he / they | side blog for @killmurderfuck | self shipper | tagging system below
i'm selective sharing w my main three (william afton / springtrap, postal dude, and murdoc niccals) but only bc i characterize them a specific way. almost anything else pisses me off too much. nine times out of ten you should be fine though. im always looking to gush over them w others,,, please,,,,,
[🪿.txt] — any of ryan gosling's characters | [🛰.txt] — ryland grace | [🪵.txt] — lars lindstrom | [🐎.txt] — ken | [🔎.txt] — holland march
summary: you spend nights stealing luxury goods in the heart of 1970's los angeles. inserting yourself into your own active investigation proves to be less productive than expected, especially when you start dating the private investigator. (based on this ask // @ladyelena112)
pairing: holland march x gn!reader
word count: 5.3k
tags: tw for canon-compliant smoking, fluff and humor, mutual attraction/mutual pining, romantic tension, implied kleptomania, holland is a flirt, making out, implied sexual content, serial robber!reader, gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3
There’s glass splattered into shards all over the sidewalk. You wish that you would’ve acted more carefully, breaking into the store. But the Rolex watches in the front window were just so close. You couldn’t help it, the palladium watch faces, their opal and jewel-reds. You needed to take them. They were there, and so were you. The only poor choice is in the method. It would’ve taken you an hour to try and sneak through the back, and so you went through the storefront window, grabbed the three watches. This was a decent hit-and-run, minus the actual running.
You’re still at the site, Klosky’s, just a few feet from where you’d broken in just earlier that evening. You’ve been asked to keep tight to the back of this LAPD car, until someone’s free to question you. They’re still busy talking to the titular Mr. Klosky, and so all you can do is wait, all too patiently, for your turn. Interjection into the investigation is a hell of a way to make sure you aren’t getting caught. You’d be bored right about now—thinking about those Rolex watches, stuffed in a plastic garbage bag, tucked just beneath a dumpster right around the corner—if it weren’t for the two newcomers.
One Mr. Holland March and one Mr. Jackson Healy. From the ads in the papers, private investigators, a part of an independent firm. It’s intriguing, really, because they only seem to get along just barely. March, you’ve been watching him for upwards of fifteen minutes. He’s doing this grand act of looking over the shattered pieces of the glass window and tracking the angle of breakage. A few feet away, Healy is doing the heavy lifting of talking to a shaken Mr. Klosky. You don’t know what the police are doing, letting these two guys take a first-stab at the case. It’s all appearances to the LAPD, clearly, because they’re all tied up with the press over at the yellow-taped barricade.
You’ve been waiting to give your statement and be on your merry way. Healy, ever the empath, gives you one long look and seems to pull Holland by the sleeve for a quick talk. You take the chance to examine the state of your shoes as they talk amongst themselves. “I need you to go check that witness,” you hear Healy grumble. Holland’s putting up a few quick complaints. “Been standing there for the last twenty minutes. I don’t know why. It’s getting late. No. You go,” Healy insists.
Finally, you chance it to look up at the two of them and find that Holland has his eyes already set on you. “Jesus, Healy. Why didn’t you say something earlier?”
Healy grunts, “I did. You were too busy watching paint dry.” Holland’s staring—really, you don’t think his eyes could get any wider. You try to avert your attention, looking over at the barricade, the shattered glass, a nearby street lamp… and when you look back at him, his eyes are flitting up and down, then back up. Like a cartoon dog. Then, Holland is fumbling into his pockets for his pack of Lucky Strikes and a lighter. As soon as he’s lit the cigarette, balanced carefully between his lips, he mumbles to himself, “Okay. C’mon, March.” Healy seems to swear under his breath as Holland tugs at his tie, making his way towards you with an air of confidence.
As soon as he’s at the cop car, watching you lean against the back door with your arms crossed, he’s grinning. The cigarette dangles between his lips with a rising trail of smoke; he pulls it with two fingers, hand coming up to rest on the roof of the car beside you. “Hi,” Holland murmurs, “Are you cold?” Gentlemanly, you think.
He’s even more handsome up close, with his slightly-slicked, slightly mussed hair. The tight suit on him, navy-blue suit jacket and trousers to match, are making you ogle. You don’t mean to. You really do have a reason to be there, and it’s not to be charmed by the on-site PI. “No, I’m fine. Thank you…” You’re smiling stupidly at the sight of him. And he’s smiling right back.
“Holland. My partner and I just want to ask you a few short questions,” he says. “Hoping we can get you outta here a little faster.” He makes the whole show of pulling out a tiny ringed notebook and a clicky pen to take notes. It’s endearing, really, how big his hands are in comparison to the thin pages. Holland keeps that new-lit cigarette tucked between his two fingers as he scribbles a header. “Could you tell me a little bit about what you’re doing in the neighborhood? D’you live here… with a boyfriend, maybe?”
“No, no, I live closer to the city college,” you murmur sheepishly. “No boyfriend.”
Holland clicks his tongue. With narrowed eyes, he begins to note this down on the page, repeating under his breath a murmured “No… boyfriend…” You watch as he pokes a period next to these two words, and then draws a pin-straight line just underneath. “Well, that just can’t be right.” He doesn’t seem too disappointed, you think.
—
Holland’s very attentive in the next fifteen minutes, writing down your name, the details of your very minimal witness report, and a couple other additional notes about your appearance that you think are wholly unrelated to the investigation. You tell him just the right details, carefully planted—you were visiting a friend down the street when you heard the commotion, but it’d been well-cleared by the time you made it. You were among those few confused passersby. Good. Not too eager, and not too street-smart, either.
By the end of Holland’s short round of questioning, he’s already pocketing the notebook and slotting the cigarette between his lips once again. You blink slowly at the sight of him, all done already and scanning the site for Healy. With a pout, you ask Holland, “Is that all?” It’s not like you’re wanting for him to question you any further. The vaguer the better. But you’re inclined to keep him around a little while longer, as good-looking as he is.
“Well, it’s more of a preliminary check than anything else. Obviously, you’re not on our prime suspect list for a… multitude of reasons,” he tells you. “Right. Well, I’m gonna go flag down an officer. You stay here.” Holland gives you a nod, before turning to scan the street for the nearest cop. He’s about to wave one over, when you reach your hand out to tug on the sleeve of his suit jacket. His jaw clenches as he looks down at your quick hand.
You pull it back with a hum, “Mr. March?”
He gives you a huff and a grin, cigarette wavering in his mouth as he speaks. “Yes, sweetheart?”
“I wanted to say thank you for doing this work that you’re doing. It’s a shame that the perp had to bust the window, and that Mr. Klosky’s going to have to board up his storefront.” He’s looking you over, as respectfully as he can—and it’s abundantly clear that he’s only partially paying attention to your words. You think he might’ve checked out at “thank you.”
Holland blinks a few times. “Well, it’s all run of the mill. LAPD are on it too, but it’s good to have a fresh set of eyes on the whole thing.” You’re really fanning his ego, and it seems to be working, because Holland is leaning on the car heavier to lean in his face closer to yours. It’d be difficult not to note the way his lids are getting a little heavier; he’s being a little too coy. Then, Holland says humbly, “Rest assured, we’re handling this one just the same as the other cases.”
“The… other cases?” you echo back to Holland. You have to mask that feeling of utter dread at the thought that they’re onto you. At least, they think they are.
“Well, there was another one down on Palm Street, the old jeweler’s. And the boutique on Loma. And now there’s this. They’re all within a three-mile radius, which leads us to believe they might be the same perp.” He’s taken it as a great excuse to tell you more about his work. You’re grateful, really.
“That’s just terrible.” Just terrible that these private investigators have somehow gotten around to tracing you. You’d been generally careful the last three months trying to sparse out your targets, make them unpatterned. Clearly, you haven’t done a good enough job of doing so. They’re on your tail.
“I can lend you my business card, so you can call me if your friend in the neighborhood sees anything out of the ordinary.” He’s pulling his wallet out of the inner-pocket of his suit and drawing a cardstock little business card out to hand over to you.
If you aren’t mistaken, Holland’s giving you the card for the sake of giving you his number. You try to trace his words properly. “…Wouldn’t it be more efficient if she called you directly?” It’s hard not to tease him.
“No,” he chuckles softly, eyes glazing thoughtlessly towards your lips. Then, he finds a little bit more clarity, brows creasing together. “Yeah. I’ll give you, uh, two.” He sobers up a bit, pulling a second card out of his wallet and pressing them both together into your hand. “There you go, hon.”
—
It takes a bit of deliberation—you on your bedside, eyes trained on your scrappy, off-white rotary phone. You’ve got Holland’s business card in your hands, decorated with poor caricatures of him and Healy, their names, a P.O. address, and a home phone number. You’ve been meaning to call for the past couple of weeks now, having run through another two storefronts since Klotsky’s. You’ve got to cover your tracks—and it also wouldn’t hurt to see Holland again. You hate to admit that he’s charmed you a little. But you’ve got to prioritize. Evasion of arrest first, him second. Finally, you pick up the handset, dialing in his number in the round. There’s a buzzing, wait-tone—one, two… and then a pickup. It sounds like a lot of rustling around in the background, like someone’s fumbling to grab a solid hold of the phone. You push out a hesitant, “Hello?”
There’s another short stall, before you get a reply: “Nice Guys. This is March.” Good. It’s him. You perk up, holding the receiver closer to you; the cold plastic of it brushes against your warm-tipped ear.
“Mr. March, we talked earlier yesterday evening at the Klosky storefront.” You give him that, and your name, in a shyer tone. Holland seems to knock into something on his end, a side table or a counter that makes him yelp a bit.
“You called.” He sounds surprised. “Are you… well?” His half-worried tone reminds you that you were supposed to call in case of emergency.
“Oh, yeah—I’m great! I’m fine,” you chortle. “I just thought, well… we had a nice chat the other day. I had a pleasant time talking to you.”
“That is so funny you say that, ‘cause I had a similar experience. Mhm.” The sound of Holland’s voice underneath this crackly landline quality delights you. He’s got a handsome sound to him, too.
“So, I wanted to call,” you start, “And I was wondering if you’d maybe like to take me out to dinner sometime. You could maybe tell me more about your detective work.” There’s a brief pause. You imagine, for this empty couple of seconds, Holland pumping his fist into the air—making a tangled mess of his telephone wire. Hook and sinker. Finally, he speaks up again.
“That would be very productive. You know, my partner, he’s really good at his job, but he’s sick of me. It’d be nice to get outside and bounce ideas off somebody new. And you seem smart,” Holland breathes out, “Like, really smart.”
You give a long, hard stare up at the popcorn ceiling over your head, the rough, glittery top to your small apartment. “It’s a date, then.”
“Uh-huh. It’s a date, beautiful.” Holland hangs up with a soft “call soon.” You think the handset of your rotary phone on your forehead a few soft times. This could very much be a bad idea, but the thought of being out with Holland, like some kind of couple, is irresistible.
—
For dinner, the two of you decide on a nicer diner with checkered-tile floors and cherry wood booths. He insists on paying, tells you to order whatever—really, whatever—you want. And, over decent Italian, Holland spends a lot of time asking you about yourself. He wants to know where you grew up, what you’re doing in downtown Los Angeles, why you haven’t shacked up with anyone yet. You tell him a majority of truths, save for the fact that you’ve been living alone to negate suspicion. Your lack of a roommate conceivably means there’s one less person in your life to ask you why you own so many luxury goods without a luxury-providing job.
The two of you eat, laugh—he loves to make you laugh, you realize. All is sweet until Holland’s investigatory nature seems to flare up. He’s staring at the bandage on your hand that you’ve tried to conceal with the longer sleeve of your suede coat. He seems to ghost his hand around yours. “Did you cut your palm there?”
You look down, and back up at Holland. He wears a look of concern, eyeing this bandaged hand of yours. “I got sloppy washing a wineglass. Pumped in too much soap, the thing slipped straight out of my hand. It was a total mess.” The laugh that you force out, reserved as can be, seems to calm his nerves a bit more. Really, you’d cut your hand on your last store robbery—on the stray shard of a display case. It was a killer to pull that out on your way out the back door, and even worse to give yourself the stitches at home.
Gently, Holland takes your wrist into his hand, pulling your arm closer to him across the table. You let him ghost his thumb over the thing, white bandages that you’ve wrapped tight around the coagulated wound. The sensation of his calloused fingers makes you want to shiver. He mumbles, “That’s just no good.”
Your lips twitch into a smile. “Really, could’ve been worse.” Holland makes another small stroke against your bandage with his thumb, before letting you take your arm back over the table. He likes it, you think, how relaxed of a personality you seem to have. If he only knew…
“I’ve gotten pretty large gashes, you know, trying to break in for intel and things like that. Broken window nicked me from here to here.” Holland raises his forearm up, dragging his index down his carpal. “S’not that easy changing the bandages with one hand. If you ever need…”
He’s so gentle about it you hardly want to say no. But, you don’t think it’s a very good idea to give him a straight answer. A small part of you is really very worried that he’ll somehow deduce the origins of your cut. So, with a quaint look of appreciation, you tell Holland, “I’m glad we’re doing this.”
“Me too,” Holland hums. You watch as his tongue darts out to wet his bottom lip; though it’s a small act, it isn’t missable. He’s checking you out, and you’re checking him out. There’s a chance that you won’t be sticking around at the diner for dessert.
—
The walk to Holland’s car shouldn’t be as long as it is, but the two of you are taking your sweet time in the alley halfway down the block. His large hands are hovering over your neck, and his lips are hovering over yours. Holland has his suit jacket off and hanging over your shoulders, a light barrier between you and the brick wall he’s pressing you up against. You can smell the spearmint gum he slipped in right outside the exit of the diner. “We never talked about that investigation of yours,” you say, eyelids heavy.
“Good. It’s good,” Holland insists, “We’re still trying to figure out how they keep on dancing around getting caught. We think there must be some interior knowledge. Somebody with a buddy or a family member in the force who’s keeping tabs.” He’s surrendering the information over to you in a hurry, too excited to be all over you.
“Oh, really?” You get on your tip-toes to press a few hard kisses down his neck. It’s hungry, the way that you’re laying them on him. The scruff of his stubble scratches against your lips, and you can feel the vibration of his throat as he groans.
“Mm—yeah. It’s a whole thing,” Holland nods, barely able to get a word out with you all over him. Finally, he’s pulling you strictly by the chin, slotting his lips against yours. Holland’s a great kisser, a little handsy. He tastes like mint and he’s trying to suck the breath out of your lungs. It’s as if he can’t decide between soft pressure or hard pressure on your body—and so you’re getting a little bit of both, soft on the midsection, hard on your back, soft on your chest… Holland likes how reactive you are, breath hitching in tandem with his touch.
You don’t need to hear any more about the investigation; it’ll only freak you out more. Now, you only want to focus on what’s in front of you. Holland and the hot trail that his hands are making down your sides. When you get the chance, you’re pulling him by the shirt and pushing him back against the brick. His chest is heaving, all worked up from the way you’re handling him. “Sorry,” you whisper, “Too hard?”
“No, no. I like it.” Holland shakes his head, hands coming down to grab your ass. He knocks his head back against the alley wall as your hips grind up against his. The friction’s too good, and he can barely think.
—
You’ve stolen significantly less since meeting Holland—mostly, because going out with him takes up a whole lot of time. He’s always sure to treat you to dinners and desserts. Really, he’s scrambling to pull his wallet out for you at the smallest opportunity. In a way, you’re still running away with money. But, in this case, the person that you’re robbing wins just as much as you do.
Though you’d like to tell yourself this is self-preservation—that you’re only doing this to cover your own ass—it isn’t true. You think that you’d like to keep seeing Holland, because he really is a sweet guy. There’s something in the way he looks at you, with pure adoration and a bit of lust, that’s captured your attention. You’re proud to recognize that your last robbery was three weeks ago. You’re on a bit of a streak, and you’re assuming the best case scenario: that Holland and Healy might give up on trying to find you.
You’re proven wrong rather quickly. It’s an early morning Holland finds himself having to pick up Healy before taking you to your apartment. The order’s unfortunate, but Holland insists that it’s far more convenient and it’ll take a lot less gas. You’d spent the night over at Holland’s while his daughter was having a sleepover. It hadn’t become anything too heated, but Holland still seems to be invigorated by the fact that you’ve been in his bed.
It’s a warmer day in L.A. today, and he has the convertible roof down to let you both catch the breeze. “Maybe you could let me tag along on one of those stakeouts of yours. Could be kinda hot, playing detective,” you murmur. You’re only joking. Coming along with Holland and Healy would be like throwing yourself to the lions. He’s meant to drop you off at your apartment before he goes scouring around with Healy for evidence—which means you’ll only be in the car for a solid twenty minutes with them both. Shouldn’t be a problem.
“You’d make a great detective, baby. With a trench coat, maybe somethin’ pretty underneath…” Holland nods. He’s trying to shove one hand into his glove box in search of his Lucky Strikes. You’re able to find it rather quickly after pulling his hand back down to your thigh and grabbing it yourself.
“I bet you’re worse than Hugh Hefner. Really, I’d bet twenty bucks,” you shake your head with a chuckle. You take a cigarette out and toss the box back into the glove, shutting it soft and raising it up to Holland’s lips.
“Thanks, baby. The lighter…” Holland glances down at your hands. The lighter’s already there, with your hand wrapped around it. There’s a stoplight; he hits the breaks softly, to a rolling stop, and takes the lighter out of your hand. Careful not to singe his fingertips, Holland lights the cigarette. “If I’m Hefner, then you must be Marilyn.”
“Wow. Flattering,” you murmur. He’s a real talker.
But Holland really is being sincere. “Better than Marilyn, really.” He has his hand squeezed around your thigh as he pulls into the street parking in front of Healy’s. As soon as he’s double-parked, Holland is turning to face you. “D’you think you could slip into the backseat for me? I wanna make sure Healy’s not too pissy when he gets in.”
You nod, “Of course, Holl.” You have to appreciate how worried he is about this first meeting. You’d think you were meeting Holland’s mom by the way he’s asking. You lean over to give him a smooch on the cheek, before slipping out of the shotgun and into the backseat with a series of open and closed car doors. Then, Holland’s putting his arm over the back of the seat to get a look at you.
“He has this thing about strangers; he’s like a house cat, you know? It’s not personal.”
Before long, Healy’s coming out to meet you both with his keyring swinging around his pointer finger. He stops at the sight of you, eyebrows creased together. Then, he’s looking at Holland with a tilt of his head, blinking eyes. He seems a little… surprised. It’s making Holland antsy. “What? Why’re you looking at me like that?”
“Nothing,” Healy says, shrugging him off. He reaches his hand down to shake yours, a gentle smile on his face. “Hi. Jackson Healy. You were—”
“I remember you, yeah. From Klotsky’s,” you tell him, “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Healy.” He gives you a nod, before getting into the shotgun. Holland is still giving him a rigid look. You can’t quite understand what they’re saying with their back-and-forth of stares and frowns—until Healy finally speaks up.
“I didn’t actually think you were dating. Thought it was like a Canadian kinda situation,” Healy says to Holland. He waves his hand, “Nevermind. I pulled these maps off a buddy in forensics. Apparently, our perp might live within this radius.” Healy reaches into his front pocket and unfolds a printed map; it’s a black-and-white bird’s eye layout of Los Angeles, with a circle that’s been protracted around the upper-left side.
