i just read your avatar story and fell in love with it. i was wondering if you were planning on continuing it at some point or maybe you no longer are interested? i hope you’re doing well!
thank u so much!! i kinda forgot about this series and focused on other works, but if there are still people interested in it, i might try to write some more of it <3 thank you again!!!! have a good day<3
after a fight with dean, hunter might need a hand with tending to his busted lip.
just a blurb, hope you like it:3
it all seemed little too perfect to be true. hawks won the game, hannah’s showcase went great, she got back together with garrett, who was taking the suspension better than anyone expected. everyone was having fun together at the malone’s.
you were nursing a drink, sitting next to the bar. while talking with one of your friends from biochemistry class wasn’t the greatest way to spend time (he always wanted to be in a group with you, but wouldn’t put enough effort into presentations), it was way better than interrupting hannah and garrett in their reconnecting or between dean and allie, who were about to have serious conversation. too chaotic place to be having one for your taste, but they both were kind of crazy and perfect for each other.
so, you kind of missed the moment when dean and allie’s conversation took a turn and someone, who really shouldn’t be there, entered malone’s.
one second you’re sipping awful beer and the next one you hear dean raising his voice at someone. you turn around and watch as two guys start smashing each other faces, before anyone could de-escalate the situation.
“…hunter davenport,” you heard beau say, as you quickly got to the safer part of the diner. disbelief on allie’s face told you right away that this was the guy she’s been with to get over dean. you couldn’t blame her. damn.
logan and garrett held dean back, but he still was trying to break from their hands and fight hunter, who stood behind tucker with a cocky smile, testing how strong dean really was, despite already feeling it through a busted lip.
“calm down!” logan yelled, pushing dean down to sit in a booth.
“out of all people! him!?” dean snapped back right away.
“i made the best choice for the team and you have to get used to it,” logan said, taking a step back, when he saw that garrett was still watching dean close enough to catch him if he needs to.
“i need to leave,” allie said to you and hannah, before catching her things and running to the backdoor. hannah didn’t even took her coat, she just ran after her friend with phone in hand, probably to text garrett why she left.
“you can call me when you get your friend under control,” hunter said, fixing his sweatshirt. he simply turned around, swiftly took his jacket off of the hanger next to the door and walked out through them, without looking back.
“and the party is over,” you sighed out, giving beau sheepish smile. it was all too perfect to last longer than an hour.
“we can still make the most of it,” he tried to cheer up the atmosphere, but one look from dean was enough to let that hope go. “or not.”
“i appreciate your enthusiasm,” you said, giving him a gentle squeeze on the arm. “sorry for leaving you alone with it, though.” and just like that, you did as the two of your friends, you took your jacket and with the head high, you left the diner.
last thing you wanted to do tonight was to spend it listening to logan’s ted talks on what’s good for the team. you weren’t even the part of it, you just happend to be in detention with logan in first year of high school, which sparked into a friendship that dragged you here today.
evening was pretty warm for the time of the year, so you just threw your coat over your shoulders instead of putting it on. for a moment you debated wether you should call uber or just walk to your apartament. the decision was set back in time when you saw that the cause of fight in the diner was still standing close by, wiping blood from his chin.
logan would for sure appreciate if someone close to the team would take care of his new player. just to show davenport that not everyone would throw themselves at him with fists.
“need a tissue?” you asked, looking up at him and already pulling it out from your bag. he looked at you for a moment, before reaching in for it. “don’t be scared, i won’t hit you,” you chuckled at his reserved reaction.
“you can’t be too sure around there.” you heard him talk before, throw in jabs at dean, but in those seconds, you didn’t focus on his voice enough to notice how deep it was. “thank you.” it was so… deep. rich and smooth like caramel.
“you’re welcome,” you said, watching him closely to see if one tissue was enough for him. one thing you learned while spending time with hockey players was that wounds on lips and eyebrows bleed far more than you would expect them. he folded the tissue couple of times and pressed it onto his lip. “you seem like a pro at that,” you said to throw something in.
“i know my first aid,” he chuckled.
“had fair share of fights?” you asked, checking the state of the tissue if it wasn’t bleeding through.
he didn’t answer, instead he watched you. just watched how your eyes were fixed on his lips. “do you want to help me?” he asked.
“hm?”
“i said, do you want to help me?” he repeated, stepping down from to curb to stand in front of you.
