name in your head. you are an astronaut, and one hell of a doctor. you are on this ship to assist in completing a mission with your co-worker, ryland grace, the only other crew member to survive the journey's coma.
co-worker.
so why the hell are you staring at a photo of the two of you kissing.
there's a little more context to it though, which actually makes everything a hundred times worse.
there's an arch decorated with an array of lush white flowers that frames you both on a sunny spring day, grace is dipping you into the kiss, a beaming expression on each of your faces as he does so. he looks happy, so you look happy, and you're also dressed in a traditional white gown while grace is wearing a tailored suit, but not black, because—
"black is boring," ryland uttered, elbow propped up onto your dining table while his chin rested on his fist. you looked up at him from your laptop where you were browsing websites to get him a suit.
"then don't wear black," you giggled. he reached for your left hand to toy with your fingers, eventually brushing a thumb over your engagement ring. "i thought you said you wanted 'traditional'," he teased.
you scoffed, "i did not say that!"
"you did say that."
"ryland."
"honey," he mocked with a smile. you grinned and smacked his hand away, tending back to your laptop.
"obviously if you don't want to do something, you don't have to do it. and i agree with you, black is boring."
ryland sighed dreamily, tilting his face into his palm after settling his elbow up onto the table again. "i love us. we're so compatible," he hummed.
you smiled shook your head a little in amusement, eyes still on your screen. "you're ridiculous."
"yeah, well, you're marrying me. probably makes you the ridiculous one."
ryland then wordlessly took the laptop from you to scroll through the options, then clicked on one of the sites. he scrolled a little more in silence, squinting slightly even though his glasses were right there that he could've put on. ryland clicked on the touchpad once more before turning the screen to you, dead serious.
"i want this one."
you blinked at the screen. he had pulled up one of the site's photos of one of their models showing off a tacky purple suit and an ugly gold tie, all pulled together by a matching purple fedora. your eyes flicked to your groom-to-be.
"now you're really being ridiculous."
"what's wrong with it?"
"you'll look like a pimp."
"nothing wrong with that," he shrugged.
you snatched your laptop back and deleted the tab with another smile and shake of your head. this time, he smiled back.
"i love you," he uttered.
you looked up again, lingering in those three words. he slid his hand towards you, palm facing the ceiling.
"i love you too," you murmured back.
you slid your hand into his, and ryland laced your fingers together, giving you a squeeze.
you thought you would carry on from there, but of course ryland had to open his mouth again; "even if i dress like a pimp?"
"oh my god."
the memory ended in a flash, and you dropped the photograph. looks like grace settled on a brown corduroy suit with a burgundy tie for a pop of colour. your own voice echoes in your head again; 'the brown will look nice in spring.', as does ryland's; 'i do look incredible in brown, don't i?'
you feel like your wedding ring is burning into your skin.
both you and grace knew you were married via your rings of course, you just couldn't remember who to yet, and it never occurred to either of you that it might've been to each other because why would it?
you take a deep breath, closing your eyes, before picking up the photo again to go find the supposed love of your life.
you navigated your way through the ship with a sense of urgency, photograph clutched in hand. when you heard a crash and a clumsy ‘uh-oh’ coming from the lab, you stopped by the doorway. suddenly the urgency disappeared. maybe this could wait until tomorr-
“who goes there?”
grace’s chair creaks when he leans back to get a peek of you hiding behind the doorframe.
when you look at him now, it all comes together.
ever since the two of you woke up from the coma, there’s been a gravitational pull that brings you two together. in terms of the mission, you operate in perfect unison and create such a steady flow that it makes everything feel oddly domestic. grace flicks a couple of switches there, you repair a part of the control panel here.
every time you both finish a task, it’s tradition to wrap it up with a high-five. however, one time when the two of you got too lost in the work, your fingers ended up intertwined and fell to your sides in a ten second hand-holding session where neither of you flinched.
as soon as the both of you realised, you each recoiled and spent a few beats staring at each other, marvelling at how natural the encounter felt like it was a subconscious effort. all grace could do was clear his throat and walk off, saying something about lunch.
“well, well, look who decided to come back,” grace quips as he wipes down a piece of equipment with a cloth. his glasses are practically hanging off of his face as they so usually do.
“y’had me thinkin’ you were going for a space walk.”
“grace.”
“without a helmet.”
“grace.”
“yeah?”
he finally looks up to see you holding out the photograph.
ryland’s hands freeze before he gently sets down the XRF analyser which looks to be like it was dropped in ramen water.
he rises from his chair, eyes refusing to peel away from the picture as he steps closer. he carefully plucks it from your fingers and slides his glasses onto his face properly to look down at it. white flowers, white dress, and a brown suit, because black is boring.
his head lifts back up to meet your nervous gaze.
“we’re married.”
it sounds like he’s saying it to himself rather than you.
you nod, trying to see through the blank stare he’s giving. dr. ryland grace, possibly one of the smartest men from earth has had his brain turned to mush by a photograph.
“you’re my…we’re-”
“married, yes, i know,” you snap.
“oh my god."
he inhales.
"oh my god..."
he blinks.
he pauses.
"oh my god-"
"grace!" you plead.
"you're my wife, and we're-”
“yes, grace, we’re married. can you please say literally anything else?”
he takes a deep breath, then suddenly hands you the photo again to start pacing around in a circle with his hands on his hips.
“grace…?”
“yeah.”
“are you okay?”
he stops, facing away from you and rubs a hand across his face.
“um…” he pivots to you on the spot, “i think so.”
you remain standing with your feet together, slightly curled in on yourself as you hold the photograph in front of you with two hands.
“do you…remember anything?”
ryland settles both hands on top of each other on the back of his head, inhaling deeply. “i’m starting to,” he says with the exhale, “do you?”
you nod. “bits and pieces.”
you drag your feet over to one of the lab tables and sit on the surface, staring down at the photo.
what now?
“i proposed to you at the beach,” ryland says.
you look up, and in his eyes, you see waves and a bright grey sky. you smile.
“you did,” you hum, setting the photo down on the table next to you. “when you got on one knee, you were too close to the water and it washed up on you so your pants got soaked.”
you giggle at the sudden memory. ryland smiles, “i don’t think i remember that part…”
“yes you do, you’re just embarrassed,” you grin. “and you stayed on one knee to ask the question because you were too proud to admit you made a mistake even though i was laughing at you.”
you’re in a fit of giggles now, and ryland just chuckles as he approaches you. his eyes land on the two bands around your finger; your engagement ring, and the basic wedding ring that so clearly matches his now that he looks closer.
suddenly, he reaches for your hand, thumb grazing over the humble gemstone on the engagement ring. your favourite gemstone, he suddenly remembers.
he lets the tender moment pass, then carefully drops your hand to place his hands on his hips.
“looks cheap. you probably deserve better.”
you give him a look before your eyes drop to the ring on your finger. you twist it a little, observing the gem from different angles.
“no…it’s actually pretty perfect,” you decide.
ryland watches you over the rims of his glasses, his heart beating quicker when he catches the complete genuineness in your tone. his eyes flick back down to the photo next to you on the table.
“we're really married, huh?"
you lift your head, gazing at him with a fond curiosity. what else could you learn to remember about this silly man?
“i guess so,” you hum.
ryland gives a nod and glances down at his own ring.
“okay…” he murmurs.
then, louder; “then let’s be scientists and figure this out.”
summary: ryland wakes up alone on a ship far beyond earth with no memory of who he is, only to find out he's not alone and this stranger may know more than he thinks
warnings: uhhh none yet? ryland beefing with a robot hand? waking up from a coma?
a/n: so it begins guys!!! ahh i have a few chapters written but here is the first !!
series masterlist
Flashes erupted behind his eyes. Dull flickers that lacked any shape. Muted red, pulsing faintly; his brain scrambling to keep up.