“Baby, that’s not far from your place.” Holland squints at the map, tracing his finger across the circled neighborhoods. “Good thing we’re dropping you off. Might not be too safe.” You have to bite your tongue a bit to keep yourself from groaning in frustration. They’re so undeniably on your tail.
—
A week later and you’ve got Holland over at your place. You’re both on the sheets of your queen bed, wearing nothing but underwear, and you’ve been on Holland for the past thirty minutes. It’s a day off from the usual cases, including your own, and while his daughter’s in class on this random Tuesday, you’ve convinced Holland to spend the morning with you. Holland watches with heavy-lidded eyes as you prop yourself up on his abdomen, lap straddled by your thighs. He has your wrist in his big hand, rubbing his thumb into your scabbed-up cut. Your bandages are off now. Holland’s got soft eyes looking at the coagulated cut. “Is this healing okay?”
Holland looks so pretty concerned about you like this. The gentle grip that he has on your elbow makes you swoon. “I mean, yeah,” you tell him, “I’ve been tossing Neosporin on it.” He hums in response, still examining it as thoroughly as a nurse. Your nurse. Holland’s eyebrows furrow, eyes narrowing.
Then, cutting into the serene silence of your bedroom, he shouts: “Jesus!” The way that Holland shouts makes you jump a bit in his lap. He shoots up in a frighteningly quick matter, hands clasping around your waist as he tries to examine the scarring. He opens and shuts his mouth quickly. Holland scrambles out from beneath you, leaving you half-naked on your own sheets. “It’s a glass cut,” Holland murmurs, padding across your bedroom.
“Yeah, that’s what I told you. I dropped the glass,” you nod. He doesn’t respond. You watch as he paces towards your dresser, hands stirring around your underwear drawer. “If you’re looking for a toy or something—” The joke dies in your throat, shriveled up by the shock.
He’s going for your closet next, opening it with a whip of the slatted door. There’s a bunch of open shoeboxes inside—your “winnings.” Holland picks one up quietly, turning to you with his jaw tight. This one’s the Rolex’s; your loot from Klotsky’s is right on top. Holland picks up a few, looping them through his fingers. “It’s a glass cut,” he repeats, “From a broken window. Mine healed the exact same way.”
You’re looking down at your bare legs with a frown. All that effort to throw off Holland and Healy’s gone straight down the drain. Your absolute lack of panic is caused only by the absolute fear that you’ve put Holland off; you don’t want to lose him—but there really is no way around the obvious. “You don’t have to report me,” you tell him, “You can just… work another case.”
Holland can only gawk at you. “You’re a serial robber.”
“Well, it’s not like it hurts anybody. It’s just… stuff, you know?” you say meekly. He’s looking down at the watches and back up at you.
“You’ve taken over ten-thousand in stuff. That’s grand theft!” Holland’s nearly close to shouting; you’re lucky, really, that he knows you have thin walls. He’s trying to dampen down his yelling to a very low volume.
“Holland, just give me a minute—” You try to reach for the button-up shirt you discarded on the lamp on your bedside table, putting your arms through the long sleeves and wrapping it over your bare figure. He drops the box of watches down in front of you on the bed, dropping the ones on his fingers right in.
He points a finger toward your face. “You. You are like some kinda siren. First, you’re distracting me with your pretty face, and then you’re… fuck, I don’t know—stealing stuff!” He isn’t quite sure how to keep up the analogy. “And now, you’re getting me in your bed, trying to convince me to not turn you in. What do you think I am?”
“…A really good boyfriend?” Too soon. He chooses amiably not to respond to your question. It was worth a shot.
Holland whips back around towards the closet, perusing all the boxes. “Why are there so many?” He starts to search for his shirt and his pants on your bedside, rushing to put them back on. “With, with the cut, and the map—and we knew there was some kinda leak going on,” Holland groans, “It’s me! I’m the leak!” He can’t find his belt. You can see it right over the side of your bed, and you’re leaping off the bed to grab for it. You beat Holland to it and he raises his hands up over his head, peeved. You hold the belt stubbornly behind your back. He huffs when he realizes you’re not going to let him have it. “Are you even into me?”
“I’m so into you, Holland, and you treat me really well. Really well,” you insist. It’s the dinners, sure, and the sex—but you’ve found Holland to give you a lot of time “So, I used you a little bit. But it’s not everything! We started going out, and I really do like you, Holland. I want to be with you.”
“I shoulda listened to Healy when he said something had to be wrong with you. He said you were too hot. There’s gotta be a balance,” he rants on. “Can I have my belt—? You know what, just keep it. I can buy a new one.” He’s buttoning his shirt, then his pants—trying to make it for his shoes at your front door. You drop the belt on your belt and cross in front of him with your hands splayed out on his chest.
“Holland, would you just slow down?” At your command, he tries to take in a deep, shaky breath. He’s trying his best to look you in the eyes, but he’s clearly shaken up. So, you ask him, “When was the last robbery?”
His hands are sliding into the pocket of his trousers, trying to make sure his wallet’s still intact and as thick as usual. Holland does a little bit of mental calculation, before answering with a grumble: “Three weeks ago.”
You’ve got to carry through with the argument, no matter how pissed he looks at you. “Three weeks ago. And we went out to eat—”
“—A month ago. Yeah, I get it.” Holland tries to look past you, back at the closet, and you have to stand on your toes to get in his way.
“Case in point. I’ve only stolen once since we started going out. That has to be a good thing,” you tell Holland, “Right?” Finally, he gives up on the closet and looks down at you.
He’s a little butt-hurt, rightfully so—but you do mean what you say. You haven’t stolen anything for three weeks, and it’s because of him. Because you want to be a little bit better for him. He’s trying to get a good look at your eyes. He surrenders when he sees your unfeigned expression, shoulders shrugging as he slowly brings his hands over your own. “You’re crazy,” Holland mumbles.
“It’s an issue. Everyone’s got issues.” You shake your head, “You’re going to be crazier if you stay with me.” You’re pulling his hands up to cup your jaw. You feel slightly more assured that he isn’t so scared to touch you. Holland blinks a few short times as he thinks it all over. You’ve got him all foggy, as usual. In a way, Holland’s been chasing you for a couple months now; it’s only changed in capacity very recently. It isn’t the worst thing in the world to carry on how you’ve been, at least if you can adjust your minor quirk.
“...What the hell am I supposed to tell Healy?”
You let out a soft breath. “Didn’t you say he used to beat guys up for money? You’re really good at being there while people turn themselves around.” You bring your hands up into Holland’s hair, and he’s leaning down with a heavy sigh. “Just give me a little while. I’ll get rid of the stuff, and you can keep me in check.”
“You can’t get mad at me if I run out of here and race straight to the police department,” Holland says, trying not to lean too heavily into the pressure of your fingers on his scalp. “It’s a reasonable reaction.” He really is wrapped around your finger, no matter how much he tries to act against it. It’s a superficial threat; Holland’s going nowhere. As soon as you’re coming up to kiss him, he’s as handsy as ever.
summary: your heart-to-heart with rocky leads to a lot of unnecessary teasing targeted towards grace. you can't help it—he just makes it so easy (based on this textpost // @viviennejinx!)
pairing: ryland grace x gn!reader
word count: 4.3k
tags: fluff and humor, not actually unrequited love, mutual pining, bad flirting, basically teasing to death, flustered!grace, developing relationship, platonic!rocky x reader, first kisses, gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3
Grace is off in the crew quarters trying to take a nap. He’s been all tuckered out, you think, since Rocky decided to start co-habitating with the two of you on the Mary. Though it’s probably the most efficient way to work altogether—instead of moving to and from the midpoint of your ship and Rocky’s—it’s clearly driving Grace crazy. Boundaries, he keeps telling Rocky, There’s a delicate line that’s being crossed. More than crossed. Hopped and skipped. And still, Rocky’s insistent on moving in. You don’t have any major objections, considering that Rocky is a positive change to your usual routine.
It isn’t the most convenient arrangement in the world, but Rocky is having you lug xenonite boxes and panes of glass into the Hail Mary from the connector tunnel. You have to wait a half an hour each for the materials to cool down before you can pick them up, so there’s a whole lot of get-to-know you time. After the first batch of belongings, Rocky is sure to ask you about the basics—what Earth is like, what humans are like, and your expertise on the project. The second batch is exponentially more personal. Rocky asks about how you came to be on the ship, where on Earth you belong to, and if you miss your loved ones.
And, on the third and last batch, you and Rocky are sitting in the connector tunnel on a pile of empty storage crates, effectively repurposed into seating. It’ll be a short break, now, for you to catch your breath. You’re trying to get a good stretch out of your arms and legs as you sit on the slanted crate. You’re certainly expecting to be sore after all the strenuous labor of carrying Rocky’s things. Meanwhile, Rocky is rolling back and forth, back and forth—still testing out the mobility on his new xenonite ball. He seems pleased with the development. Or, bored. You can never tell what he’s thinking when he gets all roll-y. It only becomes apparent here when he decides to ask you: “Is Grace mate, question?”
“Wow. Presumptuous,” you punch out. It’s a nice shock to your senses, the forwardness of Rocky’s inquiry. It’s not like you haven’t thought about it, but obviously, it seems that Rocky’s confident that he’s got it all figured out. “Where are you getting that from?”
“Grace make all effort to do bad science jokes. Is baaad.” Rocky says. “But laugh like Grace mate.”
“That could just be me being polite,” you test. “It’s really important for morale, you know, laughing.”
Rocky pauses for a moment, stilled in his xenonite casing. Then, he tries again: “Is it same for heart rate too, question?” He chirps in a repetitive manner, something akin to a chuckle. There’s not much you can do to disprove the physiological facts. Rocky’s as clever as you’d expect—and it isn’t like you’re trying to conceal the nature of your relationship with Grace.
What you’ve got with him is neither here nor there. It’s perfectly middle-ground, and really, you're satisfied with it. Grace is a decent roommate; he’s observant—knows what ticks you off, what pleases you, avoids the former and tries for the latter. You can already tell that he’s a little bit sweet on you, just by the way that he looks at you with soft blue eyes—corners of his eyes crinkling as he busies his hands with whatever prop he decides to pick up. Glass beakers, microscopes, xenonite models, you name it. It’s always the same.
And you’re always staring at him with your chin propped up on your palm, at once amused and enamored. You’d known you would feel a certain way about Grace ever since you’d both woken up on the Hail Mary. You’re attracted to him, of course, but there’s also something else. Even without a whole memory, your mind lingers on him longer than need be. It’s something like love, if not exactly that. “Well, we haven’t talked about it, but we’re as good as mates,” you decide to tell Rocky.
“Is unclear,” he mumbles. Aloud, it does sound like very strange terms to be referring to the current circumstances. A very human arrangement, you think. Rocky concurs with a stamp of his arm down on the plated floor.
“We live together, we eat together. I can tell I want to kiss him and he wants to kiss me,” you list off, counting on one hand. “We cohabitate in the same space like two mates would, but we haven’t had the opportunity to… have it out. It’s mission-first thinking.”
Rocky begins to roll towards a batch of glass propped up on the wall, a wordless sign for you to pick it up for him. Break’s over. Begrudgingly, you follow along, lifting the trapezoidal glass pane up with both arms. As you swing it into a more secure grip, he seems to speak more softly. “More Eridian than human.”
“Who? Me?” you say half-heartedly, still very focused toward your grip on the xenonite glass. It’s more difficult for you than it is for Rocky to carry the whole thing through the hatch door of the Hail Mary. Still, it sounds like a high compliment.
“Yes. Is Eridian thinking to view Grace in definite terms. Grace as mate, inevitable. Is beautiful!” Rocky raises a claw up, wiggling his little rugged fingers in a gentle sweep across the empty space in front of him. It’s reassuring, certainly, that Rocky views you in high regard. Even though you’re breaking a sweat trying to carry this weighted pane for your new shipmate, you still make a concerted effort to give him a wide grin.
“Thanks, Rocky.”
—
There’s a good mood going between you and Rocky after all the talking. Grace picks up on it quickly after his long nap, when he sees the both of you huddled in the lab working on one of the larger dry-erase boards. There’s a bunch of calculations scrawled neatly in black across the whole white surface, alongside a larger diagram of the ship’s engines. While he’s been sleeping, it’s clear the two of you have been wading through the more complex engineering issues. Hearing Grace’s footsteps approach, you turn to face him over your shoulder with a grin, “Morning.”
Grace looks straight out of bed, with his punny tee and his sweatpants—blonde hair sticking up in random directions. He seems to be stretching his back out as you greet him, eyelids heavy. “It seems like someone ignored the memo to pack light,” Grace grumbles, nudging his mug towards the corridor behind him. The stack of xenonite crates and glass you two amassed is generous, to say the least.
“Hey, I’m just the mover,” you hum, “You’re gonna have to take it up with the big guy.” You jut your index finger out towards Rocky, who’s tapping one side claw against the glass.
He merely buzzes, “Rocky need equipment to save Earth Erid stars. Don’t mind.” He rolls closer to the center of the room to get a better scan of the corridor, before returning to your side at the white board. “Same volume of mess as before Rocky arrival.” Rude. When you look back over at Grace, he doesn’t seem to have any major objections. It is true; the two of you were maybe a little bit slobbish before Rocky came along.
The three of you seem to fall back into routine easily. Grace is still trying to wake himself up with generous gulps of black coffee. You and Rocky continue on with your calculations and diagram. You’re trying your best to stay focused on the work—but the two of you have been working on these problems for the past hour and now, Grace is in front of you with his entirely sleep-ridden appearance. He just looks… perfect. And, out of the blue, Rocky shoots out an abrupt: “Why choose Grace for mate, question?” There’s a clatter to your left. Grace’s grip loosens on the handle of his mug, a sizable drop of coffee splashing onto the steel counter beside you both. He decides, at once, to place the mug down and away from himself, before wiping the mess up with the sleeve of his navy-blue hoodie.
Grace sputters, “What? Mate—we're not—that would require at least kind of—" He’s speaking so intermittently that he can barely get a full sentence out. You raise a brow just watching Grace mesh his hands together, fingers interlocking and coming apart. He’s not making it any better for himself.
The wide-eyed look that you give Rocky isn’t nearly as mortified as Grace’s. While it’s accompanied by shock, you’re very intrigued by the nature of Rocky’s question. You have no idea what he’s shooting for, but it’s clearly working. Grace is talking to himself, dazed as he fixates on soaking the coffee up with his sleeve. Rocky stays silent in his xenonite casing. He’s anticipating an answer out of you, and so you’re going to have to give it to him. With a rather astute tone, analytical in nature, you offer up, “Well, he’s passionate. That’s a plus.”
Grace’s brows furrow together. “Sorry?” He’s floored. You can’t possibly be talking about him, but Rocky’s asking and you’re answering. It’s really not adding up. Grace is looking at you over the frame of his glasses, eyes squinted in perplexity.
“The molecular biology, the teaching,” you note, “Gold stars all around.”
“Dedication valuable for Earth mate selection,” Rocky nods along. It isn’t anything he doesn’t already know. While Grace has been asleep and the two of you have gotten to talking, Rocky knows practically all the minute details of why you’ve “chosen” Grace. The point of hashing it out in front of him now is unclear—aside from the potential entertainment value. That makes sense.
“Okay. He learned humor while I was napping. I’m not offended at all.” Though he tries to laugh it off, Grace doesn’t sound at all sure of himself. He’s very close to pacing back and forth, not sure whether he should try to change out of his now coffee-soaked hoodie or question the two of you further. When you and Rocky turn straight back to work unaffected, you at the front of the board and him tracing his claw across the glass with a sort of contemplative silence, Grace is shell-shocked. He’s muttering under his breath, “I don’t think I get the joke.” Both of your backs are turned to Grace; he can’t see the growing smirk that’s cropping up on your face.
It’s a quick pivot back to work. “I have a feeling that we should make a few minor adjustments to the rear fuselage. There’s going to be a lot of strain on engines when we get to Tau Ceti-E.” You click your tongue, circling the lower right quadrant of the diagram in a red dry-erase ink. Once your little annotation is completed, you tuck the marker in your back pocket.
“Agree, agree, agree,” Rocky tips his body towards the white board. His texture monitor is showing a complex, grayscale copy of the board to a T. It’s as if neither of you have tried to tease Grace to death just seconds prior. He’s glued to the ground with a weary kind of expression on his face. Grace is frowning, truly and deeply, with his palm squeezing the back of his neck. You could almost feel bad if you weren’t so pleased to see Grace like this; rarely is he speechless.
A few minutes pass. Then, Rocky approaches the same question from a different vantage point. “Grace attractive by human standard, question?”
“Well, he's handsome by my standard, and I’m pretty sure a lot of humans would agree,” you admit. “He is a bit dorky, but I like ‘em that way. That’s preference, though. Not all humans are into dorky.”
Rocky returns your statement with a rushed out, “Yes, yes, yes—preference. Understand.”
“Okay. Hello?” Grace speaks outward towards the lab. His voice carries throughout the hull of the ship, and the two of you are still non-reactive. “We’re doing it again. I am in the room.” His old teacher’s voice is coming out again—one hand shot up in the air, trying to flag your attention.
You look at him over your shoulder with a soft “What was that, Ry?” You’re very pleased to see that his cheeks are glowing red underneath the white-gold frames of his glasses. You drag your gaze up and down his raised arm, with a particularly sharp grin hanging off your face. So toned. “Didn’t hear you,” you tilt your head. Grace lowers his arm slowly, turning back around to pick up his mug.
“Ha-ha,” Grace punches out. He’s trying to seem unbothered by this whole situation, but it really is bothering him. No matter how hard he’s trying to maintain his composure, Grace is flushed. You can practically see the steam rising off the top of his head. It’s an illogical conversation playing out in front of him and the effort’s no use. You and Rocky are absolutely impossible. “I’m going to go for a metaphorical breath of fresh air. I will… see you both shortly.” Grace is too nervous to push it any further, and it seems like he’s leaving you both to do a cool-off lap around the ship.
You can hear him talking to himself as he leaves the lab, as if possessed by his own confusion. “Handsome…? Is it April Fool’s? Mary, can you pull up a UTC calendar for me, please? What month is it back home?” Louder, the ship’s computer rings out a staticky, “The month is: June.” Grace’s muffled groan rings out towards the two of you..
You turn towards Rocky with a slow shake of your head. “You’re really mean. Did you know that?” you ask Rocky. He pushes closer to you. Like you’re any better.
“Grace not know you are mates when obvious. Grace fault,” Rocky says, with both claws pointed in the air. You think it’s supposed to be a sort of shrug.
—
After Grace’s little cooldown period, he’s back on his feet and wanting to teach you how to sample astrophage. Even though you’ll both be out there at the same time, spacewalking side by side, he wants you to be prepared. It’s best that you both know how to handle the equipment. You’re not completely convinced that he’s over your little bit with Rocky earlier, but he seems altogether unoffended enough to talk to you. While you and Grace are running through the sampler together, Rocky’s not far away. He sits in the corridor, sifting through his things—no doubt listening to the two of you working together.
Grace's fingers trace over the orange lining of the box before he slides it towards you. “You’re going to have this whole sampler rig attached to your suit. It’s supposed to be portable, so it shouldn’t be too much of a hassle for us to bring it out and set it up on the topside of the deck,” he explains. You’re nodding along; something tells you that you’ve heard this entire lecture before—that Grace is using the words that he might’ve before your launch—but it’s altogether pointless to point it out now.