“you seem to be taking great care of yourself.” his face was now little bit closer, since he was standing lower his height wasn’t that much of an issue anymore. “do you need my help?” you asked, crossing arms on your chest.
he let out soft chuckle, not taking his eyes off of your face.
“i hoped for a better evening tonight,” he said, seemingly out of context, but you understood it just right. you smiled slightly before answering.
grace decided to come back to earth to make peace with the thing that he felt like would haunt him in every moment of afterlife, wherever universe would place him. he needed to come back and, if you were still alive, explain what really happend, apologize for leaving without true goodbye.
there was a moment of doubt when he felt earth beneath his feet, because what if you had a picture perfect life and he was something long forgotten?
all his worries disappear when on the way to his goverment assigned house, he hears on the radio that you made a discovery of a magnetic twist inside the milky way, which could rewrite what scientist thought about magnetic fields and you named the new shape of the structure ‘grace-12’.
“You look nice,” Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”
“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.
“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.
“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.
Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”
He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.
He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.
‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.
“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”
“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.
“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”
“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”
“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.
“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek.
“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.
“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”
Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”
“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom.
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.
“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”
“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”
“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish.
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”
“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!”
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”
“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”
It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.
“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays.
It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all.
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.
“I’ll go with you.”
He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.
“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.
“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.
His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too.
You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.
“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.
“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.
He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.
So navy it was.
You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though.
Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.
“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”
“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.
“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.
Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.
He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.
It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.
Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.
“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.
You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.
It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”
“It’s fake satin. I think.”
“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”
“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.
“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.
“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.
“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.
“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”
“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”
“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool.
Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber.
There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.
“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”
“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly.
It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.
He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.
“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”
“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.
Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.
With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.
“Enjoyed it, probably.”
“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in.
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.
“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”
“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.
“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.
Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment.
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.
“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”
“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval.
“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”
“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up.
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”
You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”
“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.
“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected.
“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.
“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.
Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be.
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”
“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option.
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.
It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”
He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”
It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer.
“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now.
Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family.
“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.
“What?”
“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”
“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”
“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”
You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”
It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”
“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”
“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”
“If it’s with you.” He amends.
“And slow kissing? You like that too?”
“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head.
“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.
“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.
“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.
There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it.
“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”
“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.
“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”
“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”
“Science, opposites attract I guess.”
“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons.
Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”
“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.
“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little.
“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.”
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”
“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?”
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”
You scoff. “A little?”
“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”
“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking.
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself.
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.
It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of.
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful.
It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.
It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”
Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”
“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you.
For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.
“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips.
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”
“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.
He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back.
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left.
Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.
The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night.
You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination.
“Presumptious.” You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”
“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.
“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”
“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”
“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”
“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.
But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”
“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”
“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”
“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”
He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late.
Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.
“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous.
“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon.
“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you.
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
“It has.” You lick your lips.
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.
It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.
“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”
“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for.
“Just me?”
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.
His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.
There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”
“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”
“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.
The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.
You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.
“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.
“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly.
“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight.
“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.
His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.
It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.
It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”
With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.
Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”
“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.
You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear.
“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.
Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.
Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.
“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.”
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”
He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.
“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.
“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.”
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.
It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”
“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.
“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”
“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.
“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.
“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.”
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know.
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”
“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”
“Deal.”
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
dennis whitaker and his ex high school sweetheart, who gained a lot of fame from writing heartbreaking songs about the relationship they lost, because at eighteen, moving to different sides of the country to study at university was equal to ending their love story.
currently writing this one shot!! one thing about me, i will make a pop star au with every single character i love.
you learned that pretty quickly after you started dating. before you got together he did the usual things you expect from someone you’re meeting. he would place his hand over your waist, intervine your fingers or brush against your back with his body. but after…
he liked to touch. not so discreetly anymore.
his hands found their way to your hips, hipbones in the front with the fingertips dipping into the kink of your thigh. he would stand behind you and nuzzle his face into your neck, it wouldn’t bother him that you were talking with someone. you could feel him slip a finger under the strap of your bra, whenever he put his arm around your shoulder.
you started thinking that maybe it was people watching that turned him on.
you didn’t want to start the topic, your relationship was still new and you weren’t the person to feel experienced enough to talk about those kinds of things. you liked to play safe, do what you were used to. jack liked to push you, make you speak up on what you enjoyed or what would you like to try. he did things just to see how would you react to them, to help you learn more about yourself.
you stayed quiet when you liked something, whenever it was something you found amusing or arousing enough to keep going. when it wasn’t your cup of tea one look was enough and he would just know to stop.