“What’s two plus two?”
Huh?
The voice didn’t belong to a person. It was too clean, too level, too… British?
It repeated the question, without irritance, for the second time.
Yeah, that’s not a person.
He decided to ignore that for now. His body felt wrong. It wasn’t exactly painful, just not cooperating. His arm wasn’t listening to him; it didn’t so much as twitch when he put all his force into it.
“What’s two plus two?”
Oh my—can you not?
He tried to move again, this time testing to see if his legs were more attentive. Nothing. Or, worse than nothing, there was a delay. His limbs seemed to lag in a strange response to his attempts.
His mouth was sore. It was the first stinging sensation that cut through his groggy haze. It was dry to the point of discomfort, where swallowing felt like trying to force sand down his throat. He tried to anyway.
Bad idea.
Something was pulled from him, making his body seize up as whatever was down there was suddenly yanked free. He choked immediately, saliva going down the wrong way, lungs protesting violently.
It hurt as he coughed, or tried to. The only sound that escaped him was weak, but it was enough to somewhat shock his system, dragging him a little closer to the surface.
His eyes cracked open, and it was far too bright.
He winced as he blinked, each movement of his eyelids needing full manual control. The world around him blurred, smeared in light and shadow.
What the heck is that?!
A hand?
No, no, definitely not a hand.
It was shaped like one, sure, but that is not what a human hand looks like. Skin doesn’t tend to catch the light like that, really. Nor be metallic. It hovered there, still patient.
“What’s two plus two?”
You have got to be kidding!
He squinted at it, brain in some desperate attempt to catch up to the current situation.
“I—“
Trying to speak was a bold decision. His voice, much like his body, was not working. It came out rough, barely there. The robot decided to take the lead and speak for the two of them. Very kind of it.
“You have been in a medically induced coma.”
A what?
He stared at it, eyes finally focusing just enough to take in more of it—the joints, the surgical movements. It wasn’t attached to a person.
“You may experience some memory loss.”
Yeah—no, he got that.
That would explain the everything. The nothing. The bare space where there should have been at least something.
The arms moved closer, then a buzzing sound began.
Was that—was that a razor?
Oh, absolutely not.
“Please remain still,” it said.
No chance of that. There was no version of this scenario where he was going to let a floating metal hand with a razor get any closer to his face.
His body felt like he was dragging it through mud, but the adrenaline started to kick in. He forced his muscles to respond, gathering what little strength he had to swing his heavy body off the small platform.
He could have been more graceful with it, but all things considered, he was just glad to be away from the malicious limb above. His weight hit the ground with a small thud. He almost welcomed the pain.
A wheeze escaped him as he still struggled to get his bearings. All he needs to do is try to push himself up and all will be...
He looked down.
Is he in a bag?
He groaned as he realised his body was trapped in some kind of sack? Medical cocoon? Horrifying sleeping bag from hell? He huffed as he tugged on it uselessly.
“Please return to the medical platform.”
He glanced up, the arm was coming towards him again.
He’s actually going to go ahead and decline that.
He tried to crawl as best as he could, given the circumstances, until something halted his movements.
Is he—is it pulling him?
He flailed as he kicked it or tried his best. His leg shot out uncoordinated as it just about managed to knock the arm off course for a second. A second was all he needed.
He twisted, dragging himself out of the bag—sack—whatever this was, the fabric catching around his legs before finally giving way. He crawled, more scrambled, his palms clumsy as he manoeuvred himself across to the far wall. He needed to put as much distance between himself and the mechanical menace as possible.
“Please return to the medical platform.”
He’d really rather not.
He placed himself on the wall, pressing his back against it as he steadied himself. He hauled himself upright, straining as his legs trembled, but they held. There was a ladder across from him.
Brilliant.
Because walking wasn’t nearly enough of a challenge for him right now.
Behind him, the arm moved again, adjusting its position.
“No, no, no,” he tried to say under his breath, his heavy breathing mostly muffled it.
Using the wall as support, he made his way to the first rung, hand slipping immediately. He didn’t have time to curse himself as he forced his second attempt to hold. His grip hurt as he dragged himself up. One arm, then the other. One leg, following after.
He had no idea where he was going, but at least it was away.
“Please return to the medical platform.”
“I’m busy!” he slurred out, hauling himself up another few feet. His breath was coming out sharper, body slowly catching up with his brain.
He could cry when he reached the top and pulled himself up to the final part as he caught a glimpse of the next room.
There were cots. Rows of them.
People!
Relief hit him as he scrambled forward, moving with much more urgency despite his body’s protest. He could barely contain himself as he reached the nearest one and pulled back the cover. What he saw made his stomach churn.
The skin was too pale, the face beneath gaunt. The skin was stretched far too tightly over brittle bones, the eyes were closed and sunken. He knew he didn’t need to check.
His hand hovered uselessly before he jerked it back. He swallowed as he forced himself to look away. The cot above showed him the exact same thing. Cold and wrong. Not a life was present here.
He shook his head as his hands reached the ladder again, trying to still his breathing. There was nowhere else he could go but up again; perhaps up would give him answers he was so desperately reaching for.
He climbed a little faster this time, adrenaline burning through whatever sluggishness remained. He was still clumsy on his ascent, but at least there was more drive behind his movements.
Metal walls closed in around him as he emerged into a narrow corridor, humming full of machinery that pressed against him from all sides. His eyes darted around, searching for literally anything that would make sense.
He looks to his side.
Is that—a window?
It looked like a window should, but that also could mean anything given the situation. It was a small circular pane of glass set in the far wall. He stumbled towards it, relief surging as his hands reached out to brace himself against the frame as he leaned in.
He begged to see a city, or somewhere in the country, or literally anything that he could recognise.
The only thing he could see for, what he assumed was miles, was the soft twinkle of stars. Hundreds of them, scattered across a black so deep that it swallowed everything else whole.
There was no horizon here, nor ground. He’s not on Earth at all; he’s in space. That is was the sky, he was in the sky. Far away from any semblance of humanity.
This was a ship, a ship that was moving fast from the looks of it, the stars not completely static. They shifted ever so slightly, streaking in a way that made his stomach drop for the fifth time since he woke.
He’s hurtling through space.
His hand tightened on the metal; it felt cold and endless beneath his fingers as he eyed the impossible expanse beyond the glass.
Okay, that’s… not ideal.
He couldn’t allow the thought to linger, his urgency shoving it aside in an attempt to compartmentalise. This required focus.
He pushed himself away from the terrifying view a little too fast, his feet stumbling on the metal floor as his balance betrayed him. He still kept his hand on the wall for support, straggering forward with no other option.
He had to be logical here. He was going to assess the situation, gather information, and most importantly, not panic.
“Why is there an atomic-resolution scanning electron microscope?”
He stared at the contraption.
Yep, he was sure that’s what it was.
Why does he know that?!
He frowned, not knowing how the technical term popped into his head so quickly.
“Am I smart?!”
There was no response.
Rude.
He tore himself away from the machine before he could spiral further. Each doorway he passed, he added it to his memory, trying to build a mental map of the place as best he could. There seemed to be nothing stored there that would be of use to him anymore.
There was a full lab, every piece of equipment one could possibly need lining the walls. Workstations set up and ready to go, tools that he recognised in an unsettling way.
This must be a very well-funded science project.
He kept moving forward, another room, darker than the last. This one was dominated by screens, rows and rows of them, glowing softly in the space. He approached them cautiously, eyes focusing on their displays. It was a lush forest.
It was green and familiar, with sunlight filtering through the leaves, shifting gently in the gentle breeze that definitely did not exist here. The resolution was fantastic; every leaf and flicker of light was clear. If he tried hard enough, he could almost imagine it as a window…
He should keep moving.
“Hello?” he called out, voice echoing as he continued his journey. “Anyone?—alive, preferably?”