You’re watching as his hands surround either side of the sampler; he pulls out, simultaneously, two metal grated plates. “Okay. These plates are supposed to intake the astrophage going towards Tau Ceti-E.” Grace closes the one set and opens another. “And these are supposed to grab the astrophage that’s leaving. We’ll grab input first. Then, output.”
Mindlessly, Grace grabs the off-white masking tape off the counter beside you, nearly brushing your waist; he tries to ignore the minimal contact, pressing the bar of tape onto the first set of plates. Then, the second. Grace discards the roll on the counter, before picking the dry-erase marker out of your pocket and presses it into the palm of your dominant hand. Grace flinches as his fingertips graze the surface of your palm. He’s still trying to keep a fair distance after your little debacle with Rocky earlier, but he just can’t help it.
“You want me to label it?” you laugh.
“It’s lab standard,” he insists. “If we mix them up, we’ll have to sample all over again—and that would mean we’d have to clean the plates. And if we do that poorly…” Grace makes a big show of making a miniature explosion with his hands. It’s difficult not to scoff at him. You know it’s lab standard, but he could easily label them himself. The apprehension worn on your face makes Grace sigh. You’re able to read him too easily, and he surrenders over, “And I like your handwriting more than I like mine.”
There—the root of the issue. You shake your head, “You’re a teacher, Grace. Legibility is, like, a job requirement.”
“If that were true, the staff at Grover Cleveland Middle would’ve been chopped in half,” he chuckles. As far as you’ve seen, his handwriting isn’t bad at all. To each their own, you suppose. You lean down to write on the open panels of the sampler, Grace watching carefully over your shoulder.
“See? This is part of the mating ritual, too, Rock.” It barely comes out as a whisper as you’re writing down “a1. input” and “a2. output” neatly across the tape for either panel. It’s sarcasm really, but you realize much too late that Rocky might not interpret it as such. Grace, somehow, is much more occupied at watching over your labeling technique; he murmurs back a distracted “Hm?” before furrowing his brows. He stands straight up, eyebrows furrowed. It might have taken a second to register, but Grace is fully aware of what you’ve said—
And suddenly, Rocky is practically shouting down the corridor with a hurried, “wait, wait wait!” You can hear the successive rapid thunks of him sliding into his xenonite ball, sealing it, and rolling back towards the both of you. The Eridian practically comes barreling in through the doorway, running into the white metal shelves of the Hail Mary with a childlike ardor. “Is initiating kiss, question?”
“Again?” Grace groans, pulling his glasses off and rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. When he lowers his hand, you can see the blush spreading across his face, from the tips of his ears to his cheeks. “Okay. That’s it,” Grace huffs. “This has to end now. No more bits.”
“Graaace. Do not be mad,” Rocky whines in a low tone, “Is only kiss. Partial threshold for human relations.” Grace is tugging his hoodie off in a desperate attempt to keep a regular temperature. There’s a shelf hook close enough for him to toss up the garment haphazardly. Once it’s out of the way, he turns toward Rocky.
“You didn’t even know that word an hour ago.” Grace’s voice raises in tone and volume all at once, crackling with embarrassment. It’s unintentionally accusatory. Grace certainly didn’t code in <kiss>, and it’s not like Rocky can type into his own vocabulary bank. And Grace can’t seem to figure out why you’d code it aside from entertainment value.
“Kiss not bad word, Grace. Is normal,” Rocky explains calmly. “Now, do kiss. Please.” The begging tone that Rocky dishes out to Grace only makes him more and more impatient. Meanwhile, you’re simply watching the two of them bicker with one another—not interested in the slightest to stop the argument. Shamefully, you do want Grace to be pushed to his limit. And this happens much quicker than you would anticipate. Right about now, Grace has his hands locked together and resting just over his head. His face is still flushed, and he’s got his glasses hanging off his face.
Grace is trying to stay as calm as he can and failing. Every time the word is used, he’s getting deeply distracted by the thought of your lips on his. He can’t help the way his mind drifts to that very, very vivid fantasy of your hands balancing flat on his chest. Finally, he breathes out a heavy and burdened sigh: “No more kiss talk. We aren’t together, end of story.”
“I mean, we kind of are,” you say to Grace, who turns sharply mid-speaking to tilt his head at you.
“What?” he stammers softly. You’re not helping his case, especially with that tone.
Hands held behind your back, you repeat for Grace, “We are.” It's a matter of fact. Any semblance of sternness Grace was attempting prior crumbles at the drop of a dime. He’s pointing at you with his index finger, then at himself, then you again. “No, we’re not.”
You grab for Grace’s wrist, just over the red-band of his wristwatch. “Okay. Come on, we’re going up to screens.” Grace, still stunned, lets you drag him out of the lab and towards the corridor. As you look over your shoulder, you can see that Rocky is shooting you a strong thumbs-down.
—
The empty, numbered panels of the projection deck flicker to life into the backdrop of the river Seine. You’ve asked Mary to put on music—really, anything would do—and she decides to ring out some folk-rock song that you’ve never heard before. Something older, not too much ruckus when played loud. It’s a decent way to guarantee yourself a bit of privacy with your new, sound-attuned roommate. You’ll be lucky if Rocky can’t hear the two of you finally having this talk. Over the sound of the soft strumming guitars, you stretch your shoulders back. “I might have had a bit too fun teasing you. Sorry.”
“Well, I thought you were just… doing a bit. Like, ha-ha, ‘Ryland Grace dies alone in space,’” Grace mumbles. “Is it still a bit? You’re sending a whole lot of signals, and I don’t think I’m receiving—” Grace seems to quiet down as soon as you plant your hand down on his chest. He’s tracing his eyes from your hand, down your arm, and straight up to your face with his lips parted. “Or, I am receiving. A little bit.”
“Okay,” you decide, “You’ve thought about it, haven’t you? I have. We’ve been living together for the equivalent of… what, a few months now? I’m comfortable with you, and you’re comfortable with me. It’s been like that ever since we got sent up. Maybe even before. I don’t remember. But we like each other.” Your fingers are dancing soft on his chest, and his breath is hitching.
“We?” Grace echoes. “I was under the impression that you were, you know, kind of uninterested in me. Besides, you know, as a co-habitant. Mission-wise, it’s crucial for us to get along.” He’s clueless, clearly, because it hasn’t been like that at all—for you, at least.
You’re trying to stir up another line of reasoning for him. You have to meet Grace at his level. “There’s the, uh, Einstein quote. I know you know it, just… let me think.” You massage your temples with your fingers, trying to wrack your brain for it. It’s perfect. What is it, again?
It’s easy for Grace—the middle-school science teacher that he is—to pick up what you’re putting down. "When you sit with a nice girl for two hours, you think it's only a minute. But when you sit on a hot stove for a minute, you think it's two hours. That's relativity,” Grace nods, “But that’s a very crude explanation of the concept, and I don’t really—”
You shush him with a shake of your head. “Right. Eridians don’t have a conception of relativity. It isn’t necessary for them, because things are just… what they are. They’re literal and exact, and there isn’t any dancing around the facts.” you explain to Grace hurriedly. “So… you’re my boyfriend. You’ve been my boyfriend.”
It takes a moment for him to process your argument. It’s very… forward. He seems to look past you towards one of the panel-screens. The projected river is still glittering behind you, and you’re not going anywhere. Mary even put in the effort of mixing this ambient watery sound—boats and people, back on Earth whenever ago—with the music track. Somehow, your traveling abode in space has made the absolute perfect atmosphere for this. You and Grace.
“Well, that’s just…” Grace nods slowly, “peachy.” He drops his head down in absolute disappointment of his own incapability to speak. What is he saying?
“Peachy?” you repeat quietly. You’re astounded that that’s the choice of word he’s selected for this entire ordeal. It’s so like him. You can feel yourself shuddering out a breath. Your cheeks are already sore enough as is—and you don’t think you can take another hard laugh.
“Don’t,” Grace says, “I have had a long and emotionally tumultuous couple of hours.”
“Are you mad about the teasing?” you ask, stepping closer to Grace. He’s barely paying attention, eyes glazed-over in a dazed fashion. He’s having trouble focusing on your words. Too occupied with you.
“No. Never,” he murmurs, eyebrows knitted together. You’re reaching for Grace next, hands swinging around his neck in an effort to pull him in. He’s fumbling with his hands, unsure exactly where to place them. They’re steady only when they find grounding on your midsection. You give him one peck on the lips. Then, another. He leans into the contact, the rims of your glasses brushing against the surface of your cheeks. It’s casual, comfortable—as if it’s not the first time. You’re his, and he’s yours. It’s effortless. Grace seems to finally ease up.
There’s a few loud thuds down the hall—presumably, your Eridian counterpart. The folk-rock is no use. Rocky has obviously been listening through the entirety of your back-and-forth. “Finally, Grace act like real mate. Congratulate, congratulate, congratulate.” His voice rings out loudly towards the projection deck. Grace is muttering under his breath again, something about those boundaries. At least now, you’re both on the same page.
summary: holland is making a big fuss out of holly inviting you to her upcoming school play. he’s pleasantly surprised by the way you show up for the both of them. (based on this textpost // anon)
pairing: holland march x gn!reader
word count: 2.6k
tags: fluff and humor, domestic fluff, established relationship, developing relationship, family bonding, bickering and bad flirting w/ march, make-outs, basically co-parenting, holland smoking (canon), pervy!holland, pet names used (hon, baby), holly and healy featured, gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3
“You don’t have to go. You can say, ‘no, thank you,’ and she won’t bat an eye,” Holland insists. Holly’s in the living room with Healy, talking over some film noir movie running on the box TV. They might as well shut it off, both equally entranced by the conversation at hand. Holly has her knees tucked up to her chest, and she’s telling Healy eagerly about her part in the school play. To your surprise, Healy’s much more of a Broadway fanatic than you’d ever expect. Very indulged in high culture.
“Look at her,” Holland murmurs to you, “She probably won’t even notice if you’re not in the crowd; there’ll be so many heads.” He’s drawing on straws, still. There’s another point he finds abruptly, probably the most obvious of the bunch: “And she’s backstage! You’re not even going to see her sing or dance or anything.”
So, Holly’s doing the lights. She’s been fancying technical theatre the whole year, and she’s got a real knack for spotlighting. Holland’s been telling you it’s genetics. He’s got perfect aim—a bit of an exaggeration, you think, but you’d never tell him otherwise. Holly asked you just an hour earlier, over dinner, if you’d want to attend her show. Two complimentary tickets, one for Dad and one for you. Healy isn’t offended in the slightest; he’d gotten the Christmas showcase, so it’s only fair. It’s about time you’d get to one of Holly’s shows.
It’s a major milestone. But, since dinner, Holland’s been offering up excuse after excuse for you to bail. You’ve already said yes to Holly, and you’re not quite sure what the problem is. What you do know is that your boyfriend’s self-made calamity is making you impatient. “If you don’t want me to go, Holland, just say so.”
“That—now, that’s not what I said.” He raises his right hand up to take another hit off his cigarette, before blowing the smoke out at an angle away from your face. “I’m just giving you an out. You could be busy that evening, I don’t know.”
“That’s so funny, because we spend basically every evening together when you’re not working.” It’s nothing out of the ordinary; ever since you’ve been dating Holland, you’re either at the house, he’s treating you out to dinner, he’s kissing your neck at a drive-in movie… You take your index finger and your thumb up to snatch the cigarette out of Holland’s hands. He tries to take it back, one arm swinging around your waist to hold you still. You wrestle away easily, trying not to be swayed by the sensation of Holland’s hips pinning your own down.
“Baby, baby, baby—” Holland hangs his head as you grind it against the ashtray on the kitchen counter. He eases up his grip on you as you go to throw the cigarette butt straight into the trash bin. You win. Holland throws his head back with a sigh; you’ve been doing this more, lately, trying to get him off smoking. He lets you, aiming to please. The only caveat, really, is when you use it against him as punishment for when you’re mad.
And now, you’re mad. “You’re pissing me off, March.” You’re not trying to be too loud about it, not wanting to rouse too great of a suspicion from Holly or Healy. But Holland can see the way that you’re glaring at him. It isn’t an over-exaggeration.
“Honey, I’m just trying to give you options.” Holland frowns, “Maybe, you don’t want to go and you’re just too polite to say so. I don’t know many hot, twenty-somethings who’re opting to spend their Friday night attending middle-school productions of The Sound of Music.”
“I’m trying to be supportive!” You hiss, “Now, stop being a wuss and let me attend Holly’s show.” You can see the hair hanging over Holland’s forehead swaying as he looks you up and down. He’s getting distracted. Clearly, he’s enjoying the sight of you pissy a little bit too much. So not the time. You’re inclined to snap your fingers at him; the sound jolts his attention back up to your face.
“Okay. Fine,” Holland yields. He’s trying to run through the night in his head. The two of you in the car, enjoying each other’s company up until the top-of-show, where you’re watching those stupid, little middle-schoolers perform and suddenly find yourself wanting to break up with him. Holland, the perpetual single father. He grits his teeth, “If you want to go, then we can go. I’ll pick you up after I drop her off, and we’ll watch it front-row.”
“Good.” You stand up straighter, expression much brighter than before. Even if he’s so terrified by the thought of you coming to Holly’s play, Holland can only really aim to please you. If this is what he has to do, then so be it.
“Happy?” Holland asks cautiously, glancing over your features with a tilt of his head. You’re much more touchy now, a good sign, hands coming up to fix his collar.
“You’re in the safe-zone for now,” you tell Holland. Without further delay, he’s bending down to give you a sloppy kiss—pointer-fingers pulling you by the belt loops. You’re grinning wide as he moves upwards, laying a kiss on your nose, and then your forehead. All is right in the world.
Healy’s muttering carries over into the kitchen. “Jesus. It’s like they can’t go a minute without touchin’ each other.” His acute observation causes Holly to begin twisting her head with naive curiosity—but he stops her with a tap to the shoulder and a shake of his head. “Don’t look, kid. S’gross.”
—
On Friday night, Holland’s five minutes early—double-parked on the street of your apartment with the convertible roof down. The two of you are already well-agreed on the attire for tonight. Not too casual, not too formal, just charming enough to impress. As soon as you’re outside and locking the door behind you, Holland is beaming. “Hon, you look perfect.” But, as soon as you turn around, he’s dead quiet. Holland’s very caught off-guard, you think, by the large bunch of carnations cradled in your arms, all wrapped up in cellophane and ribbon. Holland gawks as you approach the car, open the side-door, and plop yourself onto the seat behind him. “Is that a bouquet?”
You shut the door and adjust the carnations carefully above your lap. It’s difficult to navigate where to put them exactly; the petals are rising out of the plastic film in generous bunches of off-white and fuschia. The bouquet’s big; you don’t know where to put it. “It’s for Holly. Opening night’s always a big deal, and I’m sure that all the parents are gonna have these kinds of things, too.”
Holland’s looking down at your lap like you’re carrying some kind of contraband. “Did you buy it? When?” He’s acting absolutely clueless, as if he’s never even seen a flower before in his life.
“There’s a florist a few blocks down,” you explain to Holland, half-distracted. “Would you hold it for me?”
He ushers the bouquet towards him with his hands. “Of course, baby. Give it here.” As soon as Holland takes the bouquet off your hands, he’s glancing down at your hands. You’re pulling a 35mm Canon from your side, pulling the thin leather strap over your head and placing it gently for a moment on the dash. “And you brought a camera. Of course.” Once the camera’s secure enough, you’re taking the bouquet out of Holland’s hands and putting it gently in the backseat. You can feel Holland watching you—particularly, the backside of you—as you make an exerted effort to secure them with a seatbelt. His entertainment is cut short as you sit back down in the shotgun with him. He’s restless, hand coming down to adjust his pant leg.
“You really need to keep up, March. Momentous occasion calls for momentous effort. Once I get them developed, they can go up on your fridge or something.”
Holland revs his car up a little bit, before rolling the car slowly down the block. “You’re running laps around me. I’m being… bested,” he says, palm hitting the steering wheel softly. As stumped as he sounds, you can see right through the facade.
You lean over for a quick second to kiss Holland soft on the cheek. “That’s how you like me, right?” And, unfazed, you slide back to plug your seatbelt in. Though Holland’s making a grand show of checking both sides of the street before he turns, you can see the way his lips twitch up into a smile.
—
This middle-school performance of The Sound of Music, though prepubescent in nature, has its charm. During the intermission, you spend a resolute amount of time conversing with Holland about Holly’s lighting prowess. He can only listen and nod, seeing as he doesn’t understand anything about the technical. But he is happy to be there—has a little bit of a frame of reference with the Christmas show—and just knows that his daughter’s somewhere in this auditorium, behind the handlebars of a giant spotlight, buzzing with excitement.
After the bows, it’s very easy to find Holly. She’s all the way up in the lighting booth, first. Then, skipping down the stairs, she’s running her way down to the two of you. Dressed in all show-blacks, Holly’s light blonde hair pops. She sticks out like a sore thumb amidst all the other families, bouncing around, hand shot straight in the air to flag you. She’s practically hopping up and down at the sight of you and her dad, shoulder-to-shoulder. “You came!” Holly exclaims, hand reaching to squeeze yours.
“Of course I came. I said I would come, didn’t I?” you tell her. Then, you’re tugging soft on Holland’s sleeve. “Flowers, baby.” Holland pulls the bouquet out from behind his back with a soft “ta-da,” holding them right in front of Holly’s face. She takes them heartily, looking straight down into the carnelians with a giddy look on her face.
“That’s for being the best kid offstage tonight.” Holly won’t stop saying ‘thank you’ over and over, and so, you’ve got to wave your hand and nudge her towards Holland. “Go stand next to your dad with those. I wanna shoot a picture of the both of you.”
The sight before you in the viewfinder is lovely. Holland is standing just behind Holly with both his hands on his shoulders; she’s holding the bouquet up for you to get a clearer shot. There’s the same wide grin shared between the two of them, and you can feel your heart just swelling at the sight. As soon as the camera clicks, Holly’s peeling off of Holland in an instant. “I’m supposed to go help put the spotlights back in the storage, and I’ve got to say bye to Jess. Can I meet you outside?” she asks you, bright-blue eyes blinking rapidly.
Holland decides, maybe too eagerly, to respond on behalf of both of you. “We’ll go warm up the car. You take your time.” You cast him a sidelong glance—the tone alone telling you that he’s too excited to rush out of the auditorium.
Upon further inspection, Holland is jumpy. He’s checking for his keys in his trouser pockets, fixing his already-straight tie. It’s like watching an old German Shepherd wag its tail. His daughter can only narrow her eyes with a scrunch of her nose. “Gross,” Holly says. “Meet me in twenty minutes near the flagpole.” Holly’s always getting dropped off there in the mornings; it’s a solid landmark. The two of you watch as she skitters away from the both of you to go close up for the night. Holland is turning to face you, hand finding the small of your back with a feathery, brush of your spine. It’s going to be a very short walk to the car.
—
Holland insists on bringing the roof up on his convertible for the sake of privacy, though his windows are fish-bowled and you’re sure that anyone within a couple of yards can see you both. Still, he seems very urgent about ushering you into the shotgun and the both of you sitting there for a moment before swinging the car around to grab Holly. Once he’s able to toss the bouquet in the back, he’s taking your hand up; his mustache brushes against your knuckles as he kisses them. “You’re getting sappy on me.”