your lips were sealed when his hand dropped to your thigh and under the hem of your dress during the grill with his friends.
jack kept talking with robby, who was sitting on the other side of the table, like he wasn’t doing anything under the table. like he wasn’t doing his best to pull your panties to the side and slide his finger between your folds.
robby knew. you could see that because of the smile that kept creeping on his lips. he didn’t say anything, jack kept touching.
you learned that pretty quickly after you started dating. before you got together he did the usual things you expect from someone you’re meeting. he would place his hand over your waist, intervine your fingers or brush against your back with his body. but after…
he liked to touch. not so discreetly anymore.
his hands found their way to your hips, hipbones in the front with the fingertips dipping into the kink of your thigh. he would stand behind you and nuzzle his face into your neck, it wouldn’t bother him that you were talking with someone. you could feel him slip a finger under the strap of your bra, whenever he put his arm around your shoulder.
you started thinking that maybe it was people watching that turned him on.
you didn’t want to start the topic, your relationship was still new and you weren’t the person to feel experienced enough to talk about those kinds of things. you liked to play safe, do what you were used to. jack liked to push you, make you speak up on what you enjoyed or what would you like to try. he did things just to see how would you react to them, to help you learn more about yourself.
you stayed quiet when you liked something, whenever it was something you found amusing or arousing enough to keep going. when it wasn’t your cup of tea one look was enough and he would just know to stop.
your lips were sealed when his hand dropped to your thigh and under the hem of your dress during the grill with his friends.
jack kept talking with robby, who was sitting on the other side of the table, like he wasn’t doing anything under the table. like he wasn’t doing his best to pull your panties to the side and slide his finger between your folds.
robby knew. you could see that because of the smile that kept creeping on his lips. he didn’t say anything, jack kept touching.
you met on accident. well, that’s one way to call it. you ended up in pittsburgh’s ed, because of an accident. you were arguing with your bodyguard a night after a show. you wanted to go out and see some of the city, look around, you never played a show there before and the crowd was great, so the city had to be too, right? anyway, you asked him to come with you, but he said that he’s not paid to drive you around the city. stupid guy.
so you left. alone. was it stupid? of course, but it was only few months since your career blew up, so it was still little unreal to you that anyone would recognise you.
unreal to you, very real to the universe. group of fans saw you and they turned out to be… intense. too intense for you. one thing lead to another and they started pushing, you started running, all that… stuff that happened only to true popstars. in some way it felt validating, but overall mostly scary.
your safe heaven turned out to be a hospital, ed waiting room, with enough people inside to loose those fans. you pulled your hood lower and took a seat to calm your breath. you didn’t even wanted to pick up your phone, because for sure it was all over the internet by now that you were running around pittsburgh. whatever messages your manager was probably sending you right now, you didn’t need to see them in the moment.
when it felt safe enough to move and get back to the hotel, you stood up and quickly fell back down to the seat, when someone stepped on your foot. hard. it wouldn’t be so bad, if you weren’t already having issues with your foot after stepping on it the wrong way few days before. you didn’t tell anything, because the last thing you wanted was for your management to hold you back.
“ma’am, you’re okay?” you squeezed your eyes shut. “i’m such a clumsy guy,” he said with voice that sound like he was already tearing up. “doc, i stepped on this lady, i’m so sorry ma’am, can you check her out?”
“i’m busy, everyone will be seen when there is a doctor available,” the doctor said, rushing somewhere else, bumping into patients.
“i’m okay,” you said to the guy. god, you weren’t even waiting to see the any doctor, you just wanted to hide here.
“no, i’ll get you a doctor,” he insisted. “doctor robby!” he said, as soon as he noticed a tall, older guy. “can you help me out, doc?”
“i just clocked out,” he said, raising his hands up. “but doctor abbot right here is all yours.” he shook his friend by the shoulders and went on his way.
you kept your head down, thinking how could you possibly get out of this situation in different way than by just standing up and running, which with your hurting foot was impossible.
“what seems to be the problem this time?” he asked, walking up to the man that crushed your foot.
“not me doc, this poor lady, it’s her foot. i just stepped on it.”
the doctor kneeled down to get in your level. you looked at him like you were afraid that crossing eyes with anyone would mean another wave of scary fans. but he looked at you like you were any other patient, it was such a relief.
“hello ma’am, i’m doctor abbot. what brought you here today in the first place?” he asked, catching your gaze. fuck. he was hot. old, but it wasn’t ever an issue to you.