There was no response as he pressed further. He checked room after room, clambering everywhere, voice growing a little sharper each time he called out.
“Okay, seriously, if anyone can hear me, now would be a great time to—”
There was another screen on the wall, only this time it didn’t show a forest. It showed him. He stepped closer, tilting his head slightly. His reflection was… not great.
His hair was long, just brushing his shoulders and had most likely not seen a comb in a while. His face…
Is that a beard?
He reached up, brushing against his jaw. He didn’t even know he was capable of growing one. Good to know.
“Please record video diary.”
He flinched as the voice called out again.
“Oh my god,” he snapped, spinning around. “Can you—stop doing that?”
Silence once more. He dragged a hand down his face, deciding to ignore the voice.
He turned a corner, beginning to think that all of this wandering wasn’t helping. He hadn’t found anything useful, just more questions, more weirdly specific knowledge that he had for some reason, and no answers.
His feet stuttered as he reached another room, but this one looked important. The walls were stacked with buttons and switches. There were so many, paired with displays flickering and data streaming that was nothing more than gibberish at first glance.
It felt like a trap, but he entered anyway, making his way to the chair in the middle.
“Pilot detected.”
Nope, no, not a pilot.
He shot out of the seat immediately and sighed, time to try the talking thing again.
“S—speak to person in charge,” he tried, wincing slightly at how ridiculous that sounded. “The—uh—the captain?”
“Captain Yao Li Jie. Deceased.”
Ah, great news.
“Okay, uh—” he said quickly, shifting his weight, eyes darting around the room. “Where are the—uh—living people?”
“Dr Ryland Grace.”
Okay, one person. The computer continued and said another name, one that also had no meaning behind it, but he stilled his movements.
He didn’t recognise it, but there was something behind it. The syllables connected in a way that made his feet halt. He waited for more names.
“End of manifest.”
The silence that settled over the space was final. There were two. There were only two of them here.
Statistically, it was not ideal. But two is better than one, right? Even though he wasn’t completely sure of which of the names actually belonged to him. But by some small miracle, there was someone else. Someone alive here that was not in the cots he previously saw. That was something.
He turned away, pacing now as his agitation built. His gaze caught on a display that was slightly different from the others.
A map!
One of those would be very useful right about now.
He leaned in as he scanned it, eyes catching on something he could deduce was the sun. Finally, something familiar. He straightened as he got oriented.
“Right, so—where are we? Neptune? Pluto?”
He glanced back at the room.
“Okay, uh—call Earth?” he tried.
He had to give it a shot.
“Current transmission time to Earth: eleven years, ten months, fourteen days, and six hours.”
Eleven years…
Surely that was a mistake; he didn’t know the computer well enough yet, hardly on a first-name basis with the thing. It could make mistakes in theory, though hopefully not about the other person somewhere on this ship.
He moved his hand across the map display, he scrolled, and scrolled, and scrolled. But the more he looked, the worse it got. The positions were off, the layout becoming unfamiliar as he focused on it more. And slowly and terrifyingly, it all clicked into place.
“That’s not—” he whispered. He leaned closer, eyes narrowing.
That’s not our sun.
Once again, he was only allowed a moment of recalibration before his ears perked up, a small whirr of a sound cutting through the ship. It was distant and coming from below, somewhere deeper within the ship.
He listened again, verifying. It was a little irregular, not like the hum that surrounded the space. No, this was an anomaly.
His head snapped toward the doorway as the sound continued, the spiral of impossible distances and foreign stars ripped from his mind as his legs began to move.
He still moved too fast for his body, nearly clipping the edge of the doorway on his way out and catching himself on the frame before pushing off again. He reached the ladder and started down, which he immediately realised was far worse than going up. He gripped the rungs tighter than necessary as his foot slipped slightly on the first step.
“Hello?” he tried again. “If that’s—if that’s a person, I’m—coming, I’m just—”
His foot slipped again.
Damn it!
He caught himself, forehead knocking on the metal rung above his head. He hissed but kept going.
“What’s two plus two?”
“Oh my god,” he breathed.
Not the damn computer, again. But as much as he disliked the thing, the familiar line of questioning could only mean one logical thing.
Someone is waking up.
And is most likely going to be subjected to the same torture he was.
Yeah, he had to get to you—fast.
It had to be one of the names he heard. He climbed faster, his caution abandoned for urgency as he half-slid down the remaining distance, his original room coming into view down the corridor. Only this time, from his position, his platform was not the only one.
He heard a cough as he urged himself closer; it was weak, but it was enough. He stopped in the doorway as his eyes fixed on you. Another person. Someone alive.
Oh, thank god.
He was about to lunge for you, but he stopped himself. The mechanical hand was twitching just above you, looking as menacing as ever. But as much as he hated to admit it, it might be best for it to do its work. It got him awake—reluctantly—but safely. He should leave it be for now.
You stirred slightly, with a small groan. The small turn of your head, paired with your sluggish movements, gave him a sense of deja vu, but it was enough to render him motionless.
The robot whirred above you and he followed it, immediate irritation flaring.
“What’s two plus two?”
For the love of—can it not read the room?!
You are clearly not in any position to engage in even the most basic arithmetic.
You shifted again, a sound leaving you that was more breath than voice. He stilled again, feeling useless as she watched.
It was then that your eyes fluttered. He could see the effort behind it as you struggled. He remembered that feeling and was not envious of you.
“Hey—it’s okay, you’re—”
You seemed to immediately latch on to his voice, eyes darting over to where he stood sheepishly in the corner. You squinted as he came into focus, straining against the blur. After a few moments, they found him and locked him in his place.
He could feel the shift in your expression, the way you stared at him with confusion. He went to give you a soft smile, anything to help you with the transition. Anything to try and do it more gracefully than he—
“Ry?”
a/n: the first of many, so buckle up guys. i've already got a few parts of this written out so this should be getting released on a semi-regular basis.
i have planned it out fully, but as always nothing is set in stone, so if you have any ideas they might be better than mine and i'd love to try and include them!
hopefully i got the tone down, i have read the book but i shall be taking liberties with both the film and book in terms of the timeline and plot here. it will be a mishmash. also POVs will be switching too so we get both hehe
as always hope you enjoyed, this is only the intro, this fandom is so lovely, genuinely and i hope you stick along for this ride <3
summary: two strangers wake up alone, lightyears from home, thrown into a mission neither of you remember choosing. he is a stranger, he has to be.
but something doesn’t fit. not in the way he looks at you like he’s already lost something. the pieces come back wrong, not fitting where they are supposed to, and neither dr grace or yourself can explain this away.
he feels it though, one thing that is deep and certain: that once, you might have been everything to him.
warnings: 18+, eventual smut, major angst, amnesia, memory loss, violence, major major hurt/comfort, arguments, heartbreak, slowburn, kind of enemies to lovers
summary you and ryland got hit by some kind of dust
word count 8K
content 18+. smut. sex pollen. fuck or die. masturbation (m). penis in vagina sex. riding. humour (i tried). crack. ryland's glasses stay ON during sex.
a/n officially the longest fucking thing i have ever written. i'm not truly satisfied with this but it's whatever. i hope u guys enjoy it. english is not my first language
masterlist
you and ryland have been staring at yet another mysterious gift sent by rocky like it was a trunk shot from pulp fiction.
you know, the one where— okay so nevermind. that's not important.
what's important was what rocky had sent, which was another cylinder.
you glanced at ryland. ryland glanced at you. then you both glanced at the cylinder.
it sat in the center of the lab table, perfectly still, perfectly silent, and deeply, profoundly suspicious.
“so,” you said, arms crossed, leaning your hip against the console. “before you do anything impulsive and deeply stupid, let’s review our options.”
ryland didn’t even look up it. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”
“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”
he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.
you pushed off the console, already exasperated. “ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”
“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”
you sighed.