“I’m not used to bringing anyone to these things,” Holland tells you, “Besides Healy, maybe.” Not the time. He shakes his head and tries again, placing your hand back down onto your lap. “It’s pretty nice having you come and support Holly. You, uh… make great backup.”
You’re turning to face him. In the dimly-lit lot of the middle school, you can only barely see the antsy look on his face. Softly, you chuckle, “It isn’t a case, Holland.” He nods. You’re right, as per usual.
“Right.” He finally cracks. “I’m not used to this. And I love it, baby, I do. It’s more than I could possibly ask for.” Holland had only been burning through the occasional one-night stand before he met you. And before that, there’d only been his wife. You’re steady, and it’s not what he’s used to. It’s really all as new to you as it is to him. That last thing you want is to impose on the March’s home life—but the closer you get to Holland… It's starting to resemble a family.
“I just want to make sure that you know that you’re not running it alone. It takes a village, or whatever.” Warily, you confess to him, “And I wanna be good for you and Holly.”
“Oh, honey.” He’s giving that same old look that he always does, pupils blown, lips parted. He just can’t help it. “You’re perfect,” Holland assures you earnestly. There’s an irresistible urge for you to plant a tender kiss on his jaw. As soon as you do, he doesn’t let you get much further away from him. Holland tilts your chin up with his thumb, leaving a gentle peck on your lips. He’s always impatient when it comes to you, never able to keep it short and sweet. Quickly, Holland is bringing his hand up to your neck, calloused fingers pushing against your pulse point. He’s following the trace of his fingers with hard kisses, then capturing your lips again with a fluttery groan.
“Holland,” you whisper. You have to pull back from him, though you’d really kill to carry on. He’s muttering “already?” under his breath and you have to insist with a squeeze of his knee. “She’s going to be out any minute now.” Holland drops his head onto your shoulder, taking in a deep breath. Then, he grabs for your seatbelt, clicks it into the lock, and gives you one last smooch on the cheek.
“Okay. I’m gonna treat the kid and you out to a nice dinner tonight. Ice cream after. She can’t go without ,” Holland nods. He sits up straight, raising his arm over the back of your seat to pull out of his parking space. “And next weekend, we’re gonna go take a drive, you and me—find a hotel room and make good use of that film camera of yours.”
With a swift swat to the arm, you mutter, “You’re such a perv. Go pull up to the flagpole.”
Holland March who will absolutely get protective over you when approached by another guy.
Maybe you’re taking a stroll down the street, maybe at a bar, or maybe at an event to support Holly.
Holland’s usually attached to your hip, so he doesn’t have to worry about people coming up to flirt with you. A strong, large hand placed over your hip, his body half leaned into your side. The sight is enough to deter them.
But, on the odd occasion when he’s not pressed to your side, he’s not worried about you talking to other people—it’s the other people talking to you.
One time, at Holly’s birthday party, a father of one of Holly’s friends had come up to you while Holland was over with Holly as she opened his present.
When he glanced to see your reaction and saw another guy talking to you, his lazy grin fell. He gave Holly a quick hug and kiss to the forehead as she thanked him for the present (that you had helped him pick out), and literally sprinted over to you. So fast that when he had to stop, he almost fell over his own feet from his speed.
“Hey-Hey babe,” His breath slightly labored as he slung an arm around your shoulders, leaning against you heavily. “Whose this guy?” You can see the set of his eyebrows, the way his mustache ticks with the jerky movements of his lips. He’s not happy.
When the father tries to explain himself, that he was just talking, Holland just shushes him with a hand, his palm out. “No, no, I get it, pal,” He chuckles to himself. “They’re a catch, I know. But I’m gonna need you to run along, yeah?” He presses his nose to your hair, glaring sideways at the guy before he backs off.
When you press him about it, saying it wasn’t necessary and that you would have rejected the guy regardless of his advances. He just shrugs and pecks his lips against the tip of your nose.
“I know, just…wanted to let the guy know. Ya’ know?” He sits in one hip, hand rested on his hip as the other booped your nose playfully.
how do you think various ry characters would react to a reader with scars ? its getting to summer where i am and i get so insecure, i’d love to see ken, lars, ryland or holland (or all lol) even if its just a lil blurb, i have this feeling ken would be really sweet 💔 anyway i love ur writing so so much lots of love!
Ken / Lars Lindstrom / Ryland Grace / Holland March
∘₊✧ reactions to reader's scars
As this is a sensitive topic, please tread carefully. I've tried to use the best tags I could find to ensure this doesn't show up for anyone who doesn't want to see it. Anon, I hope you're doing okay and thank you so much for the lovely compliment!
Content: fluff, gn!reader with scars, hinted past SH, kissing, touch sensitivity, nudity, shame/embarrassment, comfort
∘₊✧────────────✧₊∘
∘₊✧Ken
Ken’s in awe of the marks on your body. He’d heard of freckles, but beyond that, he’s essentially brand new to the way skin really looks after living in a perfect plastic painted world for so long. So when he sees your scars for the first time, his eyes grow wide with wonder. ‘What are those marks?’ he asks, really innocently and completely unaware of how sensitive the topic could be for you. Luckily, you know him well enough to have expected such a reaction. As you explain, he turns very serious, his eyes full of concern and care for you. When you go on to say you don’t normally like to show them, that they make you self conscious, he’ll sit beside you, wrap an arm tight around your shoulders and tell you, ‘It’s so cool you got through how you felt when you got these,’ while his fingers slowly trail the length of them, gently tickling at your skin, ‘they show strength, y’know, ‘cause you’re still here. And I’m so glad you are.’
∘₊✧────────────✧₊∘
∘₊✧Lars Lindstrom
It took a long time to see Lars anything close to nude, and so you didn’t need to worry about him seeing your scars for a long time, either. But as winter thaws and longer days stretch out ahead of you, it becomes too hot to keep a sweater on all day, and you decide it’s time to tell Lars about the marks on your arms before taking your top layers off. His brow furrows as he processes all that you tell him. ‘I don’t like taking my clothes off in summer either,’ he says carefully after a long beat, ‘I’m worried someone’ll touch me, and everything feels so… loud against my skin. The breeze, raindrops, the heat.. all of it. But maybe if you do it, I could try too? We could take them off together?’ Lars always knows how to put you at ease, and the way his hand slips into yours lets you know he’s unbothered, but more than this, supportive. When you agree, it feels so good and freeing to spend a carefree day together at the lake in just your t-shirts and shorts. Later on, as the sun begins to set, Lars even takes his shirt completely off before kissing you as the cool water ripples around your waists.
∘₊✧────────────✧₊∘
∘₊✧Ryland Grace
Ryland notices your scars before you realise he has. Helping on a project for the school together one day, you reach across him to grab a pen, and your long sleeve lifts, revealing the thin lines twisted over your arm in stark contrast to the rest of your skin. He pretends he hasn’t noticed, but you can tell by the way he’s stiffened that he has. Your other hand darts to slip your sleeve back down, and flushed, you run from the room as shame engulfs you. Ryland finds you hiding out in the bathroom ten minutes later. Leaning against your stall as he tries to soothe your worries, he says ‘It’s okay, I already knew.’ The stall door clicks open and you peek at him through the gap, your eyes questioning as he goes on, ‘I didn’t want to ask you about it and put you on the spot, so I just waited. Y’know, in case you wanted to tell me. Or not. I’m sorry if I was wrong. Was I-’ you open up the stall and press your lips to his firmly, shutting him up. Kissing is always the best way to get him to stop overthinking out loud, you’ve learned. ‘Thank you for not judging me,’ you say, pulling away, and Ryland, catching his breath and gathering his thoughts, whispers, ‘I would never.’
∘₊✧────────────✧₊∘
∘₊✧Holland March
Holland is slightly oblivious. When he sees your scars as you step out of the shower in the morning, he blurts out his first thought – ‘Hey look we match!’ pushing up his sleeve to show you where he put his arm through a plate of glass for a case. As tactless as it may have seemed, it makes you smile. Even though the history of your scars are vastly different, and you aren’t nearly as eager to show yours off so readily as Holland is, it feels good to know his feelings toward yours are warm, that he sees them as a way to connect rather than something that separates your past from him. He apologises profusely when he realises how inappropriate his comment was, but you reassure him that you think it is actually kinda nice to have something that matches and brings you together. He makes sure the towel wrapped around you is tucked in all secure and then wraps his arms around you, buries his face in your shoulder and breathes, ‘I’m so glad we’re both here.’
↬ warnings: some suggestive implications in drivers section, but nothing beyond that. reader is written to be wearing swim shorts and a t-shirt at one point, but no other descriptors are used
↬ notes: this was my first request, and i got so excited i finished it in nearly a day lol. everybody clap and cheer yayyy
𝐂𝐨𝐥𝐭 𝐒𝐞𝐚𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐬
• two words: surf. lessons.
• remember the part of the fall guy where colt was talking about learning to surf? oh yeah. you can't give a man like that frosted tips and a house by the beach and not expect him to pick up a wave or two.
• colt is no professional surfer, sure, but he would go as far to call it a hobby. he's got a surfboard that he takes good care of, and a multitude of youtube tutorials bouncing around in his brain. along with plenty of mistakes to learn from. if anything, colts just glad he got to showcase his surfing skills to you after he got the hang of it. sure, taking falls is literally what he does for a living, but that doesn't mean he wants to wipe out in front of the person he's trying to impress.
"come on, you've almost got it!"
colt's cheering is doing little to help, and plenty to distract you. it's not his fault, really. between the harsh rocking of the waves and his intense gaze— seriously, he had the blues fucking eyes you'd ever seen —it was getting increasingly harder to stay upright.
it had been just windy enough for some mellow action on the board, but unfortunately, that meant colt had insisted on teaching you today of all days. the one comfort you had was that colt had chosen a secluded enough of a beach to spare you from any judgemental onlookers. perks of traveling all over the world to shoot stunts for movie, you supposed.
you try to remember what he told you, really, you do, ("bend your knees, ride the waves and try to relax!") but before you know it, youre tripping over what seems like air, and diving headfirst into colt's exposed chest.
"fuck!"
you both go under for a second, bubbles and sand kicking up a storm underneath the water. it only takes a moment for colt to resurface. there, he's met with the sight of your completely mortified face. whether that was from the embarassment of the fall or landing face first in his pecs, he wasn't sure. part of him sincerely hoped it was the latter
"we may have to come to terms with the fact ive been cursed to have absolutely zero coordination since birth, colt." you waste no time trying to distract from your humiliating mistake, groaning as you splash a nearby bubble in frustration. he can't help but laugh at that, abruptly clearing his throat and looking away as you shoot him a look.
"i don't know about that—"
"we have been out here for an hour and ive barely managed to catch a single wave." you deadpan at him. colt scratches the back of his neck, feeling a bit of skin peel off. shit, he'd forgotten sunscreen. oh well, that's what the bottle of alo vera in his truck was for.
"hey, at least you can stand up on the board now! it took me forever to get that right!"
"some part of me doesnt believe that." your unyielding gaze feels like its boreing a hole in colts forehead. a nearby wave bumps the surfboard into his side, and he grabs onto it before it can float away. you send it a scathing look like it has personally offended your family bloodline, and colt has to choke down another laugh.
"okay, maybe it only took me a few minutes but—"
"see!! i'm hopeless, and you know it. i'm like a, a uh—" youre guestiring around wildly, trying to settle on an appropriate metaphor for the situation "—fucking baby giraffe out here!"
"a cute baby giraffe."
"not helping colt!"
• even if youre not the most talented at surfing (or a complete whizz, who knows, practice makes perfect) colt still loves hanging out and playing around on the beach. volleyball, catch, seeing who can push who into the bigger wave, all that kinds of stuff. not only is it a chance to spend time around you, but he gets to try and impress you all the while. colt's not shy about liking the attention— if anything, he'll only encourage it. as long as it's you, he doesn't mind one bit.
• he's also definitely the kind of sap to write your names together in the sand, just to pout when a wave comes in and washes it away. it's the little things like that that make him so charming in your eyes.
• he adores ending the night in the bed of his truck along the beach, wrapping his arms around you while you both watch the nearby fire crackle and spark with life. a cozy blanket that you had bought for him a little bit ago is often drapped around your shoulders, sheilding you from the cold and providing cover for a few playful kisses. he loves it when he has to duck under the cover to chase after you with a little laugh, bumping his nose against your affectionately.
𝐑𝐲𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐆𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐞
• ryland grace has a special relationship with the beach. it's not just somewhere to go and walk around— for him, it's a way to ground himself. to feel the waves lap against his feet as he settles in the sand, watching birds fly overhead and listening to attempts of nearby vendors to sell their food. ocassionaly, he'll find himself a returning customer, exchanging some crumpled ones in order to enjoy an ice cream on the sand with you.
• the calm evenings where the two of you simply sit and talk about everything and nothing at the same time are his favorites. between you and the beach, it's like having two of his safe spaces rolled into one. and it gives him an excuse to admire you as the sun bathes your face in rays of light, emphasizing each and every quality that he's come to love about you.
• of course, if you ever catch on to his staring he'll deny it vehemently, but that doesn't change the fact that he's positively enamored with you. the slope of your nose, the way your hair falls, how you laugh— everything. if there was a subset of science dedicated to observing and fawning over you, ryland would be the lead researcher
"are you even listening to me?" ryland's head is plucked from the clouds at the sound of your voice. he blinks once, then twice, eyes sheepishly meeting your twinkling gaze as ryland chuckles.
"...sorry, i got distracted." the edges of his cheekbones are smattered with a coloring of pink, he can feel it. the last thing he remembered was you going on about the last chapter of a book you read before he'd gotten lost admiring the curve of your lips. "in my defense, you can be very distracting."
"mhmm." your tone isn't displeased. rather, you seem amused. no, no that's not the right word. ryland thought with a shake of his head. more like adoring.
the very thought made his heart race. sometimes, with the way ryland acted, you would think that he was meeting you for the first time.. not taking you back to his special spot in the sand for what must have been the third time this week alone. what can he say, with the warm weather and the promise of school staring again soon, late summer months always left him in a good mood. especially if you happened to be by his side.
"sometimes i wonder how you get anything done around me." you poke a finger at his chest playfully, laughing as he jumps a little bit. "if it's any comfort, you're pretty distracting yourself, ry." you reach out to run the pad of your thumb along the junction between his ear and jaw, smiling softly when he sputters.
"okay, well, now you're just doing this on purpose." he accuses you without any real conviction, his voice a slight octave higher than usual. you would say later that he whined— per usual, ryland would refuse to comment.
"not my fault that you look so good in the sunset like this." you murmer, grabbing his hand and pressing a kiss to his palm. he sighs, the heat in his cheeks spreading down his neck at the sight of you. you weren't lying, either. golden hour had just started a few minutes ago, and the cool toned yellows and oranges only highlighted the angle of his jaw even more. it turned the blond hair that you were so find of running your hands through into tresses of gold.
"want to stay for a bit more then get out of here?" you suggest after pulling back. "i know you've got to head to school tommorrow to set up the classroom some, wouldnt want you to miss out on the opportunity to get a headstart at being the cool teacher."
ryland smiles warmly at you, grabbing your hand and tugging softly. "sure."
he scoots over in the sand some, saddling his torso up to yours even more. you waste no time leaning your head in the crook of his neck, the both of you watching as small waves clashed against each other along the shore. it was a familair motion, like two puzzle pieces snapping together at last. a feeling that the two of you were more than acquainted with by now.
• of course, the microbiologist doesnt just like to sit and talk. he also enjoys getting out there and splashing around a bit! he works with middle schoolers after all— ryland's no slack when it comes to playing outside, even at his age. besides, he'd be a fool not to take an opertunity to sneak glances at you in your swim shorts and t-shirt. upon noticing you doing the same, (albeit more obviously, and with a cheeky grin) he likes to blame his red face on the sun.
• and speaking of the sun, ryland likes to make a habit of covering you in sunscreen before laying down the towels. as a scientist, he knows all too well the side effects that UV rays can have on humans, and when it comes to you he's taking no chances. somehow that turns into a game too— seeing who can guess the patterns drawn on each other's back with sunscreen. never a dull moment between the two of you.
𝐃𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐞𝐫
• find an empty strip of the beach, and the two of you will be driving along that thing for hours.
• driver postively loves the thrill of speading down the sand with the windows down, salty seabreeze whipping his hair around as you stick a hand out the window and smile. he gets to combine the adernaline of putting the pedal to the metal while having you along for the ride— the perfect afternoon, in his eyes. and it doesnt won't even matter if you get sand in the car. he probably stole it anyways.
• he won't do anything too dangerous if the sand is loose, but on the off chance that it has enough traction, you can get him to do some doughnuts.
• while he's not much for swimming himself, driver will lean against the car with a towel for as long as you want. he's always been more of an observer in the grand scheme of things, and that extends to you. especially you. if that just so happens to mean watching from afar as you dissapear amongst the waves, cracking a slight smile every time you attempt to coax him into the water, then so be it.
• kissing each other on the beach for hours??? yes please. we all know driver is a sucker for taking his time with you, and that extends to the top of a sand dune on the beach, the two of you gazing at the night sky and sharing soft kisses inbetween. its the quiet moments with you that he lives for. its a stark contrast to the action in his line of work. a small paradise in the shape of, well, you.
driver is silent. that doesn't come as a surprise to you— when was he not? it was one of the things that had drawn you to him at first.. with the embroidered jacket and hard set stare of his, you had expected him to be bold. outspoken. maybe even a bit brash (which was the case, just not in the way you'd originally thought). instead, you had been pleasantly surprised by his habit to listen, rather than talk. not many people have that quality nowadays, and its like a breath of fresh air.
"nice swim shorts." you're teasing him again and he knows it. it's impressive, really, how you manage to banter with him like that while practically sopping wet and dripping onto the sand below. even more impressive that you look that good doing it.
drivers lips twitch slightly as you toss a faux judgemental glace at his jeans. alright, half-faux. some part of you was wondering why he chose to wear jeans again.. they were always so hard to clean the sand off of, if the small pile of sand by his apartment door was anything to go by. he always managed to track a little home.
"you really should let me pick out a swimsuit for you. i think that would be fun." you smile as you talk, already imagining the possibilities. would he let you get something patterened? striped? maybe somewhere out there a pair of scorpion embroidered swin shorts sat just waiting to be put on. yeah, he'd like that. it would match his jacket and everything.
driver simply admires you while you ponder aloud, eventually moving on from swimwear to what the rest of the night could hold. he waits as you cycle through a mental list, ("a dinner at that nice place that stays open late, walking on the beach, heading down to the pier, although that may be closed by now.. really whatever you want—") handing you a beach towel in the meanwhile. you don't even pause, voice growing slightly muffled as you run it through your hair. you're positively oblivious to the intensity of his stare.
the moonlight softens your features, showcasing the smattering of goosebumps along your skin. driver had known that it was too late in the year to go nightswimming comfortably, but you'd waved him off earlier, claiming that a little bit of cold never hurt anyone. he resists the urge to drape his jacket over your shoulders— you'd only fret about ruining it. best to get you dry and out of the night instead.
"how about we go for a drive." he finally offers, gently pulling you in by your hips. you were only halfway done drying off, but driver doesnt seem to mind getting a little damp as long as youre the one pressed up against him. if anything, he takes pride in the excited laugh that bubbles from your throat at his move.