“i—” you started, before letting our a nervous chuckle. what was you supposed to say? “it’s funny story actually,” you said, tugging your hood lower on your face, when it felt like it was slipping down.
“i’d like to hear it,” he said, opening his hands like it was an invitation. weren’t the best lies the ones where half of the story was the truth?
“i was running, i mean, running away from… someone and i came here to loose them, i just sat down to catch my breath and here we are now.”
you were great under the pressure, performing in front of thousands of fans, keeping your head up during interviews even when they were disrespecting the hell out of you. the weight of his gaze on you though… it was something different, too aware, too caring for someone you just met. it probably came with his profession, but it didn’t change the fact that it made you stumble over your words.
“are you safe?” he asked, slightly ducking his head down to meet your eyes, when you kept trailing them away. it was simple embarrassment taking over you that made you want to look anywhere else, not at him, even if he was a sight for sore eyes. “hey, talk to me.” his voice was quiet and soft, but it still got to you through every sound in the waiting room.
“it’s not— it’s complicated,” you answered, waving your hand. soft smile found it’s way onto your lips. “i am safe now.”
dr. abbot going to get a coffee after nigh shift x young, pretty barista working the bakery in front of hospital
the night owl vs morning person, somehow always finding a middle ground at 7am over a cup of steaming, black coffee and fresh orange juice, getting closer with the sun slowly rising between buildings
your body washed up on the beach, unconcious, scarred, tangled in algae and… different than any other na’vi seen by metkayina clan. questions are left without any answer, when your eyes finally open, but not a single memory occurs in your mind. without a name, without any familiar face around you, you need to learn how to navigate your new life, connect with new poeple and discover where did you came from.
reader x various avatar characters
masterlist
chapter iv: treasure.
ao’nung’s brilliant plan to help you was great only in threory. if you lost your memories, it was obvious to him that he should take you to the cove of the ancestors. you could connect with the spirit tree, eywa would help you find your way.
it was too perfect to become true.
for a second, looking at his face, so bright and proud, something sparked in your own heart, but his confidence was too big. you were taken aback by his excitement, you spent so much time in your head overthinking your lack of memories, which was exhausting, and he acted like he found an answer on the first try.
“come on,” he said, leading you to the water. he wanted you two to mount his skimwing and swim right away.
you looked at the edge of the water, moving back and forth, touching the sand. how something that seemed so gentle could cause you so much harm?
ao’nung wasn’t bothered by na’vi around you, watching the two of you. you were new to them, how you looked, how you moved, it was so different form what they knew. some of them pointed fingers at you.
they compared your skin, the patterns, noticed your tail, because of how long and thin it was with a big fluff of hair on the end, while theirs were thicker and stronger. your tried to keep your head down, because everytime you caught someone’s gaze, they seemed shocked by the brightness of your eyes. you tucked the loose hair from your braids behind your ear, immediately feeling more exposed than you would like.
you couldn’t imagine that wherever you were from those were usual reactions. you felt like an anomaly, something that had no right to even exist here. full of distress, you pulled on the ends of your tangled braids, they were so messed up that even in a constantly moving surface of water, you could see that they shouldn’t look like that.
water touched your toes and you moved back abruptly.
you couldn’t get into water.
it was the only thing that you remembered.
waves were crushing your whole body. tide wanted to rip you apart, send your body parts in different directions, feed them to any animal willing to gnaw at your tired, weak muscles. water filled your ears, you felt like you would hear sounds of the ocean for the rest of your days, no matter how far you’ll run away and hide.
ao’nung noticed your hesitation. he swallowed the sigh wanting to escape his lips. ‘be more understanding, be a better leader,’ he thought.
“i’m the best swimmer here, you’ll be safe with me,” he said, slowly making his way to you, coming out of the water. “i promise.”
you looked at him, not at his face, because you got used to him avoiding your gaze anyway, when you were still tied up. your eyes stayed on his collarbones, but even if your face was in a flightly different direction, he could see that his promises meant nothing.
how could you trust him, when you didn’t know him at all?
“take a leap of faith,” he asked you, but you wouldn’t even grace him with a shake of your head.
ao’nung slowly dropped his hand that he reached out for you moments ago.
disappointment washed over his body, he wasn’t used to the feeling of failure or blunt rejection from someone else than his parents. it wasn’t something he wanted to feel.