“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.
ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.
“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”
you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”
“so…. none of it?”
“exactly.”
pause.
just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.
“and just for the record….” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”
“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”
you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”
he ignored you.
of course he ignored you.
the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.
for a second, nothing happened.
you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting… something. a device. a sample. anything.
“okay.… maybe it’s empty—”
poof!
a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.
“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”
“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”
“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”
the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.
you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.
“….okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”
he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh…. lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”
“define normal.”
“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”
you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”
“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”
you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”
“fair.”
then there was a beat.
“so…. that’s it?” you asked.
he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.
“that’s it.” he confirmed.
“….okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”
“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”
“great,” you muttered. “love that for us.”
“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”
only for a while.
only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.
you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.
it should have been reassuring.
it wasn’t.
because about an hour in, you noticed something off.
not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.
you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.
“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”
ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”
“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”
“maybe you’re just stressed.”
you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”
you tried to ignore it.
it didn’t work.
because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job. and the off feeling didn’t go away. it deepened.
you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.
“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.
except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable and the drivers were used to it.
this, whatever this was however, was far from it.
“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.
“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.
he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.
“....ryland?”
he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.
“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.
you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”
“fine. totally fine.”
“….you don’t look fine.”
he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”
“you’re flushed.”
“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”
“....that’s not a thing.”
“it is now.”
you crossed your arms, studying him.
“you’re acting weird.”
ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.
“nothing. nothing. um—”
you frowned. “are you okay?”
“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.
“okay….” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.
by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.
“fuck….” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.
ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.
he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.
your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.
you didn’t know why but it just happened.
you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.
you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—
you flinched.
jesus, what the fuck?
since when the fuck did you notice that?
nope. absolutely not.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.
it didn't.
you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.
that was a mistake.
because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.
your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.
and yet—
“…oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.
“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.
“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.
he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”
“it’s nothing.”
ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.
“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.
you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”
“you absolutely were.”
“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.
he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”
you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”
you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.
and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.
“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”
“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.
“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.
he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”
“obviously.”
“i feel…. distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps…. derailing. and also—” he stopped.
he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.
“ryland.”
“.…also very aware of you,” he finished.
pause.
“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”
“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “....okay, maybe i was.”
you crossed your arms. “why?”
“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”
“i’m always here!”
“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s…. more noticeable.”
you stared at him.
“more noticeable.” you repeated.
he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”
“it sounded very weird.”
“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”
“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”
“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.
you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.
then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.
“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”
“all of the above, probably.”
you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—
“....the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.
he went still. “what?”
you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”
“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”
you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”
“i don’t have a better word!”
“well, find one!”
“i’m a scientist, not emily bronte!”
you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”
“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down…. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”
“yep.”
“we’re experiencing…. thermal dysregulation.”
“yep.”
“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”
he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”
you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”
“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all day.” he said defensively.
“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”
you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.
you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.
“….okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”
“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”
“we observe.”
“we hypothesize.”
“we do not panic.”
“we are absolutely not panicking.”
you were both very clearly panicking.
“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”
“no judgment,” you agreed.
“elevated body temperature.” he started.
“check.”
“heightened sensory awareness.”
“check.”
“uh.…” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased…. focus on.… specific.… features?”
you folded your arms tighter. “check.”
“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.
“check.”
he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”
“attraction?” you said bluntly.
he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”
the word hung there.
too heavy.
too accurate.
you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.
not just the symptoms.
the pattern.
your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.
you frowned, thinking harder.
“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”
“toxins,” he said automatically.
“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.
“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”
“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”
“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”
“so it’s not attacking us.”
“it’s.… affecting us.”
you both went quiet again, thinking.
he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”
he stopped.
you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.
his entire posture went rigid.
“.…no,” he said.
your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.
he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.
“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”
“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”
he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”
“okay….?”
“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”
“ryland.”
he stopped and looked at you.
you held his gaze.
“….say it,” you said quietly.
he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.
“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”
your chest tightened.
“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.… alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”
your breath caught.
he exhaled, defeated.
“....pollen,” he finished.
silence.
thick.
absolute.
you stared at him.
he stared back.
“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”
“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”
“so it’s not pollen.”
“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.
you both paused.
“….but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.
“.…yeah.”
another silence. longer this time.
he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien…. pseudo-pollen that—”
he stopped himself.
you finished it for him. “that makes people…. like this.”
he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.
you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.
to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.
you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.
“.…we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.
he nodded, equally quiet.
“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”
“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”
“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”
you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”
“....like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.
“oh, jesus fucking tap-dancing christ.”
another pause.
longer this time.
he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just… wait it out.”
“wait it out,” you repeated.
“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”
“never,” you agreed quickly.
“not even a little bit.”
“not even in a funny anecdote way.”
“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”
he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”
you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.
really looked.
the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—
“....ryland,” you said slowly.
“yeah.” he did not look at you.
“....why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”
he let out a short, strained laugh.
“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”
your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”
his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.
“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”
pause.
you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.
the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.
you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.
“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”
you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”
he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”
“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.
“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.
you both paused.
“....it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.
“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”
another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.
another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.
you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.
it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.
and yet.
both of you looked away at the same time.
he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”
you perked up. “yeah?”
“isolation.”
silence.
“what?” your voice came out small.
“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”
you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”
“i’m not kidding.”
“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”
“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”
you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”
“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to… stimuli.”
“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.
he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”
you stared at him. really stared this time.
“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”
“i’m aware.”
“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”
“we’ll adjust.”
“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”
his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”
“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”
“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.
you took a step closer without thinking.
his entire body reacted.
it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.
that alone made your point for you.
you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”
he didn’t answer.
you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”
“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.
“or it could be days,” you said quietly.
he didn’t argue.
“or weeks,” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.
“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.
you stilled. “what alternative?”
he didn’t say anything.
which, unfortunately, was an answer.
you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”
“we really don’t,” he said quickly.
“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”
he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”
“ryland—”
“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”
you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”
“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”
“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s building. it’s getting worse.”
“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.
“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”
“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”
“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”
that hit. you saw it land.
he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.
“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”
“we might not have a choice,” you said.
“we always have a choice.”
“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”
he flinched. barely, but enough.
“....you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”
your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.
“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”
“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”
“you don’t believe that.”
he didn’t answer.
you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.
“look at me,” you said.
he did.
“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”
his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”
“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs…. why not?”
“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”
“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.
“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”
you followed without realizing.
“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”
“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.
the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.
you frowned slightly. “what?”
he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”
“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”
“is it?” he asked quietly.
that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.
“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want… something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”
you stared at him.
he looked away again, jaw tight.
“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”
“it is for me,” he said.
there was a beat.
“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”
“i know,” he said. “i know that.”
“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”
“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”
pause.
you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”
“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”
you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.
“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”
“at what cost?”
a beat.
he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.
his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.
“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”
you didn’t answer right away.
he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”
there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.
“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien…. whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”
you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.
“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”
“maybe not,” he admitted.
“then—”
“but i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.
you blinked. “ryland—”
“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”
“even if it makes things harder?”
“yeah,” he said. “even then.”
you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.
“....you’re really that set on this,” you said.
“yeah,” he said quietly.
another pause.
“....fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”
he nodded once.
“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”
“we reassess,” he said immediately.
neither of you moved.
just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.
like it could disappear in a second.
like he might cross it.
like you might let him.
his jaw tightened.
his shoulders went rigid again.
and for a split second, he looked like he might—
but then he turned away.
“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”
you swallowed. “okay.”
“we’ll… check in. over comms.”
“right.”
—
you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.
you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.
“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in my head. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”
another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.
your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.
ryland’s voice.
ryland’s face.
ryland's arms.
ryland's hair.
just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.
you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.
with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.
“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”
you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.