"at this point i'm not sure why we come here for anything else." the skin around your nose scrunches up as you grin. "come on then. let me towel off some more and then we can get going."
you attempt to take a step back, but his grip is unyielding. not harsh, nor bruising, just firm. sure of himself, almost.
"i don't mind if the seat gets wet." he whispers, breath light against the shell of your ear as he leans towards you. his fingers are ghosting along the skin of your hips, tracing small circles and.. a heart or two, you think. it's hard to tell if you were making that one up or not.
you squint at him suspiciously.
"...and may i ask where exactly we're going on this drive?"
driver doesnt say much, but with that coy smile of his, he doesn't have to. "just somewhere quiet. beautiful. dark."
you feel a heat rapidly spreading from your neck to the tops of your ears, as well as a few other places. it seems like driver notices as well, the small twitch of his lips turning into a full blown smile. a rare ocassion, and you'd be damned to not take advantage of it.
placing a quick peck to his pink lips, you're suddenly bounding over to the passengers side of the car as if he would change his mind before you got there. driver twirls the car keys in his hand as you do so, already thrumming with anticipation. he wonders if you feel the same way.
"well? we getting out of here or what?" you're the one grinning at him now, eyes brimming with an emotion hes seen on you a hundred times. it never gets old.
with a quick click to the key fob, the doors unlock, and you allow him to whisk you away once more.
☾ ⋆➜ Snuggled between Ryland's legs and he's careening his head onto your shoulder, looking down at what you're doing and making small comments, jokes or teases. His hot breath is against the your neck.
☾ ⋆➜ Perched in Holland's lap and he's got his arm wrapped around your waist. He's got a cigarette in his mouth, keeps him from kissing your neck 24/7. Not his fault you take it away from him and dive for a hungry kiss.
☾ ⋆➜ Sitting next to Lars at church and your thighs are kissing from your proximity. His eyes keep looking at your hand in your lap, his fingers twitching. He wants nothing more than to grab, but he's not sure how.
☾ ⋆➜ Sitting in the bed of Colt's truck, looking out at the desert night sky. Your legs are tangled under a thin blanket, all that's really needed as you're curled next to him as he boasts about the stunt he nailed today.
☾ ⋆➜ Straddling Driver in his car after climbing over the middle console. Your back is digging into the steering wheel, his gloved hands under your shirt and pressing into your skin so heatedly, like you're all he needs.
☾ ⋆➜ The neon signs of the city bleed into the slick pavement. K's not holding you, but his presense is solid beside you until he shifts to reach out, catching a raindrop on his fingertip as it trailed down your cheek, fingers trembling.
☾ ⋆➜ Court's body is a tense line of muscles sheilding you from the dangers of the outside world. One hand is braced beside your head while the other is on your hip, a silent, grounding pressure in the suffocating quiet.
☾ ⋆➜ Sitting on a porch swing with Noah as the twilight settles, the humid air thick with the scent of foliage. His arm is draped along the back of the swing, fingers just barely grazing your shoulder, a teasing invitation.
OKAY, RECEIVED. ( PART 2 )— RYLAND GRACE x Male!READER
SUMMARY: Distance means nothing to the destined and the damned.
# # TAGS: Epistolary, Transcripts, Single Dad!Reader, Doctor!Reader, Teacher!Ryland Grace, Miscommunication, You've Got Mail Type Beat, Petrova Taskforce
## WARNINGS: No Beta, Formatting this was a Nightmare. This fic contains a lot of media, but don’t worry as alt text is available. I find that it's quite difficult to read this in light mode, so dark mode is recommended. Edits made by me, images sourced from Pinterest. Basically I've just fucking lost it. Enjoy.
There is no specification of the reader’s height nor form but there is specification of his handwriting. Please Pretend That You Write Like That.
PETROVA TASKFORCE
ARCHIVAL TRANSCRIPT
TRANSCRIPT ID: COMM-LOG-INT-88
FREQUENCY: CH-09 (INTERNAL SECURITY / MEDICAL RELAY)
DATE: ▇▇, ▇▇ / 20:15 UTC
[ AUDIO START. ]
[20:15:02] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Watch-Command, this is Attending Physician, Unit B. Metabolic panels for Sector 4 are complete. Requesting clearance to log off the active medical net for the evening. Over.
[20:15:15] WATCH-COMMAND (MILLER):
Copy that, Doctor. Metabolic logs received by central grid. Clearance granted at 20:15 hours. Secure your handset and switch to standby status. Over.
[20:15:17] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
[ AUDIO FEEDBACK. ]
This thing on? Over.
[20:15:19] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Birdie, what did I tell you about using the tactical frequencies? Switch to the house channel. Over.
[20:15:22] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
House channel is very quiet and no one responds to me. Over.
[ SILENCE. ]
[ FAINT CHATTER. ]
[20:16:02] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I’m bored. Over.
[20:16:05] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Young lady.
[20:16:08] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
What’s for dinner? Over.
[20:16:13] WATCH-COMMAND (MILLER):
Hab-Deck-B, be advised this frequency is reserved for operational data and emergency triage. Clear the net. Over.
[20:16:20] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Hi, Miller.
[20:16:23] WATCH-COMMAND (MILLER):
Hi, Miss Birdie.
[20:16:30] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Apologies, Command. The civilian asset will be contained. Heading to quarters now. Unit B, actual, out.
[ AUDIO START. ]
[20:17:05] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Okay, I'm on twelve.
Birdie, do you copy?
[20:17:11] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Loud and clear!
[20:17:16] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
What are you botherin’
us for.
[20:17:22] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Nothing. Just wanted
to chat.
[20:17:27] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Okay.
[ PAPERS SHUFFLING. ]
What do you wanna
chat about?
[20:17:35] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I dunno. What did you
do today?
[20:17:41] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Lotta tough work. We’re doing as many trials as we can, putting folks to sleep.
'Course the issue isn't actually getting them to sleep. We can throw a dozen different sedatives into the line and knock a subject out in under two minutes. The real problem's the metabolic maintenance.
[20:17:54] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Medically-induced comas are so fascinating.
[20:18:04] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Yeah. It's like a pause button. They could close their eyes in your lab, sleep for four years, and when they wake up, it'll feel like only hours have passed. You're like -- removing them from time.
Super cool.
[20:18:08] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Other twelve-year-old kids don’t usually think so.
[20:18:13] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
They’re missing out.
Oh, hey! I got so much mail today! Everyone wrote me back and I got a bunch of gifts!
[20:18:25] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
[ BACKGROUND CHATTER. ]
Run the analysis again.
Thank you, Doctor.
What sorta gifts?
[20:18:34] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
It’s so funny.
I have six winter hats now.
They're all from my friends.
[20:18:43] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Winter hats?
[20:18:47] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Yeah, they think I’m in Antarctica, remember?
[20:18:52] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
Oh, yeah.
[20:18:56] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I love them all.
I might as well wear them around the facility. They’re pretty cute.
[20:19:07] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
That’s nice.
You got a favorite?
[20:19:12] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
Yeah, there's this fox one. Wraps around my ears.
I got a ton of
stickers, too.
Olivia gave me fifty
sheets.
[20:19:24] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
That’s too many stickers.
[20:19:28] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
No such thing!
[ STATIC. ]
[ SILENCE. ]
[20:19:50] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I miss them. Over.
[ STATIC. ]
[ SILENCE. ]
[20:20:12] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
I know, baby.
[20:20:18] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
[ SIGH. ]
[20:20:23] MED-UNIT-B (DR. ▇▇▇ ):
I wish things
were different. Over.
[20:20:30] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I don’t.
Don't ask me to go
back again.
[20:20:36] HAB-DECK-B (BIRDIE):
I’m okay as long as
you’re here. Over.
[ AUDIO END. ]
PETROVA TASKFORCE
ARCHIVAL TRANSCRIPT
TRANSCRIPT ID: COMM-LOG-INT-88
DATE: ▇▇, ▇▇ / 20:45 UTC
[02:45:01] [ AUDIO START. ]
[02:45:04] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _This is Dr. ▇▇▇, Attending Physician and Lead Coordinator for the Comagenesis Division, Petrova Taskforce. Recording audio log from Auxiliary Lab Four, Observation Suite B.
>> _I am accompanied on deck by senior research leads Dr. Annalise Bautista and Dr. Ethan Jackson.
>> _The time is... 0245 hours.
[02:45:32] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _We are currently observing Subject 0-42, cleared for Trial Phase 3-B at approximately 1800 hours yesterday following a titrated intravenous infusion of the revised neuro-suppressive cocktail.
>> _Current physiological vitals are stable, but highly volatile.
>> _Core body temperature is holding at thirty-four point two degrees Celsius. Heart rate is suppressed to twenty-eight beats per minute.
[02:45:58] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> [ DISTANCE VOICE, SLIGHTLY MUFFLED. ]
>> _I'm seeing a minor spike in baseline levels. Cortical micro-arousals are beginning to register in the occipital lobe on Monitor 2.
[02:46:09] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Copy that. Increase the paralytic drip by zero point five milligrams per hour. Let's keep the receptors dark before the twitching triggers a full cycle.
[02:46:21] DR. JACKSON:
>> [ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
>> _Adjusting the line now.
>> [ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
[02:46:35] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Think this one'll work?
[02:46:39] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Too early to tell. Cross your fingers.
[ SILENCE. ]
[ FAINT SHUFFLING. ]
[02:46:58] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Hey, what do you guys think about Stratt?
[02:47:04] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> [ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
>> _What about Stratt?
[02:47:08] DR. JACKSON:
>> _I don’t know. Just - -
>> _Stratt.
[02:47:13] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Like, a general idea?
[02:47:16] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Yeah, something like that.
[02:47:20] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _I’m not sure.
>> _She’s very severe, I guess. In a good way. She gets things done regardless of how crazy it may seem.
[02:47:31] DR. JACKSON:
>> _She feels a little disorganized to me.
[02:47:35] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Disorganized?
[02:47:38] DR. JACKSON:
>> _I mean look at us --
>> _We’re synthesizing coma technology for astronauts she hasn’t even recruited yet.
>> _And even when she does recruit them, the probe’s not set to come back for another month. We don’t know what’s dimming the sun.
>> _Is that her next plan? To send astronauts to the sun?
[02:47:58] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _You think that’s disorganized?
>> _She’s literally thinking twenty steps ahead. I don’t know what you mean. Even if we don’t have the data on the sun yet, we can still try to look for other solutions out there in space.
[02:48:12] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Out there in space?
[02:48:15] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _I don’t know. I’m not an astrophysicist.
[02:48:19] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _I have an audio log running, I don’t think now’s the best time to gossip.
[02:48:25] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Just edit it out later.
>> _What about you, ▇▇▇?
>> _What do you think about Stratt?
[ STATIC. ]
[ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
[ SILENCE. ]
[02:48:45] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Subject status?
[02:48:48] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Subject is stable.
[02:48:51] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Nothing’s going to get in Stratt’s way.
>> _Good for humanity. Bad for the people around her.
[02:49:01] DR. JACKSON:
>> _How’d you get saddled into all of this, anyway?
>> _I hear you took some convincing.
[02:49:08] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> [ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
>> _The convincing is downstairs in the mess hall eating ice cream.
[02:49:15] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Wait, that’s your kid?
[02:49:18] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Geez, Ethan. ‘You been living under a rock?
[02:49:22] DR. JACKSON:
>> _I don’t ask questions, alright?
>> _I see a girl running around the facility I think it’s one of the senators’.
>> _I didn’t know ▇▇▇ had a kid.
[02:49:31] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Now you do.
>> _Status?
[02:49:35] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> [ KEYBOARD TYPING. ]
>> _Ah, shit.
>> _Encephalogram is smoothing out but the delta wave amplitude is still dragging. It’s not locking into the hibernation state we need.
[02:49:48] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> [ LONG EXHALE. ]
[ SILENCE. ]
[ STATIC. ]
[02:50:02] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _As the logs will corroborate across the past three cycles, the data suggests that while we can successfully induce a prolonged, deep comatose state without immediate cellular degradation, the threshold between true metabolic stasis and irreversible brain death remains narrow.
>> _We are trying to perfect a chemical suspension that can keep human beings alive, asleep, and entirely unmonitored for years in a deep-space environment.
>> _To be entirely frank for the record... the trials have a long way to go.
>> _That’s it for Phase 3-B. In the meantime, we will reconvene.
[02:50:41] DR. JACKSON:
>> _You guys wanna go out for lunch?
[02:50:45] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Very funny.
[02:50:48] DR. JACKSON:
>> _What? This great new place just opened. I think it’s called the West Side of the Facility?
[02:50:55] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Do you have a single serious bone in your body?
[02:51:00] DR. JACKSON:
>> _You? ▇▇▇? C’mon, let’s get drinks.
[02:51:04] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Can’t.
>> _I’m the division’s representative for tonight’s plenum.
[02:51:10] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _I have literally never seen you outside of work.
[02:51:14] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Which makes me a good representative?
[02:51:18] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Which means you probably have five minutes before you drop dead.
[02:51:23] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _That’s funny, Anne.
[02:51:26] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _I got news from that plenum you’re going to attend, though.
[02:51:30] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> [ SHUFFLING. ]
>> [ FAINT THUD. ]
>> [ PAPERS RUSTLING. ]
>> _There is a difference between news and gossip.
[02:51:39] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Oh, c'mon.
>> _All I was going to say is I hear they’re recruiting more people. Making more divisions.
>> _They’re looking into microbiologists.
[02:51:50] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> [ FAINT LAUGH. ]
>> _I matched with a microbiologist once. On a dating app.
[02:51:56] DR. JACKSON:
>> _You’re on dating apps?
[02:52:00] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Was. Alright? It was a while ago.
[02:52:04] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _And? Then what?
[02:52:07] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _What do you mean, then what?
>> _Then I got shipped to the pacific and made to do all this work.
>> _I don’t talk to him anymore. I wish I still did.
[02:52:19] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _Maybe you’ll meet a new one on the Taskforce.
[02:52:23] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> _Right.
[02:52:25] DR. BAUTISTA:
>> _No, c’mon. Maybe you will.
>> _I mean just this morning I saw a printout in the office.
>> _I think they’re planning to recruit this guy named Ryland Grace?
[02:52:38] DR. ▇▇▇:
>> [ OBJECTS CLATTERING TO FLOOR. ]
[02:52:41] DR. JACKSON:
>> _Dude.
[02:52:45] [ AUDIO END. ]
ⓘ The preceding transcripts were recovered from the central USS Kilauea auxiliary comms unit. The names of particular dependencies have been redacted in compliance with the International Non-Disclosure Act regarding the Petrova Event.
SUMMARY: A night-shift doctor and a microbiologist are matched on a dating app not knowing their lives are already intertwined.
# # TAGS: Chatfic, Epistolary, Emails, Text Messages, Transcripts, Single Dad!Reader, ER Doctor!Reader, Teacher!Ryland Grace, Miscommunication, You've Got Mail Type Beat, Romcom-ish, Marissa is Mentioned
## WARNINGS: Minor Suggestive Themes, Canon-Typical Dread, No Beta The Formatting Was Driving Me Nuts, Please Pretend You Like Batman If You Didn't Already
NOTES: I had an insane amount of fun writing this. I ADORE EPISTOLARIES. Don't you just love media that makes you feel like you're in other people's business? No background is specified as to why the reader is a single father. The reader's daughter is unnamed, but nicknamed 'Birdie'. No use of Y/N, no specification of reader's height nor form. 3.k words.
Thursday, 8:54 PM
PetriParker:
Hello
Sorry, I'm a bit confused
I was scrolling, then this chat box popped up
B4tman_26:
I think it's because we 'matched'.
PetriParker:
Ohh
How does one 'match'?
B4tman_26:
From my understanding, you swiped on my profile and I swiped on yours.
Saw something we both liked, apparently.
PetriParker:
Ohh
B4tman_26:
Yes.
PetriParker:
Sorry
I make it obvious that I don't use these apps, don't I?
B4tman_26:
That's alright.
I don't use them either.
PetriParker:
My friend Marissa set this up for me
B4tman_26:
Does she also think you need to be 'putting yourself out there' more?
PetriParker:
Haha. Exactly!
B4tman_26:
My daughter feels the same.
PetriParker:
Oh, you have a daughter
B4tman_26:
Yes, I thought I'd get that out of the way.
Wouldn't want any surprises.
PetriParker:
Haha, yeah.
Thursday, 10:42 PM
[ PetriParker is typing... ]
PetriParker:
So, Batman?
B4tman_26:
Yes?
Are you a fan?
PetriParker:
Hmm
No, he's okay
I'm not really into DC
B4tman_26:
I thought so, Petri Parker.
PetriParker:
Haha. Clever, right?
B4tman_26:
Petri, as in petri dishes?
You work in a lab?
PetriParker:
Yes
Well, I did, but not anymore
I'm a microbiologist
B4tman_26:
Impressive.
PetriParker:
And you?
What do you do?
B4tman_26:
I'm an ER doctor. I work the night shift.
PetriParker:
Woah. Very cool
And intense
Ohh
Batman, because you work nights
B4tman_26:
You got it.
PetriParker:
Haha. I like that
I'm actually a bit surprised that you matched with me. I didn't think anyone would be interested because I don't have a picture of myself on my profile
B4tman_26:
I don't have a picture on mine, either.
And I thought me having a daughter would throw you off.
Yet here we are.
PetriParker:
Yet here we are
B4tman_26:
Why'd you swipe?
PetriParker:
Well, I didn't see your face
But one of your pictures was the best-looking casserole I have ever seen in my entire life
B4tman_26:
Are you a homecook yourself?
PetriParker:
The opposite, really
I kinda suck
But I'm willing to learn
Why'd you swipe on me?
B4tman_26:
The beach in one of your photos looked familiar.
PetriParker:
Woah. Really?
B4tman_26:
Really.
It looked like Baker Beach.
PetriParker:
No way!
It is!
B4tman_26:
Baker Beach in Cali?
PetriParker:
Yes!
B4tman_26:
Small world.
PetriParker:
Are you from the Bay Area?
B4tman_26:
Around there, yeah.
PetriParker:
Veeeryy small world.
Friday, 5:42 AM
New message from: Birdie 🪶
Birdie 🪶:
warmest greetings, father
You:
Morning, sweetheart.
You're up early.
Something on fire?
Birdie 🪶:
no we're all good for now
i just wanted to ask you if you could pick up some eggs before you get home
You:
We're out already?
Birdie 🪶:
yes i was baking last night
You:
What'd you make?
Birdie 🪶:
just some cupcakes
oh and pls don't forget that you have that PTA meeting today
You:
Ugh.
Birdie 🪶:
YOU HAVE TO GO
you've missed so many of those already
and mr. grace wants to talk to you
You:
Why? You're in trouble?
Birdie 🪶:
no im not!
he just wants to talk to you so he can tell u how much of a cool and intelligent student i am
also because i was recruited into the academic decathlon team. i'm representing the science department
You:
Holy moly, really?
That's freakin awesome.
I'm so proud of you!
Birdie 🪶:
thank you please refrain from saying holy moly
or freakin
You:
Which one's the teacher that needs to talk to me?
Birdie 🪶:
mr. grace
he's the science teacher
he has to talk to you because of permission slips and stuff like that i think
You:
Which teacher is that again?
Birdie 🪶:
the one with the glasses
You:
Not ringing any bells.
Plenty of your teachers have glasses
Birdie 🪶:
uhhh
OH OH
remember like, two months ago
during the bake sale
he tripped over some boxes and stuff and you caught him in your arms and the whole school was talking about it for weeks?