“i can’t,” you said with a heavy breath. “i can’t do it.”
ao’nung’s first reaction was to groan with frustration, but he had to bite that down and act more maturely. he was responsible for you, he knew the solution, he just needed to get you to trust him enough to let him lead you.
“okay.”
it wasn’t what you expected, there was no scoff or any other sound that would mean he’s tired of you. you looked up to him, the hair sticking out of your braids slightly obstruced your view, but you still saw a slightly forced neutral expression.
“okay?” you asked, as he stepped fully out of the water to stand closer to you.
“not today, i understand it,” he asked, watching you pull on one of your braids tighter. he wasn’t sure if you were that nervous around him or was it the situation making you pull your hair in stress. you turned your gaze away again, making him lean slightly in your direction to catch it and drive this conversation to the point, where he would be sure that you understood that you needed to give him a chance. “not today, but some day.”
you wanted to take a step back, but your feet felt stuck in the sand.
“what if it never comes?” you asked. getting defensive was the easiest way to react. if you cut off his expectations early enough, he wouldn’t have right to be disappointed in you when you’re got meeting them.
“aren’t you an optimistic girl,” he chuckled, shaking his head slightly.
you looked at him, seeing that kind of expression from him for the first time was… a surprise. it’s not that he was always deadly serious, he just seemed intense, too intense for a moment of calm laugh.
“some day,” he said firmly, feeling like there was a space in that sentence for your name. if only he could fill it. “for now, i’ll show you our ways, here on the ground.”
you wished to not be a burden for people of metkayina, but you highly doubted that you would be usefull in their day-to-day life. maybe some of the things he planned on showing you, you’d already know and you would pick them up easily, maybe wherever you came from, you were an amazing gatherer, maybe woving materials was your biggest passion.
you found yourself looking at your hands quite often, hoping to see scars from carrying weapon, or a line of tan somewhere on your body that would tell you that you lost in the ocean your usual piece of jewellery.
tsireya gave you a top and loincloth, fresh and made with you in her mind, when she learned that you got washed up on the shore. you didn’t even had your own ones, that would give any lead, since you were dressed only in algae that tangled over you when you were found. whatever you wore at home, if you even had one, you knew if had to be very different from the top made of pearls, in which you felt like you were wearing costume. it was beautifull, you were amazed by the amount of work that had to go into weaving white pearls into a dark blue thread. but it wasn’t yours. you only hoped that tsireya would find a use for it, when you’re gone some day.
“but first we should do something with this,” he said, touching the part of your hair that was constantly falling onto your face. “tsireya is great at braiding,” he offered help of his sister.
“it’s the only thing that’s mine,” you said suddenly. when ao’nung was already thinking what hairstyle would suit you. “i don’t have anything else that came with me here, it’s the only sign of my home i have.”
he looked at you for a moment, trying to understand your feelings towards your messy hair.
he reached his hand to touch one of your braids, you tried not to flinch or get scared away. he slid his fingers down on it.
“she’ll figure the way to make it look the same,” he said, giving you a convincing smile. the braids didn’t seem too complicated, four of them on the top of your head, turning into the sea of smaller ones lower. beside one that was slightly thicker against other ones and it wasn’t your kuru.
you watched his eyes fill with intensity, but you didn’t know the reason. without any word, he let go of your braid, only to step behind your back and put hands into your hair again.
“what are you doing?” you asked and he hushed you quickly.
“don’t move.”
he found that thicker, irregular braid and reached to the end of it to start untying it. you stood still, too taken aback by his sudden movements to even question it.
it took him a moment, he wasn’t good at handling hair, he had a tendency to always leaving it to someone else to take care of for him, but he was motivated. before he reached a half of the lenght, he was sure that his intuition was right and it wasn’t just a mistake when someone was braiding your hair. there was something in the core of it.
“i think it’s your songcord.”
#mistytalks i’m savouring the moments where reader still is scared of everything around, because once she’s over it… she won’t shut up (so me)
your body washed up on the beach, unconcious, scarred, tangled in algae and… different than any other na’vi seen by metkayina clan. questions are left without any answer, when your eyes finally open, but not a single memory occurs in your mind. without a name, without any familiar face around you, you need to learn how to navigate your new life, connect with new poeple and discover where did you came from.
reader x various avatar characters
masterlist
chapter iii: help.
ao’nung couldn’t bear the look his mother was giving him, but he stood his ground. as a future head of their clan he had to take responsibility of things he did, especially when he was sure that he did right thing. tsireya’s gesture of silent comforting, which was her hand on his elbow, only secured him in believing in his actions.
you sat on the ground outside of their marui, where they discussed what next to do with you. there was a warrior by your side, keeping an eye on you, but your own ones didn’t spare him a gaze. ocean ahead of you was taking every bit of your attention. it was unsettling, but somehow you couldn’t stop looking. you could almost feel again the waves crushing your bones. shudder moved your body, which caused the warrior’s grip his knife tighter
“she is not dangerous, she is scared,” tsireya tried to reason with her parents. “she spoke to ao’nung! this was what we wanted, right?”