“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”
you closed your eyes and tried to focus.
in.
out.
in—
“mhmmph—”
pause.
you blinked an eye open.
what—
“mhmphhh— fuckk—”
—the hell was that?
you tilted your head slightly, listening.
at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.
but then—
“oh, please— please—”
it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.
and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.
you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall
unmistakenly ryland.
he was in the room next to yours.
awake.
and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.
he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.
heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.
is he—
no.
no way.
no fucking way.
another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.
you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.
dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.
option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.
option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.
you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.
“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it’s awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”
you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.
“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”
you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.
you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.
your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.
“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”
a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.
you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”
a beat.
“if…. it ever wears off.” you added.
before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.
no turning back now.
inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.
ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.
you didn’t give him time to speak.
you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.
he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.
for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.
then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.
the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he used the leverage to pull you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.
after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.
“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop…. say it. we can pretend this never happened—”
“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.
you blinked. “what?”
“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”
you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against this.”
“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”
“current events,” you repeated.
“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”
“and that data is?”
“i need you.”
a beat.
“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.
“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”
you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”
“yeah?” he laughed too.
“yeah.”
“can i kiss you again then?”
you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”
this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths and the pollen still burning through both of you. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.
you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.
slowly, reverently, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his fogging glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.
his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.
naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.
you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “don’t tease me, baby— been dying for this.”
“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.
“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.
you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.
only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.
then you started to move.
slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.
gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.
“ryland— fuck, just like that—”
“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”
it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.
“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”
you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.
for a long moment, neither of you said anything.
which, considering everything that had just happened, felt both appropriate and deeply suspicious.
you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply…. collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.
ryland was staring at the ceiling.
very intently.
like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.
“....so,” you said eventually.
“so,” he echoed.
another pause.
you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”
he didn’t look at you.
“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”
you snorted. “wow. rude.”
“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “....mostly.”
“mostly,” you repeated.
“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”
you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”
“for the record, i did not consent to that.”
fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”
“unfortunately, yes.”
“and then to me.”
he hesitated.
“....that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”
you stared at him for a second.
then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”
“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”
“i could tell.”
another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was…. different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.
“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”
he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”
“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”
“you did not hear everything.”
“ryland.”
he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”
“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”
“please, just kill me already.”
“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”
“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.
“just making sure.”
he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”
“oh, constantly.”
“i walked into that one.”
“you really did.”
another quiet moment passed.
you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.
“....hey,” he said after a while.
“yeah?”
there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”
it caught you off guard.
not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.
you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”
he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.
“....okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”
you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”
he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given…. everything.”
“everything,” you echoed.
“yeah,” he repeated.
another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just…. calm, in a slightly surreal, post-chaos kind of way.
eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.
you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.
he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.
“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”
your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.
“…me neither,” you murmured.
that was the last coherent thing either of you said.
because a few minutes later, the exhaustion finally won.
#NSFW, Age Gap (mid 20s and mid 30s), reader's a homewrecker, Miguel's a cheater, mentions of toxic marriage, male!reader, bussy loading, porn with feelings, Miguel's a bit of a dickhead, top Miguel (for now), bottom reader (for now), blowjob, reader gets lectured and likes it, reader has daddy issues
Note: heheheheh
-- The Intern --
[ How it Started: 1/2 ] [2/2]
Miguel had to admit, he was surprised–he didn’t expect you to carry on like nothing happened.
Most people he’d fucked around with in the past, be it in school or during his tenacious dating life, would stomp their feet and quit whatever club, sport, or job they’d joined just to get close to Miguel, just to get a shot with him. He couldn’t blame them. He saw himself as a pretty good-looking guy, a smart man, one that took care of himself and could turn on the charm without even trying; he got what he wanted more often than not, and that included the people who threw themselves at him. He always wondered why they thought they’d somehow cement themselves into his life after just one night.
But then there was you. You, who still sat with Gabi when you had the time. You, who still helped her with her homework, who still listened to her long-winded rants about whatever movie she obsessed over that week, who still got the shy little thing to talk and smile and laugh. It made something weird and thick weigh down Miguel’s chest, like molasses found a way to suffocate him from the outside. Maybe you didn’t deserve to be fucked and forgotten like the rest.
And he found you there, still, on a day where Gabi was busy with a playdate at the Parker’s household. Maybe this was the best chance he’d get to talk to you again.
“Alone, huh?” Miguel asked before sitting across from you, a cup of coffee warming his hands. “Kinda sad.”
You sighed and looked out the window, filled to the brim with drama. “You’re tellin’ me. I got abandoned by a kid. This is worse than bein’ stood up, let me tell ya.”
Yikes. Was what Miguel did the same as standing you up? He wasn’t sure. He didn’t want to think about it too much.
"Right, right." Miguel cleared his throat and leaned in a little. "About the other night–"
"What?" You asked, looking a little too dumb for your internship spot suddenly.
"Halloween." Miguel looked at you meaningfully and your lips pursed slowly, just like the day he first saw you. Miguel gave a tight-lipped smile.
You leaned back in your seat and crossed your arms. "I, uh, dunno if this is the right place to talk about that. Dunno if there is a right place to talk about that, if 'm bein' honest."
"Let's talk in my office," Miguel said, not offering room for argument or questions as he stood and started walking.
"Wh–now?"
"Yes, now."
–
Well, you were supposed to be talking, not blowing him under the desk. Thank god the department heads got their own private spaces.
One of Miguel's big hands fisted in your hair, holding back your soft locks so he could get a good look at your face as it twisted in concentration. You took him too easily for how big he was, each languid dip of your head welcoming him down your tight, hot throat until–until–
"Mierda–" Miguel pushed your head down to his base, forcing your nose flush up against his well-trimmed hair and blushing skin. You groaned and gagged as he bucked into your mouth and unloaded thick, sticky strands of cum down your throat. You swallowed around him, doing your best to take it all down.
A harsh bite from you had Miguel letting go and leaning back in his seat. He panted and rubbed his face, but his eyes snapped back to you as you took your time getting off of him. He expected you to pull off and make a mess while you snapped and scolded him, but you went slowly, not rushing.
Your tongue worked him through the aftershocks, rubbing under his length and thoughtfully tracing the thick veins and sensitive muscle still pulsing from your pampering. Miguel's fingers carded through your hair again as he watched you work; your hand slipped up and gripped his base once enough was out of your mouth to hold. You ran your tongue around him once, twice, thrice, before sucking on that thick, darkened head for much longer than necessary. Maybe you just wanted to be thorough. Maybe you just couldn't get enough of him.
"Gonna get me worked up again, 'f you keep doing shit like that," Miguel warned, something of an excited laugh fluttering through this soft panting.
You took a second to swallow (Oh, God, you were torturing him) before wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. "Do you want me to get you all worked up again, Doc?"
That pesky hand around his shaft tightened before stroking him firmly and fully. Miguel sighed and melted into his chair. He could probably let you pamper him for hours, if his sex drive were to be trusted. Maybe he could–
"Kidding," you said with a mean wink. You kissed the tip of his cock before letting go and parking your ass on his desk. "So. About Halloween?"
Miguel blinked away the whiplash and scrambled to tuck himself away. "I, uh–yeah. Halloween." He nodded to himself in thought, definitely remembering what he wanted to discuss.
You stared at him, so expectant, before leaning in and resting your elbows on your knees. "N'awe, did I suck the brain cells right outta your pretty head, Doc?" You fake pouted, and Miguel scowled.
And he blushed. Just a little. "I just–I was just–y'know what? Maybe you deserved it."
"Pft. I deserved what?" You asked, leaning back onto your palms then. “Bein’ hit then quit?”
Miguel frowned. His brows drew together and his jaw set uncomfortably while he looked away. It seemed to make you a little uncomfortable by the way you moved to reach toward him before deciding against it. Your hand combed through your hair instead and you sighed, surrendering.