You:
Oh
That Mr. Grace
Birdie 🪶:
yes
You:
He's kinda cute, isn't he?
Birdie 🪶:
WHATTTT
You:
I'm just teasing.
I won't miss the PTA.
Love you, Bird. Be home in an hour.
Birdie 🪶:
love you too
don't forget eggs!
WAIT DAD
DAD
DAD
DAD
You:
What happened??
Birdie 🪶:
did you get any luck from that dating app i set up for you
You:
Young lady, that is classified information.
Birdie 🪶:
what the heck!!
i have the right to know
i am your daughter also i made the account
You:
I matched with a guy named Nunya.
Birdie 🪶:
real mature
You:
Nunya business.
Birdie 🪶:
that's not how the joke works. i have to ask you who nunya is then you say nunya business but otherwise the joke DOESN'T work and you are just lame
You:
It's genuinely too early for this.
Go away.
Birdie 🪶:
DONT FORGET THE EGGS
Friday, 6:32 PM
Contact added: Mr. Grace
You:
Good evening, Mr. Grace.
Sorry about the whole fiasco earlier.
Mr. Grace:
Hi, good evening!
I'm glad my number works, haha
Oh, don't mention it
It's totally fine. It wasn't yours or your daughter's fault at all
Parents can be quite competitive when it comes to their kids
You:
You can say that again.
Mr. Grace:
Either way, nothing they could've argued was going to make me change my mind
Abby is a bright girl, but your daughter is an exceptional student
I can't think of anyone more fitting to represent the science department on the academic team
You:
Science has always been an interest of hers.
Mr. Grace:
I could tell
I appreciate you contacting me
It'll be easier for me to give you updates
The academic decathlon requires some time and training away from the school
You:
Of course. I don't mind.
I trust you, Mr. Grace.
Mr. Grace:
I'm glad to hear it
You:
Still stuck in the PTA?
Mr. Grace:
Oh, yes. I'll be here all night
You:
All night? I thought the meeting ended at 6.
Mr. Grace:
It should
But some parents tend to show up still
And if you're not available, they will be very angry at you
You:
How unfair.
Mr. Grace:
It is
And above my pay grade
But at the end of the day, they just care about their kids
At least they want to show up, you know? It's worse the other way around
You:
That's nice of you, Mr. Grace
Mr. Grace:
I should get going
I hope you get some rest yourself
I'm glad we were able to speak today
You:
The pleasure's mine.
Though I did have a few more questions about the training routine.
Mr. Grace:
Oh! By all means, please ask me anything
You:
I was hoping to ask you in person.
My hands are a little too full for texting at the moment.
Would you mind if I stopped by tomorrow afternoon again?
I'll be there to pick my daughter up.
[ typing... ]
Mr. Grace:
Yes, of course!
Nno problem at all
Come by anytime
You know where to find me
I mean, you don't
But I'll be in the faculty
You:
Alright.
Do you drink coffee?
Mr. Grace:
I like
[ typing... ]
I like caramel macchiatos
You:
That's cute.
ⓘ Not Delivered.
Have a good night, Mr. Grace
Mr. Grace:
Good night
Saturday, 7:32 PM
PetriParker:
What's for dinner?
B4tman_26:
Nothing special. Orange chicken.
PetriParker:
Oh wow
That looks really good
If that's nothing special I can't imagine what you'd cook for an occasion
B4tman_26:
And you?
Dinner?
PetriParker:
I spend an evening of champions
Noodles and night time telenovelas
B4tman_26:
Sounds like my kinda’ night.
PetriParker:
Speaking of night, are you heading off to work?
Gotham isn't going to save itself
B4tman_26:
You're one to talk, Spider-man.
But yes. I'm heading off soon.
I eat dinner with my daughter before I start my shifts.
PetriParker:
That's nice
B4tman_26:
How was your day?
PetriParker:
Oh boy
Are we at the ‘how was your day’ part?
B4tman_26:
Awful, isn’t it?
I bet you've got a whole roster of guys asking you how your day was.
I, a mere fish in your sea.
PetriParker:
Hey, I wouldn't say ‘roster’
You make it sound like I've got them coming left and right
That sounds wrong
B4tman_26:
So you have been talking to other men?
I thought I was special.
PetriParker:
Har-har. Very funny
This is a dating app, after all
B4tman_26:
You're right. Fair enough.
That said, I've only had time for you.
PetriParker:
I bet you say that to all the other guys
B4tman_26:
I mean it. I'm a busy man.
How was your day?
Saturday, 7:40 PM
New message from: RYLAND
RYLAND:
I think I have a type
MARISSA:
Which is a miracle in and of itself
I'm guessing the dating profile's working out alright?
RYLAND:
Yes
I mean I get one or two matches a night, but there's this one guy
MARISSA:
Send me a picture before you say anything else
RYLAND:
He doesn't have a picture on his profile
MARISSA:
What
Rookie mistake, Ry
He probably works at a gas station
RYLAND:
No he doesn't!
Also I don't have a picture on my profile either, so we're even
MARISSA:
Then are you here to tell me that your type in guys are the ones you can't see
RYLAND:
No
Worse
[ typing... ]
I think I'm into single dads
MARISSA:
Oh my GOD Ryland
I mean I knew you had issues but
???
RYLAND:
Okay, listen
I worded it wrong
I don't like dads
I think I just like that they're responsible?
MARISSA:
So you've been on that app looking for dads ??
RYLAND:
No!
No it just so happens that the guy I matched with is a dad
And
I might be crushing on my kid's dad
MARISSA:
You're hopeless, Grace
You've got TWO?
Had fun at the PTA, did you??
RYLAND:
Hey it's not like I'm two-timing!
The other one's just a crush
MARISSA:
Jesus christ
We're in our 30s
We don't CRUSH on people anymore
Make a move for god's sake
If he likes you, he likes you
If he doesn't, NEXT
RYLAND:
I will NOT make a move on my student's father. That poor girl
But I have been flirting with the online guy if it's of any comfort
MARISSA:
It's not
But hey, at least you're out there
Tell me how it goes
RYLAND:
Oh god
MARISSA:
What
RYLAND:
I just realized something
Is this one of those apps where guys chat and eventually hook up?
MARISSA:
That's how a lot of dating sites go, but it's not always the case
You scared he's gonna book you a hotel?
RYLAND:
I just
Hadn't thought of it till now
MARISSA:
Relax, Ry
He can't make you do anything you don't want to do
Now that I'm thinking about it, it's a good thing you didn't put your picture on there
Just have your fun, yeah? That's the beauty of being anonymous on the internet
Saturday, 11:21 PM
PetriParker:
Can I ask you something?
B4tman_26:
Still awake?
PetriParker:
Yes
Oh, sorry
I forget you're on the clock
B4tman_26:
It's okay, I can talk.
What were you going to ask me?
PetriParker:
It's about your work, actually
What sort of doctor are you?
I mean I know you're an ER doctor, but do you take specific cases?
B4tman_26:
You don't really get to choose which cases to take when you're in emergency med.
My job's to get people stable.
I specialize in whatever comes my way.
Why? Need a diagnosis?
PetriParker:
No, just curious
B4tman_26:
Got it.
You're simply in an asking mood.
PetriParker:
It's for the Daily Bugle
B4tman_26:
What about you?
PetriParker:
Me?
B4tman_26:
Yeah, Mr. Microbiologist.
What's your specialization?
PetriParker:
Molecular Biology.
But right now I'm a teacher.
B4tman_26:
Like, a professor?
PetriParker:
No, I teach middle school.
B4tman_26:
Huh.
PetriParker:
What?
B4tman_26:
Nothing
I just
[ ... ]
What are you doing teaching kids with a degree in molecular biology?
PetriParker:
Felt like a higher calling, I guess
B4tman_26:
I see.
Saturday, 11:30 PM
New message from: RYLAND
RYLAND:
Is it unattractive to be a middle school teacher???
MARISSA:
What??
RYLAND:
Is that a thing that throws guys off??
MARISSA:
Maybe you got him imagining Miss Frizzle
Did you tell him you're a teacher?
RYLAND:
Yes! But I also told him I have a degree in molecular biology!
Shouldn't that cancel out??
MARISSA:
Heck if I know, man
OH, tell him you have a doctorate. That'll get him back
RYLAND:
Should I?? I don't wanna sound like I'm bragging
What if he thinks I'm trying to one-up him as a doctor?
MARISSA:
You might be overthinking this
RYLAND:
Mayb
WAIT HE SENT ME SOMETHING
Sunday, 12:01 AM
B4tman_26:
PetriParker:
Looks quiet over there
B4tman_26:
Oh god.
Now you've done it.
PetriParker:
What?
B4tman_26:
Don't you know you're not supposed to say that in an ER? It's like saying Macbeth at a play.
You've jinxed it.
PetriParker:
I'm sorry!
B4tman_26:
It's on you, Parker.
You're gonna owe me if my night goes bad.
PetriParker:
Oh, gosh
What ever will I owe you, Mr. Wayne?
B4tman_26:
I'm yet to decide.
PetriParker:
Seriously though, I hope nothing goes wrong
I didn't mean to say that
B4tman_26:
I know.
Just wanted to scare you.
What are you up to this late?
PetriParker:
Paperwork
None of which are due
I just like to keep busy
B4tman_26:
Looks like we're both relatively occupied, then.
PetriParker:
Relatively
Hey, you like Batman, right?
Do you also like Superman?
B4tman_26:
He's alright.
PetriParker:
He's alright, he says, in true Batman fashion
B4tman_26:
Batman fans are not famously Superman fans.
PetriParker:
What would you say is your 'kryptonite'?
B4tman_26:
Getting shot.
PetriParker:
Huh???
B4tman_26:
Kryptonite is the thing that kills Superman, right?
I don't respond particularly well to bullets.
PetriParker:
No, it's his weakness!
B4tman_26:
Okay well my weakness is getting shot.
PetriParker:
Quit it! You're teasing me
B4tman_26:
What's your weakness, then?
PetriParker:
Dads, apparently
ⓘ Message Not Sent.
I dunno! I'm weak to a good jelly donut
B4tman_26:
Lame answer.
PetriParker:
How is that lamer than getting shot!
B4tman_26:
What is the context of this 'weakness'?
Like, is it a physical weakness? A mental weakness?
PetriParker:
I don't know
Maybe like
Things that you like in people? Things that'll have you wrapped around someone's finger?
B4tman_26:
Why didn't you just say that?
Okay, I'll give you a real answer.
Glasses.
PetriParker:
Are
Are you serious
B4tman_26:
Yeah. Guys with glasses.
Super cute.
PetriParker:
Hahaha
B4tman_26:
You?
PetriParker:
Guys who like Batman...
B4tman_26:
Do I have news for you.
Sunday, 1:34 AM
PetriParker:
Hey
B4tman_26:
Still awake?
PetriParker:
Sorry
Are you busy?
B4tman_26:
No. But you should be asleep.
PetriParker:
I can't sleep
No school tomorrow, anyway
B4tman_26:
I'll keep you company, then.
PetriParker:
My hero.
[ ... ]
You know about the Petrova Problem, right?
B4tman_26:
Pretty sure everyone does.
Why?
PetriParker:
I don't know
I'm just thinking about it tonight
B4tman_26:
Is it making you anxious?
PetriParker:
I think it makes everyone anxious
Still, does it ever feel weird that the world is just
moving on?
I mean, the apocalypse was announced and everyone's just going about their days
B4tman_26:
I know what you mean.
The danger isn't imminent, so people aren't losing their heads I suppose.
Everyone trusts that a solution will appear.
PetriParker:
Do you?
B4tman_26:
Trust in a solution?
Yes. I have to.
One way or another, it'll turn up.
PetriParker:
Faith in humanity and all that?
B4tman_26:
Yeah.
Exactly.
ⓘ The preceding transcripts were recovered from the central USS Kilauea auxiliary comms unit. The names of particular dependencies have been redacted in compliance with the International Non-Disclosure Act regarding the Petrova Event.
Your professional experience and prior research history have been identified as relevant to an ongoing international initiative.
Our records indicate your participation in multiple research programs concerning human physiological resilience, including co-authorship on NASA-affiliated studies. Specifically, your contributions to the publication “Effects of Prolonged Circadian Misalignment on Cognition in Simulated Spaceflight Conditions” and supporting data analysis for simulated isolation environments (HAB-3 Cognitive Retention Trial) demonstrate direct relevance to current mission-critical human performance modeling.
Additional involvement is noted in data collection for the ▇▇▇▇ Habitat Study on sleep fragmentation and cognitive task retention. In light of recent developments, these experiences warrant further evaluation.
You are requested to attend a consultation with representatives of the Petrova Taskforce.
Date: ▇▇▇▇
Time: ▇▇▇
Location: ▇▇▇▇
Transportation arrangements will be provided upon confirmation of attendance.
Please note that details regarding the nature of this consultation cannot be disclosed through unsecured communication. A representative will contact you directly within twelve hours.
0:07⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Hello, Eva Stratt. No, I am not interested in selling my property at the moment. I keep telling my daughter to unlist our number from your site but she keeps forgetting to do it. Kids these days, am I right?
0:11⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor.
0:11⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀And if you're not here to ask me to sell my property, then no, I am not interested in purchasing any of your products. Actually—unless you're selling washing machines. Mine just broke and I could use a new —
0:15⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor, I'm with the Petrova Taskforce.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I am not here to buy or sell you anything.
0:15⠀⠀[ SILENCE. ]
0:17⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Oh.
0:17⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You are a very difficult man to reach.
0:18⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I have a busy schedule.
0:18⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Not at the moment though, yes?
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You've just finished your shift.
0:20⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I don't like that you know that.
0:21⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Let me reintroduce myself.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀My name is Eva Stratt, I am the Head of the Petrova Taskforce and I am calling you regarding a certain offer you've declined.
0:25⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀If you already know I've declined, why are you calling?
0:26⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I thought I might try to convince you.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Change your mind.
0:28⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ BACKGROUND NOISE.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀SCREEN DOOR OPENING,
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀DOGS BARKING IN THE DISTANCE. ]
0:30⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor?
0:32⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Look, I've had this conversation before.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I've already spoken to one of your representatives. I attended the briefing, I read the files.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I am not interested, Miss Stratt.
0:36⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I must confess something to you.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I didn't call to change your mind.
0:38⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ LAUGHTER. ]
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀No?
0:39⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀No.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I called to help you understand the urgency of the situation; and why what will be done, must be done.
0:41⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Birdie.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Get down from there —
0:42⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Your offer is no longer an offer and is now a mandate.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀It is crucial that you comply.
0:44⠀⠀[ FEMALE VOICE IN
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀THE BACKGROUND.]
0:45⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I don't care if it's almost fixed.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀We'll call the cable guy. Get off the roof.
0:46⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ SIGH. ]
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Doctor?
0:50⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Sorry — yes, I'm here.
0:51⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Is that your daughter?
0:55⠀⠀[ SHUFFLING. ]
0:56⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Yes.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Get inside.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I know, baby. I'll make breakfast. I'm just taking a call, alright? What do you want? Pancakes? Okay. Head upstairs for a bit, get your things ready.
1:01⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Do you love your daughter, Dr. ▇▇?
1:02⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀What?
1:03⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Your daughter.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Do you love her?
1:04⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀What kind of question is that.
1:05⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You know what it is that we do.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You know what the Taskforce is for. You know what we're trying to resolve.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀To avoid.
1:07⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I do.
1:08⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Then you understand the urgency of the matter — why I cannot settle for your refusal.
1:00⠀⠀[ SILENCE. ]
1:13⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ SIGH. ]
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I can't be the only person qualified to do this.
1:14⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You're not.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You are among a team of ten physicians.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀All of whom will oversee medical protocol for astronaut training, including pharmacological management and physiological maintenance for long-duration transit.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀We need to make sure our astronauts can make the trip in comas. Your research covers a good portion of this. The way I see it, you have what we need to get started.
1:21⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀That's ten physicians.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I say no, you've got nine more to spare.
1:23⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀No. Redundancy exists for failure tolerance. I need an efficient team and I do not have time for setbacks.
1:30⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ STOVE TURNING ON. ]
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ BRIEF STATIC. ]
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ RADIO IN THE BACKGROUND. ]
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Well, I've got a problem, Miss Stratt.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Two, it seems.
1:34⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Do tell.
1:38⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The first one is I'm out of butter.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The second is that I am my daughter's only parent.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I do not have any immediate family that I can entrust her with. And I’m not leaving her with a rota schedule of babysitters while I disappear into Timbuktu.
1:41⠀⠀[ POTS AND PANS SHUFFLING. ]
1:56⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Joining the taskforce requires me to semi-permanently reside in the headquarters, correct?
1:58⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Correct.
1:59⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Which is, from my understanding, a government facility the middle of the ocean.
2:02⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀As a countermeasure, yes.
2:05⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Then I can't do it.
2:08⠀⠀[ SILENCE. ]
2:10⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀So we compromise.
2:10⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Miss Stratt—
2:11⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Option one: she remains in San Francisco under full state supervision, including education, housing, and guardianship provisions.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Option two: she accompanies you under taskforce protection and receives equivalent care within parameters.
2:21⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ LAUGHTER. ]
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀You've gotta' be kidding me.
2:22⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀I am not much for jokes.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Take the girl to the ship or leave her at home.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀She will live either way.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀The only circumstance where she will not is if you do nothing and aid in the end of the world.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Her world.
2:30⠀⠀[ SIZZLING. ]
2:31⠀⠀[ FEMALE VOICE IN
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀THE BACKGROUND: ]
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Dad, I can't find my shoe!
2:33⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Make a decision.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Or we will make one for you.
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Regardless of your choice, you are joining the Taskforce, Dr. ▇▇.
2:39⠀⠀▇▇▇▇:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀[ SHUFFLING. ]
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Did you check under the couch?
2:40⠀⠀STRATT:
⠀⠀⠀⠀⠀Expect to hear from me again in twelve hours.
Reader crying because Ryland's mii keeps rejecting your mii and Ryland panicking because what's wrong omg are you hurt what happened and you just tearily show him whats happening on your island and he just gets that soft little voice and goes "oh, baby, my mii is stupid" he'd laugh but not in a condescending way, never like that with you "the real me chooses you in every universe"
──➤ ♡ WARNINGS: RATED M. NSFW, MDNI, 18+. Sex, dirty talk, swearing.
──➤ ♡ Prompt: Telling them their cock is big.
──➤ ♡ Characters Included: Ryland Grace, Holland March, Lars Lindstrom, Colt Seavers, Driver.
──➤ ♡ Total Words: 3.4K.
You were tracing the line of Ryland’s jaw slowly, your thumb brushing against the stubble there as you leaned down from your position in his lap, the bouncing motion you had set becoming nothing more than a delicious grind as the scientist tossed his head back aimlessly against the pillow with a groan. The rhythmic motion between you faltered slightly as you whispered to him, playing your lips against his, “F-For a man who spends all his time looking into microscopes and studying molecular compositions y-you’re surprisingly… well endowed in other departments.”
God, you were dirty talking just in the right way to get Ryland to turn into a babbling mess, his eyes squeezing shut behind the almost foggy nature of his skewed glasses. You could feel him tense beneath you as you clamped your walls intentionally, grinding up before slowly coming down and resting in a seated position with a swivel of your hips. Heat rushed to his cheeks before you pulled back to see the faint blush spreading across his sharp face. Ryland’s Adam’s apple bobbed deliciously as he tried to lubricate his throat enough for a response, as if that was the only sensory issue here.
“W-well, st-statistically speaking,” You smirked at the sound of his voice being a little higher than usual as you set another deliberately sensuous pace. “H-Human male anatomy follows a no-normal distribution curve---!” Ryland nearly yelped at the sensation of your walls tightening around his hard cock, pressing into places he wanted to memorize. You can’t help but smile breathlessly as his hands come to rest on your hips, helping ease you into a more leveraged position, feeling the tangled entrapment of your thigh muscles spasming.
“T-technically, someone has-has to occupy the upper percentiles… It’s just…” He drew a deep breath in and fluttered his eyelids open to make eye contact with you when you swirled your hips once again, the friction almost too much for him to handle. “Probability, really.”
Ryland managed to growl out those last two words as his hands loosened enough to allow you to continue bouncing as you scientific compliment came rushing in and out of his brain, trying to cope as it mixed tediously with the pleasure running through his entire body. “B-but um…” He added, fingers digging into the fleshy skin that rested right above your hipbones and helped lead you into a better rhythm.
“T-thank you. I-I think?” He was not thinking, in fact. How was he supposed to when you were… Well, doing what you were doing?!
A gasp escaped your mouth as Ryland’s hips came to meet yours half way, the head of his cock pressing against the spongy part inside of you that made stars blister momentarily behind your eyes as you tossed your head back with a moan that sounded suspiciously like his name. “J-Just making an observation.”
“Yo-you’d be a great scientist.” The blonde man let out a shaky laugh, some of the tension leaving his shoulders as you captivated his gaze, hands daring enough now to come up along the scape of your curves to grasp your chest. “I-I suppose it’s one variable th-that’s working in my favor.”
“I think i-it’s working more in mine.” Your voice was nothing more than a low purr.
Something about that caused Ryland to snap, and within moments, your back was against the bed and he was perfectly slotted between your open legs, your feet tucking into the fleshier nature of his lower back. He guided himself, eyes locked between your bodies and watching the stretch his cock gave you. The analytical scientist gave way to the man who was clearly pleased by your compliment even if he didn't know quite how to handle it. You lifted your hips up slightly to give way to a different angle, the slow drag of Ryland’s cock against your inner walls making you both gasp as he sunk back into you to the hilt.
The room was nothing more than a hazy mess with cigarette smoke clinging to the open air and the dim glow of a single lamp on your lover’s bedside table. He was above you, his usually clumsy grace replaced by a focused intensity as he shoved your leg up, relishing in the sensation of your other wrapped lazily around his narrow waist. Holland’s hand grasped at the muscle of your calf, pulling you infinitely closer with each thrust of his hips, his breathing coming in ragged pants as his pink lips planted a heated, saliva stricken kiss to your leg.
You were completely lost in the sensation of his cock relentlessly pounding into you until you felt him shift, the mattress rippling as a new angle was introduced, the head of his shaft now hitting a spot that made you thrash your head back.
“Fuck, Holland!” You moaned, one of your hands coming to grasp at his wrist, fingernails digging slightly into the skin there. He hissed into the moan that left his smirked mouth. “R-right there.”
“You like that, baby?” He responded with a guttural sound, picking up the pace and driving into you with what felt like a renewed purpose. You were getting close, your entire body was shouting at you. The tension in your stomach, your leg tensing around his waist and urging him even closer, your walls tightening around him to the point where Holland had the feeling you were going to milk him for all he was worth. More than okay in his book. “O-Oh, you r-really like that.”
“G-God, you’re so deep.” You squeezed your eyes shut and chomped onto your bottom lip, but that was pointless as another groan tore through the air. Irrationality was winning, as it so often did in the throes of pleasure. “You’re so fucking big, Holland.”
The blonde above you seemed to catch for a moment at that, a slower reluctance being placed into his thrusts as his breath caught in the hollow of his throat in a sickeningly sensual way for your eyes to feast on. You can feel his cock twitch inside if you, he must have been replaying your words again and again as a stuttery laugh escaped his lips, his upper half careening down so he could place a messy kiss to your mouth.
“Jesus,” He murmured against your lips, tongue pressing against yours for a moment. “Y-You can’t just say…. Shit like that when I’m trying to concentrate.”
Holland let your leg go, instinct taking over and within moments, it joined your other around his slim hips, his forearms coming to trap you to the bed as his cock grinded into you. You moaned, “W-why not…? It’s true.”
His rhythm faltered the second you tightened around him intentionally, bringing your hips up to meet his before Holland found the willpower in himself to proceed. Deeper, harder this time. He needed you to cum on his cock. “B-because it makes me want to…” He trailed off, his words dissolving into nothingness as you clenched around him again.
“To what?” You teased despite your tone being incredibly breathless.
“T…To fuck you until you can’t walk straight.” Holland forced himself to finish a coherent statement, dark, pupil blow eyes meeting yours in a heated frenzy. “Make you feel every,” He deliberately grinded his cock as hard as he could inside of you, “Inch.” He did it again, the compliment clearly going to his head and there was now a set pace as Holland was determined to prove your words right, over and over again.
Lars was always so careful with you, as if you were something too precious for this world that might break if he wasn’t paying enough attention. And as he shifted his hips, pressing into your warmth, earning himself a soft gasp from your lips, nothing screamed as aggressive or overdone. It was just you and your boyfriend, the evening light filtering through the curtains of his bedroom to cast warm glows to juxtapose against the Winter air outside as his cock stretched you in an almost overwhelmingly absurd way.
Your inner walls fluttered, spasming around his girth as he settled a bit more between your legs, letting them case around his larger body and easing his chest against yours as the dark blonde let a whimper leave his parted lips.
“L-Lars.” You whispered, your hand coming up to cup the side of his face, his eyes squeezed shut in focus as he himself was in an adjustment period. Common for him, you let Lars work it out the way he needed as you traced your thumb along his cheekbone. He couldn’t handle those dual sensations and a moment later, his head collapsed into the crevice of your neck as he gave an exploratory shuffle of his hips a few centimeters out before plunging back into you.
“T-That feels really good.” You moaned softly into his ear causing a shiver to blister down his spine.
“I like… I like when you ma-make those sounds…” He admitted, his voice strained and barely a notch above rationality. “It’s… It’s really nice…”
A smile tugs onto your face slowly as you tuck your fingers into his thick hair, seeking to motivate and calm him down from the prospect of overstimulation. “I like making those sounds for you…”
Lars’s cock twitched at that, the motion so minute but you could feel it inside of you as you shifted just a bit beneath him, readjusting on the pillow so you could look up at him properly when he pulled his head back. “A-And I like the way you feel around me…” His blue eyes drifted along your expression before they locked onto your lips as a sole point of concentration. “It’s… Tight but in a good way… A really… Good way…”
Your boyfriend's words made you clench around his heavy cock, causing him to gasp out, his eyes widening at the new sensation. “Oh-oh, that’s… That’s something…”
You nod in agreement as a blush overcomes your entire being, urging him down so you could place a gentle kiss to his lips. He had been asking silently by staring at your mouth, a whisperless thanks being given as his moustache tickled you as you muttered, “Y-you’re bigger than I expected.” There was that breathless laugh of yours that Lars thought was so cute. “Y-You feel so good in me.”
And for a moment, the man above you didn't respond. There was no motion from him until you felt the sting of a very deliberate drag of his cock against your walls that made you tremble. He pulled back from your neck, your skin immediately missing the heated sensation of his breath against it, Lars’s brows furrowed in minor confusion.
“R-really?” He asked, and there’s something so genuinely surprised in his tone that it made your heart ache a little as you brushed your fingers through his hair as your words settled into the air and into his mind. Something shifted in Lars’s expression. The shock of your compliment slowly melted into something warmer, more confident. A shy smile tugged at the corner of his plush lips, his mustache lifting with it.
"I-I’ve never really… thought about it like… that…” Lars trailed off, his cheeks flushing a deep red against his pale skin, only minorly disrupted by his facial stubble as he inched out of you before sinking back in as far as he could reach.
Your back arched off the bed slightly, pressing your taut chest against his as you let a low moan out. “Is… Is this okay?” Lars asked after a few moments, repeating his thrusting motion that sprinkled the best sensation along your core. “I do-don’t want to hurt you…” His voice was straining to keep itself contained and not delve too far into the pleasure. Yet. He would once he knew you were good to go.
You nodded wordlessly, your mouth slightly agape as you sucked a breath in as Lars shuffled his hips against yours. “Y-You’re perfect, Lars.”
The cheap mattress of Colt’s trailer bed dipped beneath your knees, the worn sheets cool and contrasted against your palms, stark compared to the heat of the desert outside. Being on all fours was common now, it’s what the blonde stuntman liked as you arched your back to display the fleshy bounce of your ass for his hungry eyes.
His cock was so hard it felt like one little bit of attention made to it was going to make him cum as he positioned himself at your entrance, a small hiss leaving his mouth as he gripped his needy hard-on with one calloused hand, the other grasping with a possessive strength at your hip to get you in the most optimal angle. You were surely going to have bruises there in the morning, but it was all worth it.
“Ready?” Colt asked, his voice low and rough, incredibly different from the charming demeanor he showed the film crew when performing stunts.
You could only nod, your breath catching in your throat aggressively as he pushed in, painfully slow. The head of his cock disappeared as you were given time to adjust to the stretch. Even after all this time, the initial penetration was enough to make you go crazy, your head dipping as you urged your body not to shake prematurely as your toes curled. Colt watched his cock bury itself so deep inside of you that he couldn’t seem to focus on anything other than that point of primal contact.
“Fuuuuckkkk.” You gasped as air finally met your lungs again, his cock filling you up completely, his taut hips pressing against your ass and conforming against him like a puzzle piece. “Y-you're so big.”
“What was that?” His hands tightened on your hips, and you could hear the smirk in his voice.
“Your cock.” You clarified with a huff, pushing back against him and causing the large man to stumble a bit before he regained composure. “It f-feels even bigger in this position. Like I-I’m being split in half.”
What a visual. Colt responded with a low chuckle as he began to move. It was slow at first, too slow for your liking as you grasped at the sheets with a tiny moan before it increased into a set rhythm. Enough to get you both going for now, but not enough to cause anything to be over too soon. If there was one thing Colt was good at, it was teetering on that very line.
“Yeah?” He grunted, a hand coming down to grasp at your ass and urge you to grind into him as the other wrapped delicately around your neck to keep you arched instead of letting your body falter. “Tell me more, baby.”
“So thick.” You moaned hoarsely as Colt picked up pace, jutting his cock into you as best he could, the sound of skin slapping skin seeping into the air of the small trailer, the controlled movements he was known for giving way to something far more urgent. The bed groaned loud under your combined weights as Colt drove into you, your body reacting as best it could as you met him thrust for thrust, pushing back to take him deeper as his long fingers exploded against your neck and held you. You needed every inch of him, and he had to know.
“I-I’m going to cum a-all over y-your big cock, Colt. Fuc… Fuck… don’t stop.”
Colt's rhythm faltered for a moment as he processed your words. "Fuck," he muttered, his voice strained. "You say things like that and I'm not going to last."
"Don't last then," you challenged, looking back at him over your shoulder. "Just fill me up and show me what a stuntman can really do."
Lazy mornings seemed rare with your lover. Even more so when he came home at the early hours of the morning, unexplained but always willing to tug himself into your bed with the favor of stress release. And this early Tuesday morning was no different, the predawn light filtering through the small blinds of your apartment, casting faint, gray stripes across the rumble sheets that were close to being discarded.
The air was cool on your exposed skin, raising goosebumps and hardening your nipples only to be soothed by the solid wall of heat pressed against your back. Driver was behind you, his chest a firm plane against your shoulder blades, one arm curled possessively around your waist and keeping you against him. His other hand was holding onto the base of his cock, teasing your entrance, urging you to prop your leg up so he could enter.
Not like it was even a question as you did just that, sleep still tugging on your movements as the blonde pushed into you with an inch by inch stroke that made a shudder explode down your spine, felt in Driver’s sternum as he pressed his chest more ardently to your back, lips barely ghosting against the shell of your ear as a silent moan cased there. Driver’s movements were always economical and precise, somewhat tearing more into the idea of performing a function rather than fucking but that’s just how it was.
There was an intensity to him that both thrilled you and unnerved some part of your rationality, but it made you only want him more as he focused behind you, shifting his hips against your ass and pressing deeper. You gasped softly, the hand around your waist dripping between your semi-open legs.
Driver’s rhythm didn't change at your sound, but his blue eyes which has been closed, fixed on some obscure thought of his nice it was to be with someone like this, opened and slowly came to focus on your face. He watched you, his expression unreadable in the dim light but there was a crack in the facade as you moaned again, his mouth twitching.
“Mmmmm… Y-You’re always so much bi-bigger than I remember, Driver.” You panted into the air, your voice barely a tangible whisper for him. But, he heard it. And for a moment, nothing changed. He continued his steady, measured pace of railing into you as if he didn't hear your compliment at all. “You feel incredible.”
That was the nail he needed. You felt it - a subtle shift in his fingertips, the way he moved behind you before giving you a slightly deeper thrust forward. You groaned at that, feeling him stretch you like it was the first time, head tilting to the side. Driver’s gaze met yours immediately and you’re both frantically searching for something.
“Y-You’re being awfully quiet.” You observed, your hand reaching up to cup the side of his face as he thrusted deeper into you, his free hand coming up to grasp your thigh to keep your leg from rebounding and clamping shut. Driver didn't bother responding verbally, but you were in for a treat as he leaned his face in to capture your lips in a tired kiss, languid and bustling with the affection he so often chose to ignore because it was easier in his line of work. His lips brushed against yours before captivating down your jaw to your ear.
“I’d rather listen to you than listen to me.” He moved behind you once again, the bed frame creaking a bit with that as his cock hit that spot inside of you that made you grasp at the side of his face in desperation, his thrusts becoming that much more purposeful, more attune to your reactions.
The compliment that had gone vaguely unnoticed, at least in your perspective, was driving him crazy to the point where Driver became irrationally focused on your pleasure, determined not to understand every nuance and sensation. He needed this more than he could tell you, so he was going to show you.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You and Ryland have a small…incident, leading to a broken bed that a very curious Rocky has to come and fix.
𝐀 / 𝐍: short fic/drabble type thing. there’s no description of smut in this…but it’s implied in the concept ig ++ pretty suggestive so i’ll put the 18+ banner on
“You’re staring at me.” You announced groggily, eyes still closed yet your boyfriend’s gaze burned into your skull; piercing through bone and settling in your frontal lobe.
“What are you gonna do, sue me?” His response coerced you into slowly opening your eyes, lashes fluttering elegantly as you did so. “I don’t know how good the legal representation is here.”
His voice was gruff, but he looked wide-awake, all bright-eyed and ready for the day ahead. His glasses sat askew on his nose, loving eyes peering over them; his fox cardigan was pulled over the top of his clothes, indicating that he’d likely been on a walk already.
Instinctively, you shuffled closer to him; laying your hand against his chest, head eagerly coming to meet its placement. Your leg lifted over his body to cage him in and shove him further onto the other side of the bed, a motion provoked by the feeling of being far too close to the edge on your own side.
All of a sudden, you felt yourself tumbling onto the floor — taking Ryland with you as your body thumped off the ground, causing Ryland to let out a yelp from underneath you. His hands shot to your hips, steadying you on top of him so you wouldn’t continue rolling across the harsh-floor.
“I forgot about that.” You admitted embarrassingly, feeling how Ryland’s hands now caressed up and down your hips to your waist, smiling up at you before he cocked an eyebrow.
“You forgot about the best night of your life?”
You laughed at his outburst, hands coming to playfully steal his glasses from his nose to which he protested, a small pout playing at his lips as you held them above your head — swinging them like a pendulum, enticing him to come and get them.
“Oh, you break the bed once and now you’re mr cocky, is that it?” You teased, narrowing your eyes while you looked down at him, watching as his expression twisted into something you rarely saw from him; a confident kind of mischief.
A few moments passed between the two of you as cogs seemed to turn inside Ryland’s head.
“No.” He spoke simply with a shrug, shooting upwards to sit you in his lap; hands coming to harshly tug at the bottom of your thighs to pull you closer to him. He bit down on his bottom lip at the friction, letting out a brief noise of struggle.
A small yelp left your lips, followed by a giggle as you settled into his lap; watching how he leaned in closer, eyes scanning all over your face.
“Technically, it’s Dr.” He smiled cockily, bringing a hand to travel up your arms to retrieve his glasses, settling them back onto the bridge of his nose as he pushed them up with a single finger.
Before you could get too carried away, there was a hurried knocking on the door — causing Ryland to gently lift you off him, standing up tall and kindly offering you a hand to get up aswell.
Fearing his already-inflated ego, you swatted his hand away jokingly whilst rolling your eyes, scrambling up from the floor as Ryland left the room for a moment, coming back in with Rocky trailing just behind him in his xenonite ball.
“Good morning, humans of Erid!” Rocky announced energetically, clicking his claws. “Grace come to me early, say needed fix—“ He seemed to trail off as he noticed the odd-silhouette of the bed with his limited vision, unnaturally caving to one side, sheets and pillows now discarded over the floor.
Ryland wasn’t paying too much attention to Rocky, only staring at you with a knowing look that made you nervous, knees almost buckling with desire.
“I see problem.” Rocky sounded out, rolling over towards the broken bed, seemingly inspecting the break. “This is made of Eridian strongest material. How this happen, question? Eridians made to withstand great force!” He continued, turning back in his ball to face you.
You suddenly felt scrutinised by the alien, feeling like you’d just been accused of a heinous Eridian crime you didn’t know existed — and Ryland was no help, his previous cocky demeanour shifted into a wave of apprehension and embarrassment when Rocky began questioning the ‘how?’ of the situation.
Immediately, a smirk fell on your face noticing how Ryland turned sheepish, an idea popping into your head to tease him even further for his ego-fuelled activities from minutes before.
“Well Rocky.” You began, crouching down to match his height as your hands steadied themselves against your knee caps ready to explain the whole process to the unsuspecting alien.
You practically felt Ryland freezing up beside you, the air in the room shifting.
“Sometimes when two humans love eachother very much, they get this feeling.” You looked to Grace for a moment, watching as he seemed to turn red in the face, silently begging for you to stop; but you wanted to see how far you could take it.
“Feeling!” Rocky repeated in confirmation, evidence that he was hanging on every word.
“It’s a very strong feeling, an urge to—“
“Can you just fix it? Rocky. Please.” Ryland sounded out urgently, his hands coming to gesture aimlessly in the air, before his hand came to aggressively press against his forehead in frustration.
A smug expression overcame your features, standing up proudly with your hands firmly pressed against your hips in a sassy stance as you turned to Ryland.
“Grace have attitude problem! Grace need human-sleep-box fixing. Maybe then will be nice to Rocky.” The alien seemed to grumble, begrudgingly following behind Grace on his adventure of apologetically picking up the discarded sheets and pillows.
You smiled obnoxiously at the two, leaning against the wall whilst letting out a pleasant sigh of contentment as your plan had worked.