“Look, I–if I seriously expected the royal treatment from a guy totin’ a wedding band on his pretty lil’ finger, I’d be a shockin’ moron, alright?" You sighed and rubbed your face with both hands. "I mean--it's just s'pposed to be sex, man. Sex ain't complicated like that."
Miguel narrowed his eyes at you. "I’m–what are you–sex is complicated." His palms landed on your thighs as he leaned in. “You don’t actually think–”
"Sex is busting and moving on with life,” You interrupted sharply. You grew tense for a moment, but forced a relaxed laugh. “I'm kinda surprised you didn't get me fired, if I'm being real."
The realization hit Miguel fast and hard, knocking the goddamn wind out of his stupid lungs--you were the type of guy left in the dust, the sort that shit heads like Miguel hit and quit, fucked and forgot. The sorry dregs of an exciting sex life filled with names he didn't care about and some he couldn't bother to remember. But Miguel knew your name. But did that even matter to you?
"But, uh…I should get goin', so. Yeah. Good talk." You made your move to shuffle off the desk, but Miguel's hands on your thighs didn't budge. "Oy, I gotta go, old man. You hard of hearing already? Should I call the nursing home or–"
"Santa Muerte, do you ever stop talking?" Miguel sighed and shook his head. "I haven't said my piece yet, kid."
You pursed your lips, probably holding back some cursed joke about giving him a blowie, and nodded. "Okay. Say your piece."
"I will. And you're gonna shut up while I talk, got it?"
"Got it."
"Good." Miguel took a deep breath to calm the storm in his chest. "First of all, you've got the wrong idea about sex. It matters. Even if you're just sleeping around, it's because you're looking for that connection. It's a good thing. A beautiful thing. So, I don't want to hear you say all this shit about sex not mattering. Especially when you're talking about sex with me." He looked you up and down, and the fond feeling curled up his chest stretched and lazed like a cat sunbathing. "Got it?"
You nodded, a vibrant dusting of red saturating your skin. That doe-eyed look was back on your face, just like the first time you'd hooked up with him in his office. He really did adore it. He maybe kinda adored you.
"Good." He fidgeted with your slacks, pulling on the crisp material with busy fingers as he thought about sentence structure and syntax and connotation and–and–
Just say it, Miguel. "I shouldn't have left you on Halloween."
You laughed shyly. "I--what?" He watched you rub your cheek like you were trying to rid yourself of the scarlet blush staining your skin. Miguel had to admit, your reactions were doing wonders for his ego.
"I said," He started, leaning in a little, lowering his voice. "I shouldn't have left you on Halloween." After a pause, a beat to get you to say something, he continued, "I'm sorry, alright? It's not happening again."
Another laugh (more like a giggle) bubbled out of you, just as nervous and shy as the last. Your hands fussed with your hair and your tie, your lab coat and your cuffs, until your nerves calmed a bit, the slow circles rubbed into your thighs helping to ease you down from hysteria. It was embarrassing. You were embarrassed. But you were happy.
"Y-yeah, alright. Cool. Neat." You coughed. "Awesome. Uh, I just–you–I have to–" and you leaned down, almost tumbling off the desk, and kissed him.
Miguel hummed deep in his chest–a heartfelt welcome to your needs and wants. His chair shifted slightly as you haphazardly slipped off the desk and into his lap, expertly never breaking the kiss, and getting comfortable; your arms looped around his shoulders, your hands fisted and carded through his hair, your thighs rested on either side of his slim waist.
“You’re shockin’ hot when you’re bein’ nice t’ me,” you mumbled against his lips, maybe a bit into his mouth. “But in that, y’know, authoritative dad kinda way.” Your breath stuttered when a mischievous hand slipped into your slacks and cupped your toned ass with a firm squeeze.
Miguel smirked. “Daddy issues, huh?” Your small scoff and the firm tug of his hair answered him. His smirk warped into a grin. “Want me to scold you more, huh? You get off on that?”
“You keep talkin’ shit and I’m calling you papi in public, dickhead,” you mumbled as you fumbled with the zipper of his pants. You paused though, and looked up in thought. “But you could help me with my taxes. That’d be really sexy of you.”
Miguel blinked stupidly for a moment before chuckling and shaking his head. “Why am I not surprised you’re shit at taxes?” God, you were cute.
“Hey, hey, I’m not shit at them, I just hate them.” You shrugged before very casually slipping his hard-on out of his pants and giving it a few preparatory strokes. “Could use some tips.”
“Or an accountant,” Miguel offered. It was your turn to blink dumbly. “You think I handle my own money? I pay someone to do it.”
“Huh. You’re seriously in a different tax bracket.” You squeaked when Miguel somehow managed to rip down your slacks down to your mid-thigh. “Hey–”
“I’ll buy you a new pair.” He helped the pants off of you while you half-stood to get the damn things off, letting them hang off one leg in your haste to get the party started. “And I’ll get my accountant to take care of your taxes.”
That had you beaming. “I think we’re entering sugar daddy territory, Doc.” You grinned between the sweet kisses you dotted along his jawline. Miguel felt the barest scraping of teeth against his skin, and his cock swelled more. What he wouldn’t give to let you bite and marr him as you wanted.
But he couldn’t, not with Dana’s skeptical eyes and Gabi’s naive glances watching him from every angle.
“It’s our little secret,” Miguel whispered with a kiss left against your cheek.
Your lips found his again, letting your impish smile sear his skin with sanguine intent, like a contract signed with the devil.
Miguel would do anything to keep extending that contract.
warnings: smut, perverted!miguel, top!miguel, soft!miguel at times!!, bottom!male reader, small!male reader, thoughts of sex, fantasy!sex, masturbation, humping, kinda domestic idk.
notes: it's been a long time coming. 💀 i honestly was struggling to find like a plot for the second part, or just how to move forward. lmao. but i hope this turned out okay???
—never again, miguel promised himself that night.
—it had been a few weeks since he last jerked off to your briefs. the blue undergarment that he came into were thrown somewhere under his bed, far from his reach.
—and as tempting as it was to smell you again, he mustered up the courage to leave the stained fabric alone.
—for good.
—miguel despised what he had become.
—settling his sex life on a lone piece of fabric, it was pathetic.
—from dusk til dawn, you participated in a triathlon of his delirious state of mind and competed for several awards that would then be mediated by miguel.
—had it been a real competition, he would’ve been fired for exhibiting extreme favoritism because you’d win all the trophies and medals.
—a ‘helping hand’ award he would award you a few mornings ago, where he jerked off to the thought of you giving him a handjob during his lunch break.
—multiple ‘most improved’ awards for when you were able to throat his cock a little more than before.
—and another for when your ass was able to take miguel in without needing to pause or adjust for his size, even if the strain of your facial expressions told a different story.
—gagging in between moans, coughing out thick globs of spit, wincing in bittersweet pain when he pushed in, arching in complete pleasure when he pushed out.
—he loved the idea of watching and hearing you struggle because of his cock.
—though, it was only until recently when he began feeling a strong sense of guilt for portraying you in such a manner.
—it was a promotion at work that allowed his hours to be more flexible than before, and miguel utilized that to the fullest by spending every waking second with his daughter.
—and you.
—even when he came home early, he never sent you home.
—maybe it was the perfect opportunity to get one step closer into your pants.
—or maybe he wanted to get to know the babysitter that gabriella had taken an extreme liking to.
—get to know the babysitter that had somehow made miguel feel something more than simply lust.
—you hungry?
you haven’t taken your eyes off of your thesis paper since i got here.
—hm...?
—that night, you’d look up at him with those bright eyes, that bright smile that latched onto miguel’s adam apple and made it hard for him to swallow.
—it was as radiant as the first time he saw you. one wouldn’t be able to tell that you’ve been pulling all-nighters for the past few weeks.