Although, Ryland didn’t allow much room for you to revel in the blissful, prideful moment — immediately tossing a pillow to bounce off your chest, softly falling to the floor as he mouthed sarcastically.
summary: on your fourth big blockbuster working together, you find yourself scolding hollywood’s favorite, tom ryder. to much success, it manages to capture colt’s attention.
pairing: colt seavers x gn!reader
word count: 4.0k
tags: fluff and humor, coworkers to lovers, workplace relationship, mutual attraction, courting, flirty!colt, tom ryder being an asshole, brief gail meyer cameo, sexual humor, minor injury, kiss at the end, script supervisor!reader, gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3
“Solid chance for a reshoot,” you mutter under your breath, as soon as the director calls cut. It’s clearly too loud, because the lead actor for the film whips his head around to locate your voice. Tom Ryder looks like he’s about to throw a temper tantrum; the overly-tight business suit and cowboy hat he’s costumed in does nothing to help his case. You’re perched on your chair, script in-hand with one leg crossed over the other. You can only react with a raised brow.
“That doesn’t make any damn sense. I nailed it. My foot’s on the tape,” Ryder protests, arms flailing down to point at the gaff tape under his left shoe. He isn’t wrong, per say; his foot is most definitely on the spike. But, there’s a very clear issue.
“You’re faced in the—” Uncooperative, you remind yourself. There’s no point in arguing with Ryder head-on. You turn to the director, pen tapping against the stapled script in your hand. “He’s faced in the wrong direction.” You can’t imagine that you’re the only one who’s spotted this, but the vast majority of the crew want to keep their jobs—and someone as fiery as Tom Ryder isn’t the safest to correct.
It’s your fourth big blockbuster with him as lead and it still astounds you how much they let him improv his scenes. It’s difficult to tell if he’s playing different characters or just slightly different versions of himself. You can tell that half the set wants to throw in the towel by this point—with your observations and Ryder’s fussing. He clearly doesn’t want to admit that he’s clearly overlooked the simple detail. “So, Seavers can just reshoot the stunt to match the shot.” Classic.
You don’t even know where Colt is right now. Probably taking a nap in his trailer, or grabbing a bite to eat off-set. You can’t think about that now, because you need to focus on talking over Ryder. “That’s insane,” you counter. “It’s too expensive to reshoot the stunt, and it’s already perfect as-is. It doesn’t take a whole lot of work to recreate the scene you just did.” It’s really not. All he has to do is wave his stupid prop-gun around and run his mouth.
“Pain in the fuckin’ ass,” Ryder mutters indiscreetly. You can only scribble away on your script, unamused. The makeup artist that comes to touch up the highlighter on his cheeks looks half-scared to death. You can tell that she’s in a quick rush to dab the brush at his face and scurry away as fast as possible.
“Tom, bear with us for a minute. We’ve got this scene left, and then it’s press time. You love the press,” the director exclaims, all too sporadically. “We’ll redo the scene really quick, bud. Just go with the flow.”
—
You’ve been keeping your eye on Colt for the last week and a half of production. It’s not that you can control it. Whenever he’s substituting in for Ryder for the fight scenes or the pyro or the vehicular stunts, he’s always front and center. You’ve got to keep your eye on the script and Colt simultaneously; it’s your job—tracking the consistency. In any case, you’d have to do just the same for Ryder. Except, when Colt’s not needed for the shot, you, on occasion, still keep your eye on him.
So, you might have an inkling of a crush on the senior stunt double on your set. The reason, you’ve tried to deduce, is that he’s relatively much nicer than Ryder, which means you’re so much more likely to like him. And you’d be lying if you said you weren’t attracted to him, with his blonde highlights and all the movie quotes he spews out between takes.
Usually, you’ll find him at the catering table, on his third cup of your shared fourteen-hour day. It’s under these usual circumstances that he comes to thank you. You feel a tap on your shoulder—and Colt’s there, right beside you, mug in hand. You give him a nod and a smile, trying not to come off too jumpy. He still has his costume on, grayish blue suit and a slightly darker tie to match—topped with a brimmed cowboy hat. It’s the same as Ryder’s. You drop your thermos down on the folding table, trying to figure out what pastry might tie you over for the rest of the day.
“So, I heard you did me a big favor,” Colt murmurs. Word travels fast on-set, clearly. He takes the white little espresso mug up to his lips, taking a sip of the hot brew as he leans back against the catering table. He lowers it just a little to say, “You should’ve just let him make us reshoot.”
You shake your head, picking a scone off one of the trays and placing it onto your flimsy styrofoam tray. “It’s good to get him worked up early during production, so he might ease off the bitching later. It’s like an advanced payment.”
Colt snorts. “Nice,” he says, “I’m pretty sure he’s trying to get Gail to get you fired. Obviously, you didn’t hear it from me.” It barely fazes you. Ryder’s always dying to get somebody fired, and it alternates based on his particular moods. His targeting you is no different than usual.
“She can’t fire me,” you chuckle. After four blockbuster films of you on script with the bigwigs, you’re convinced that you’re invincible. It’s naive, maybe, but you’re good at what you do. You’re credible. And, on this particular contemporary Western at least—with crunch time now, in the middle of spring—you’re safe. You digress, “I know the film inside out, and it’d be a killer to replace me at this point in production.”
“Right,” Colt nods. He doesn’t seem to believe you too much, but it is what it is. He seems to lower his voice as crew, largely lighting and sound in all-black, whizz past you to set up for the next scene. Intently, he tells you, “I wouldn’t mind reshooting if it means Ryder won’t give you as hard of a time.”
Your eyebrows crease. It’s not that you don’t appreciate his efforts to make your life easier. It’s just so simple the way Colt thinks he can be tossed around; you wish he’d be more careful with himself. “Kind offer. Thanks.” You’re brushing him off; he can tell.
“Even if you won’t take me up on it,” Colt tilts his head, “I’m around whenever you need me. What is this, our third film together?” He’s flashing you a grin, back to the table. He must think he’s real cool; you hate that it’s working on you.
“Fourth,” you correct. You’re not sure if it comes out short or timid; regrettably, it feels more like the latter. Colt lowers his mug down onto the table, faltering just slightly.
Briskly, he repeats, “Fourth.” Colt makes an extended effort to turn around and pick your thermos up off the table. You have to suppress a yelped “hey.” Despite your protests, thermos his hand, Colt practically bodyguards the whole setup—the Keurig and the metal basket of espresso pods adjacent to it. Your hip bumps against his as he puts his forearm to fend you off. You’d try to grab for it if you weren’t at work, PAs and DPs flitting around you both. “You don’t have to—”
And, like a flash, Colt tosses your thermos onto the bottom plate, whips the pod into the canister, punches the lid down, and clicks double-shot. “My first installment for you screwing over Ryder on my behalf.” While you’re both waiting for the machine to pour down coffee, he’s humming something like ABBA. “How pissed was he to reshoot?”
“Practically frothing at the mouth,” you tell him, “I’m surprised they didn’t prep a bib.” Colt’s perfectly satisfied with this answer, nodding curtly. Respect. Not many people are capable of talking down on Ryder so openly.
The thermos gets filled halfway, and Colt offers it back up to you, “Here.” You take the thermos back, in steady avoidance of his callused fingertips. He admits, “I don’t know how you like your coffee yet.” Yet? You narrow your eyes. You’re not sure that Colt has ever been so attentive talking to you, and you’re trying not to feel the way your breath hitches in your chest in response.
If there’s anything you’re able to bond about with Colt, it’s the damn on-set coffee. He’s practically running on the stuff, probably ten times worse than you are. His little mug finds its way back into his hands again. Colt fails to speak for a moment, too occupied by… something on your face. You’re trying not to crumple beneath his observation, but Colt’s smiling and he’s searching over your features for something.
Finally, after a few seconds, he lets up. “I’ll get your order down sometime this week. I’m, uh, quick to learn,” he tells you. Then, he raises up his little cup toward you. “Cheers. To you disturbing the peace.” You raise your thermos, and Colt’s ceramic clinks against your metal. A little victory.
—
You could care less about Ryder’s peace, really; but, you’re partially grateful in the fact that it’s allowed you to catch Colt’s attention. Colt sticks to his word about the coffee, because he seems to keep his attention fixed whenever you’re at that catering table with him. And when you’re not at the catering table, he’s still somehow around, holding open doors for you and keeping spare pencils tucked on his person for you to use to mark scripts. You don’t want to mistake it for anything that it’s not, but it feels almost vaguely like Colt Seavers is trying to court you.
All the fuss that he’s been making to please you culminates into a really unnecessary scene on-set. You’re right off camera, next to the director, camera op, Gail, and… Colt. It’s one of those classic getaway car scenes, set in a downtown street; they’ve got Ryder in the motions of hopping into a great Oldsmobile Toronado, while two security guards are trying to hop and skip after him in the facade of a nameless bank. All the action—Ryder yelling “Really, it ain’t personal,” in a vaguely East Coast accent—culminates into him jumping down a set of stairs and whipping the door open. He clambers in, slams the door shut, and throws a big duffel into the backseat. The open zipper of the bag makes for a great effect of bills being scattered all in the closed containment of the car.
The director yells cut and the crew runs round to reset. Ryder runs his nails into his scalp, pushing back his curls; it all comes very easily to him, these things. As terrible as he is a person, he still can’t help but be great at his craft. It’s insufferable. One of the PAs guides him out of the car and off-camera to a tall chair with a glass of water and a tray of fruit. He pops a green grape into his mouth, before staring off in your direction, bored. “Can somebody tell Colt to stop eye-fucking the scripty?”
The notes that you’re taking down in red ink have to wait. You slap your script down onto your lap. “He’s not,” you spit out, gawking most of all at the choice of words. In front of the entire set—oh, you want to kill Ryder; there’s nothing in the world you’d want more.
“I’m not—” Colt scoffs. “I’m trying to gauge if the camera needs to get pulled back. It’s gonna be a killer if I crack the lens.” You look over your shoulder to check Colt’s conviction. There’s zero of it. He’s looking down at you and back at Ryder, hands propped on his hips. You can see his chest rise and fall. Colt wants to look tough, and his composure is doing absolutely to help you.
Ryder laughs, really guffaws. He makes sure to crunch down another green grape, before he shoos the whole arrangement away with a “Thanks, honey.” The PA by Ryder’s side makes sure to make themselves sparse, taking away the fruit and leaving him with the water. Ryder keeps his eye locked on Colt, already quite entertained. “You’re a shitty liar, dude.”
“There’s a reason why one’s the lead and the other’s the double,” Gail says heartily, smacking her gum with a shrug. When she finds that you haven’t agreed with her, or at least laughed alongside the two of them, she gives you an eyeroll under her wide glasses. It’s all wide and clear: Gail thinks you’re no fun. She should really adjust her priorities.
The director groans, “Jesus, Colt, just go get in the car.” The talk is getting you all further behind schedule. Colt’s meant to crash into a storefront window. Amidst the arguing, everything’s all in place—an Oldsmobile replica driven up in place of the real deal, door open for Colt to jump in. You can feel him hand tap the back of your chair as he straightens out his costume and grabs for his crash helmet. A wordless sorry. You try not to jump at the feeling of Colt’s suit brushing against your shoulder as he passes by you.
“You got it, boss,” Colt calls out, exclamation muffled. He throws out a big thumbs up as he makes it over to the car. You have a feeling that Colt is going to grovel later about Ryder making a scene of the two of you, but really, it isn’t the worst thing in the world—at least, until Colt slams the car door shut and Ryder decides to speak up again.
Leaned over in his tall chair, he asks slovenly, “Seriously, are you sleeping with Seavers? If it’s because he’s my stuntman and it’s a power thing—”
“No! No, I’m not sleeping with Colt and even if I was, you would have absolutely nothing to do with you,” you hiss. The ego on Ryder makes your head thrum. You try to keep to your script—taking up the clipboard in your lap to write notes down on your log on the last couple of shots.
“It would make sense ‘cause he looks like me, you hate my guts. It’s like that psychosexual shit that Freud talks about… uh…” Ryder taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair, then clicks his fingers: “Displacement.” Smartass. He probably only knows the term having prepped it for an interview on one of his psychological thrillers. Ryder is about to continue harping on about how flattered he is, but the 1st AD calls quiet on set; he shuts it.
—
You’re stationed at your new spot on the opposite side of the backlot, five feet behind the secondary camera setup—where Colt is meant to swing the car through a large glass window. Luckily, Ryder and Gail have decided amongst themselves to depart elsewhere to talk about the next big film. This way, you’ll be able to worry about this stunt in peace.
At action, the Oldsmobile revs. Colt is making sure to kick up some smoke. You can tell now that this is going to be a good take—just from the way he’s handling the car. If you’re not mistaken, you think that he might even be driving with a bit of extra force. The car starts barreling down the set raucously. You’re trying not to grip your script too hard at the sight of him speeding down the road. As Colt’s car approaches, you’re unable to see his expression past the tinted helmet. The flash that you do catch is of his gloved hands gripping the wheel—and the most that you can do is cross your fingers.
The collision is hard. You can’t help but flinch at the sight of him tearing the car through the pane. It shatters loudly, and you can see the motion of the Oldsmobile hitting the crash pad. The director makes sure to hold, so SFX can machine-pump a bit of fog out of the fictitious storefront and make the scene look a little prettier. Then, they call “Cut.” There’s a whole lot of movement towards the car—first, with brooms to sweep away the stray glass, and second, to check on Colt.
The door of the Oldsmobile whips open, and Colt shoots out a thumbs up. You sigh. He’s fine. As soon as he gets out of the car, though, you can’t help but notice that he’s gripping his shoulder and trying to stretch it back. He takes a moment to tug off his helmet and mess with his hair just a bit. The nearest on-set medic tries to approach him with a “If it hurts, I can take a look at it,” but you hear him deny it with an insistent “All good. Don’t worry about it.” The director runs up to give Colt praises—“The shot was perfect, man. Good job.”—calls a thirty-minute break to the crew, and then rushes away.
By the time Colt gets over to you, you’re still locked into your seat trying to look busy. Your fingers are clasping around your script and logs, trying to straighten out the stack as you tap it atop your knee a few times. He comes up and leans one hand on your armrest. As casual as he tries to make it look, Colt’s trying to keep himself steady. You suck in a breath and look straight up at him. “You screwed your shoulder up, didn’t you?”
His brows furrow. “No. I stepped on the gas harder than I should’ve so it’s just a residual, you know, body reaction,” Colt says, coming off your armrest. For once, Ryder’s right: Colt is a shitty liar. “I would know if I screwed my shoulder up,” he says dismissively.
“You,” you say, index fingers pointed up and towards Colt’s chest, “are going to let me take a look at it, and if it’s bad, I’m going to tell them to send you home early.”
He scoffs. “I still have two more stunts tonight.” But somehow, he’s still bending to your whim—because as soon as you hop off your chair and begin to walk off in the opposite direction, Colt’s right on your tail. “It’s my job to get dinged up,” he says, eyes still tracking your expression. He’s trying to tell whether or not you’re mad at him. You aren’t mad, per say—but you’re not very pleased, either.
His trailer is in sight pretty quickly, tucked away in a corner of the exterior set. It’s really just a giant metal box, identical to the rest. “Okay, yes, you’re supposed to get dinged up, but not recklessly,” you tell him, approaching the front door of the trailer. “Or more than you have to. Quality over quantity, Colt.” When you look over, Colt is trying not to wince. You can’t help but frown at him.
“I’m used to it,” he tells you, shaking his head, “I have Extra Strength Advil in there. It’ll work like a miracle—just watch.”
—
You already know that Colt screwed up his shoulder, because he can’t even take the suit jacket off himself. You have to come up behind him and help him shrug it off, trying to pay no mind to the shaky breaths and heavy groans that come with the movement. The pale blue dress shirt he has on is tight around the arms; it’s not your first time seeing how much muscle Colt has on him, but it’s still just as jarring. So, you’ve got to ignore that, too. The tie is easy for Colt to pull off and toss away. Though, he’s having trouble with the buttons on the shirt—too much pull on his shoulder. You swat his hand aside and begin the motions of unbuttoning it for him.
“Okay. I shouldn’t have driven as fast as I did,” Colt admits to you, “It’s on me, obviously—but it’s also on Ryder.” You get to the bottom button slowly but surely, trying to pay close attention to his words. This feels… close. Considering you’d offered the check-up purely out of worry, this is all more intimate than you’d expected.
You tilt your head. “Because he was saying all that stuff about the…”
“Eyefucking, yeah. And I’m sure it was uncomfortable for both of us to get a load of that in front of all of our coworkers. I didn’t wanna make it a thing, so I just… I was driving angry, which is never a good thing,” Colt says, “He has no class.”
“It’s Ryder, you know? It’s not like his words really ever carry any weight,” you say. Your priority still is to make sure Colt’s shoulder isn’t too screwed up, but it also doesn’t hurt to test the waters. You pop the last button off and try to help him shrug off his dress shirt. It’s difficult not to feel a little shifty in your abdomen when your fingertips slide down against Colt’s bicep; you make sure to fold up the shirt semi-nicely before tossing it down with the tie.
When you turn, Colt in his undershirt and the dress pants looks almost boyishly guilty. You narrow your eyes, “Okay, turn around. Lemme see it.” And Colt does as you say, spinning around to show you his back. His shoulder is splotched purple and green, pigmented all across his shoulder blade. “Fuck, Colt.”
“It always looks worse than it actually is. Stunts 101.” He’s trying to make you laugh, but you’re much too focused on the bruising. He steps away as soon as you ghost your fingers over his skin. Colt’s grabbing an ice pack from his mini fridge and bringing it over his shoulder. “And I should probably use right now as an opportunity to reassure you that I wasn’t trying to eye-fuck you,” Colt says. It’s a contradiction: you can see his eyes flashing down and back up. “Unless, obviously, you wanted me to. Then, it’d be a whole different story. But—”
You kiss Colt, crashing your lips against his, and he practically hurls the ice pack away to hug his arms around your waist. Given the chance, he would’ve gone through a whole spiel of telling you that he respects maintaining a professional relationship. But, now, you’re really laying it all out on the table. Your hands are coming up greedily to cup his face, and he’s sliding his hands up and down your lower back. He tastes like spearmint gum, and his face is burning up the longer you’re close to him.
Colt pulls back only for a moment to look at you; his pupils are dilated beyond repair. “Okay,” he murmurs, “Ryder caught me staring. Good on him for calling me on it.”
“I figured. You’re so easy to read,” you laugh, unable to stifle your amusement. Colt’s not offended at all—only leaning in closer to you. Everything about him seems a little bit lighter after you’ve kissed; he’s standing up straighter, and his hands are coming up to your head. Colt has his nimble, calloused fingers brushing through your hair. It’s a soothing, gentle motion—possibly a distraction—but it’s also romantic enough to placate you. You have to shuffle away a little bit, still locked into Colt’s grasp. “So, can I put in a word with somebody to see if you can get tonight off?”
He drops his hands back down to your waist—the workaholic he is. “If it pleases you, yes. And if it works out, I’ll nap here while you close out, ice my shoulder, and then I can take you out to dinner very, very far away from set. You choose, I pay,” Colt decides, “And we can make out a bit more after dessert. Does that sound good?” He really doesn’t waste any time.
You hum in agreement, hand flattening against Colt’s abs, just under the white wifebeater he’s got on. You can feel his stomach tighten just slightly. Sensitive. “You have me for ten more minutes, and then I’ve gotta go find an AD.”
And cockily, Colt replies, “I’m pretty sure you and I can get a lot done in ten. Don’t you?”