—oh! i guess i’m a little hungry.
i haven’t eaten since breakfast—
—breakfast? i told you that you could rummage through the pantries, right?
you practically live here at this point.
—i know, i know! once i get in the zone, i kind of forget about everything… except for gabriella! it’s funny. as loud as her cries are, they’re kind of my savior right now.
—hm...
—it’s getting late, so i’ll just whip up something at home—
—no, stay.
i’ll cook something.
—sir, you don’t have to—
—miguel’s chest swelled. that word again.
—i’m cooking.
stay, or i’m firing you for wasting my ingredients.
—hey, unfair!
pretty sure that’s a violation of our contract or something!
—it didn’t take long for it to become a regular occurrence.
—miguel would cook a late dinner for two, and he’d join you on the couch with a plate of what the limit of his culinary skills could whip up.
—it wasn’t like this every day, but it was often, which was more than what miguel could ask for.
—he would use the little time he had with you to learn about you more. your interests, your background, your passions, your personality, and you’d do the same.
—on some nights, he’d proof-read your thesis paper and provide some feedback that you would immediately take in consideration and make the changes to your paper.
—on many nights, he’d simply close your laptop and force you to take a break because as alluring as those recent eye bags were, your health was a priority.
—stay for the night.
it’s late.
—i’m almost done for the night!
i just have a few more—
—nope, you’ve used up all your excuses.
i’m confiscating this.
—where am i even supposed to sleep?!
—and on those many nights, you’d end up sleeping on miguel’s couch despite the persistent offers of his comfier bed.
—there would be times where you two would chat into the night while the tv played in the background.
—you’d ask each other about your day, tell stories about gabriella, bond over shared interests, fueled debates over a quality of a certain movie, until fatigue hit either you or miguel.
—usually you were the first one to fall asleep, and he would watch you silently.
—the flickering lights from the tv would accentuate your features in the night, and he never knew he could find you even more handsome.
—your complete vulnerability was enticing.
—you would curl into the blanket he’d given you, and miguel would take the time to count the seconds it would take for you to exhale your dreams.
—the longer it was, the deeper you were into your sleep.
—it wouldn’t be until thirty exhales more that miguel would send himself to bed.
—five seconds, miguel would find himself mimicking the pattern of your breath before he drifted off into the night.
—then there would be nights where the subject matter would be more personal, more than miguel would have liked.
—does it get lonely sometimes?
—i’d be lying if i said no.
not all the time, though. i have gabriella.
—huh…
—is that why you’re a complete grump all the time?
—watch it.
—i’m kidding!
good thing you have me too, right?
—yeah.
—good thing i have you too… miguel sighed heavily at the empty side of his bed, staring into the darkness until the shadows from the night had forged a shape of your body.
—he closed his eyes when he felt a whisper of your lips near his, barely ghosting over his pair, and stroke himself to the possible reality of you becoming his.
—fuck... he then lied on his stomach and began humping into the bed, against the bed sheets, and held the imagination of your body close to his own, protecting you like his life depended on it.
—i need you… miguel pressed his face into the pillow, inhaling the memory of your shampoo as he polished his hips further into the bed.
—his cock rubbed in between his body and the soft sheets as he’d imagine unsheathing himself in and out of you at a slow yet steady pace.
—because he needed to savor you.
—he would imagine how you’d respond with every thrust.
—your words would glue to your throat because you’d be too overwhelmed by his size, by the pleasure that miguel would finally be delivering to you, by the doting hold around you, and with the aid of his hips, your words would like crystallized honey.
—miguel would push his cock into you deeper, taking in the sound of your voice into his with a warm kiss.
— i—
—you would draw out sounds from your throat until they were practically begs when miguel would pull out excruciatingly slow to tease, then a demand as he would doubt your confession by cautiously following the outline of your pucker with the tip of his cock.
— need—
—his hips would lift, then come down onto you like hail. hard and sudden as his cock would ram into your tight fill, knock your breath back into the tight of your throat.
— you—
—you need him.
—miguel could tell from the way you completed allowed him to invade your reserve until he was balls-deep inside of you.
—from the way he’d pull out once more and your hole would memorize the shape of his cock, down to his thick girth. puckering to the recollection of his throbbing veins.
—and he’d be the one to bridge the puzzle pieces together as he would press himself forward and bend your legs back before slamming his cock back into you with the delirious evocation of lust.
—you would stifle your moans into your forearm as the bed rocked to the strong rhythm of miguel’s thrusts, but he’d pull your arms away and hold your wrists above your head.
—he needed to hear you.
—hear how much you wanted him, how much you needed him.
— i’m going to come—
—you’d grunt in between the heavy and sticky sounds of your skin colliding against one another, into the thick air that you and miguel had mutually forged together.
—his other hand had been wrapped around your cock, jerking the throbbing muscle to every count of his balls bouncing off your bottom.
—he would squeeze and stroke, your pre-cum coming down in thick drips, and he would thumb at the slippery wet slip until the pad of his thumb was layered in your thick substance.
—until his fist was covered in a glorious amount of your warm cum, inking him deep with your devotion before feeding you of your own need.
—he would bring his hand up to you and slip two fingers inside of your mouth. your tongue would slowly roll over his cum-covered digits, sucking the bittersweetness off of him.
—it wouldn’t be long until it would be miguel’s turn.
—miguel would continue bringing the remaining fingers up to your mouth for you to cleanse him off, and it would be enough for him to have him in shambles.
—imagining you devour your own sweet lust until all five of his fingers were polished clean awakened him to another level of pure ecstasy, and miguel groaned, rocking desperately into his bed.
—your warm hands would all over his toned body, fueling the tension in his stomach as you would prioritize the center of his abdomen.
—fuck, come in me—
—miguel would his weight onto you, his large body practically devouring you in sheer size as the heat and sweat confined you to the parameters, and he’d hold you close once more by slipping his arms around you.
—a cycle of thrusts quickened every round and you held onto him. kissing at the side of his neck. suckling at the round of his shoulder.
—i’m coming… he muttered to himself, to no one but the wrinkled sheets beneath him, and fucked his cock harder into his bed.
—and when you heard a shudder coming from the depths of miguel’s strained throat, you licked a stripe at the center of his throat to pacify him, making your way to the plush of his lips, and kissed him at the pivot of his climax.
—miguel would exhale hard against your mouth before kissing you and spilling delirious moans into the captivity when he would begin flooding your insides with his thick and warm cum.
—heavy ropes would ricochet off your violated inside, but miguel would press into you closer, harder, and intimately so, until your foreheads were bruised into one another.
—in occurring reality, miguel painted his bed sheets in thick layers of warmth and musk. layers of cum wetting his bed as he desperately held onto his fantasies with sensitive rolls of his hips.
—his tongue would tangle into yours, practicing a slow, sensitive waltz as his softening cock would sink deep into your hole.
—and you would moan and suckle around him as you felt every drop of cum warm you from the inside and out, shielding you from the goosebumps that would frost your skin.
—the kiss would remain its passionate dance as you both relaxed into each other. your legs unwrapped to tangle into miguel’s, expertly lifting the blanket over your feet in the process.
—he would hold you tighter once he broke the kiss, turning you on your side as he lied flat on his back.
—your head would rest on his chest after pulling the remaining blanket up to your bodies and you would sigh, suddenly feeling drowsier with miguel’s warm caress aiding sleep against your back.
—for the remaining moment, he would gaze at the sheen of sweat that highlighted the flush of your skin.
—he would listen to the beat your heart, slowly coming to its resting pace as you succumb to sleep under the spell of his doting touch.
—and he would strangely feel a need to hold you, shelter you inside of his arms because he feared something would happen to you.
—fuck.
—miguel quickly rolled back onto his back in the midst of catching his breath, the shadows that had formed the image of you unfurling into obscurity.
—he felt his heart race, bullets rebounding off the beating surface like a drum, and he placed a hand over his chest to pacify at the sudden swell of his chest.
—i think i love you.
nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!
warnings: smut, perverted!miguel, stalker!miguel, top!miguel, bottom!male reader, small!male reader, weak!male reader, sir!kink, thoughts of sex, masturbation, fingering, spying, kinda dubcon (?), heavily focused on sweat and smelly musk (hehe).
notes: say hi to my first miguel story! i couldn't stop thinking about him ever since I rewatched the movie, tbh.
—at first, miguel was rather reluctant to hire you for babysitting.
—your experience was almost non-existent, if it hadn’t been for that one time you babysat your nephew… eight years ago. of course, you left that part of information out.
—but miguel deemed you trustworthy, concluded that so even before he ran a background check on you.
—and so far, he seemed correct.
—on the first day, he was just as nervous as you were, leaving his precious and sacred gift to the world with a complete stranger—it was frightening and if he had the choice, he wouldn’t have done this.
—he would tell you about the cameras installed throughout the house—mostly for the safety of gabriella’s, but your well-being was also a considerate factor in this choice.
—you were small, and if miguel said that you looked weak, you’d probably say a questionable thank you considering how quietly submissive you were towards him.
—later that first night, miguel knew he made the right choice in picking you (out of a measly three candidates, but still).
—you managed to get gabriella to sleep by her bedtime, one routine that miguel still hadn’t figured out yet.
—but to be fair, babies woke up and slept according to their own terms, so did they really have a bedtime other than day, afternoon, and night?
—like the first night of many, you bid him goodbye after being paid.
—goodnight, sir! i’m pretty much free all summer until my semester starts, so if you need me on stand by or something… go crazy!
—all right, I’ll keep that in mind.
—and… thank you.
—something ignited in him when you guys spoke. it must’ve been… what, your fourth interaction together?
—the first few have been more formal—interviewing you, introducing you to gabriella, and checking up on you with a phone call. it was limited, a thick barrier that miguel would put up between you and him because it was work—just work.
—even though he sent you off fairly quick, the interaction was long enough for him study you like he never did before.
—he never realized how handsome you were, optimism practically seeping from your smile to your voice. it was a stark contrast to his moodiness, strained by the constant amount of stress put on by work, and furthermore by an ongoing divorce case.
—but he liked you, more than he’d like to admit.
—miguel liked the way you would tuck your shirt into your pants. a younger version of him would’ve labelled you a nerd, church boy even.
—but he found it attractive when the fabric laid on your chest with the right amount of tightness—a slightest exposure that would have him staring for an embarrassing amount of time.
—he also found it attractive when the peak of summer closed in on you.
—one day, you would show up at his doorstep in shorts.
—you preferred walking.
—no wonder you were so radiant to him, you practically soaked in the sun every day before you two would meet.
—sorry if i look like a mess, sir- i look gross, don’t i?
—that feeling in him returned again, churned like butter as he would watch the sweat calmly roll down your aching legs.
—i’d be lying if i told you no, wouldn’t i?
—you were a mess, miguel would go on to agree to himself. not because of the way your hair sparkled in the sun as it latched onto sweat—but because of the way you were completely oblivious to how you made him feel.
—it only grew stronger with subsequent meetings.
—you can use my shower, you know. it’s gotta be uncomfortable to be sweaty in those clothes for—what—eight hours?
—no, no! I’m fine, sir. i don’t think it would be right of me to-
—well, just throwing it out there in case you needed to.
—next time, then!
—and the next time, you would carry an extra bag of clothes because you and miguel both knew the outcome.
—it was a proud moment when miguel could smell his body wash on you when you left that night.
—sure, he probably bought the most generic brand he could find. but he has never smelt that scent on you before, so it inflated his ego to know that you’d be walking home in his usual scent.
—sleeping in his scent.
—like every other night, a shower would mark the end of miguel’s day. it was his favorite pastime—all thoughts were left behind as soon as he stepped under the shower head, letting the warm spray of water wash him of stress.
—when he stepped out, something caught his eye in the corner of the tiled floor—something blue.
—your briefs.
—you forgot to take your briefs with you because you were rushing when you heard gabriella suddenly cry.
—it would’ve been off-putting by anyone else, but this was you.
—this was your briefs, miguel would then hold up like a trophy. a piece of fabric that would contain and cover you—touch your most vulnerable parts.
—with the current feelings miguel had for you, it would’ve been a missed opportunity if he simply threw it in the washer.
—so, he doesn’t.
—11 am. where miguel would usually find himself sleeping by this hour—he was inhaling the scent of your musk instead, scrunching your sweat-stained briefs to his face as he jerked off in bed.
—in all honestly, he was ashamed to admit that he loved the smell of your sweat.
—but miguel would nonetheless take deep whiffs, desperate to smell you in your most vulnerable state.
—and he comes at the very last second when he can.
—it wasn’t enough for him though, so miguel doesn’t waste a single second to jerk himself off again—his cum lubing his sensitive cock up with a generous amount of stickiness and slick.
—good morning, sir!
—(m/n), i thought i said that you can call me miguel?
—oh… right! sorry, that completely slipped my mind. i must’ve forgotten.
—never stop forgetting, miguel muttered to himself, fucking his heavy cock into the depth of your briefs.
—he loved the way you called him sir. it made him feel authoriative and only fueled his want and need to protect you—you and your weak body.
—you’d be powerless if something were to happen to you, and the chances of that happening were well in your wits since you continued to insist on walking home.
—unbeknownst to you, every night miguel would follow you in the shadows—an undisclosed bodyguard of some sort—until you reached home.
—even then, he wasn’t fully relaxed because most crimes always took place domestically.
—he would watch you from below, through your window, for quite some time, making sure your parents’ house was a danger-free zone.
—and it wasn’t until you took your pants off and began stroking yourself through those same blue briefs, that he was finally at peace.
—fuck... miguel stopped fucking into your briefs to take another whiff of the fabric until his nostrils stung—a mixture of you and him together now.
—the fabric clung around miguel’s cock as his thick precum was the only glue that pieced him and the presence of you together.
—he would think back to how you would suck on two of your fingers as you stroked yourself to nothing but lewd thoughts—your eyes tightly closed to visualize your perverted mind into reality.
—what are you thinking about? who are you thinking about? is it me? are you thinking about my cock?
—the air in his bedroom has gotten heavier, thick with sex as he sweated under the cloud of you fingering yourself with the clumsiest yet neediest precision.
—he spat on his cock to slick it up again—because he could go on for hours—replaying back to the night where he watched you completely juxtapose with the innocent image he had of you prior.
—your hips were lifted up, legs awkwardly bent back as you dug into yourself, working your hole open deeper with one, then two, then three fingers because—miguel was right. like a spell, you were thinking of him and his cock.
—he had to be big, you were so sure of it. the fact that you strained your neck from looking up at him was a telling sign that he was, as ignorant as that was.
—and you were practically drooling at the thought of his cock stuffing you with the most fulfilling amount of pain and pleasure.
—you’d want him to be ruthless with you and show no mercy as he couldn’t care less about the way you whimpered and cried out for him to stop.
—fucking you from behind as his strong arms held you in a headlock, applying pressure that would frighten a choke out of you.
—because you were nothing but his fuck toy.
—it was all overwhelming for miguel on that night, almost too good to be true and he had to squeeze his cock through his sweats to make sure this was reality.
—you would confirm that it was, with the image of you coming all over your chest and stomach, all to the pathetic plunging of your fingers.
—and miguel does too, coming powerfully, to the point of shudders running down his broad back, into a part of your briefs where it would hold your own dick because he wants his smell to be imprinted on you, inked deep into your flesh.
—until you smelled like his.
nouearth. please do not repost, plagiarize, or translate my works. and if you like this story, please reblog and leave a like!
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