“she said one word that gives us nothing,” her father said calmly, acting as a stable ground between his mate and children. “but it is a step,” he said to his wife.
ronal scoffed, taking few steps back. they all seemed insane in her eyes. there was a stranger in their home and none of them understood the weight of it.
“she was listening to tsireya, she could try talking with her now,” ao’nung offered.
“you stupid boy,” ao’nung’s mother hissed, turning back to him. she poked him with a finger on a chest. “you were the one to cut her bindings, you are now responsible for her,” she said, looking at him. he tried his best to not falter under her eyes. “she is your responsibility.”
she stormed out of the marui, not gracing you with a look. the weight of a family arguing because of you settled on your shoulders. tonowari let out deep sigh.
“you can see she’s not dangerous, sempul,” tsireya said, fighting a pout that almost made her brother roll his eyes. she was so good at giving sad look to their dad. tonowari looked at his daughter and put a hand on her cheek to comfort his younger child.
that was enough for ao’nung, his sad face would never cause reaction like this from even one of their parents. he stepped out of the pod and nodded to the warrior watching over you to send him away.
you didn’t raise your head, even though you felt his looming presence over you. you heard a deep sigh from him, before he sat down on the edge of the woven path, next to you. he hung his legs down, while you had yours tucked closely to yourself. you couldn’t trust the water even to just dip your toes into it.
“talk to me,” he said, leaning slightly to look at your face.
you kept staring somewhere on the line of horizone. ao’nung watched you for a moment, hoping to see any sign that you were about to anwer him. he watched your eyes, shade of golden he never saw anywhere else than on the sand during sunset. you were so still.
he took a deep breath and with one swift movement he leaned onto his back. the sky was clear with a colour similiar to your patterns. your whole body seemed to be made of what’s the best in nature.
“i can’t tell you anything,” you said quietly.
if you spoke more, he could probably find something to compare your voice too.
at first, ao’nung wanted to sit up straight right away, lean into your space to hear the words better, but just as his muscles tensed to get up, his mind stopped him. his parents always told him he’s not patient enough, not understanding enough yet to lead people and earn their true trust. he stayed on the path, laying down.
“why?” he asked after a beat of silence.
“i don’t know anything,” you whispered, fighting the tremble of your voice. “i don’t remember,” you managed to said against your tight throat that wanted to still keep it as a secret.
this time he couldn’t stop. ao’nung got up to sit and looked at you.
“what do you mean?” he questioned, as if what you said wasn’t as clear as the water beneath you.
“i don’t remember anything.”
silence hung between you, first time not because you weren’t the one speaking. you raised your head slightly to cast ao’nung a glance just to see him looking at you with a blank face, that fierce thing in his eyes that he had in most of the time ever since you saw him for the first time, vanished. he studied you for longer than you felt comfortable with. he was trying to see if you were lying.
it seemed absurd that someone memories could just disappear like that. for a moment he thought about his mother, maybe she was right and you were just acting to cause distraction?
flash of your face, the panic you were in when he gave you his name made sense now. only a person who didn’t know their own name would react like that. his mother left his mind.
“i’ll help you remember,” he said, the spark coming back to his eyes. your stare went back to the line of horizon. you couldn’t keep up with the fire igniting in his gaze. helplessness in you was too overwhelming.
#mistytalks i know it’s little boring for now, but every story needs a set up to start for real right btw if you can’t visualize the patterns that are on readers body, the swirls you can see on the left side of the graphics i made for this story are them!
summary aonung has been courting you, but you’re a little oblivious to the fact.
Pairing aonung x Metkayina!reader
wc 7.2k
a/n hi guys, if I haven’t done your request by now I’m probably just really not able to write it. I get writers block so bad. But feel free to send in different ones! I love your ideas and inspiration
The sky had deepened into a bruised plum color, the vast expanse above bleeding from the burning orange of an eclipse sunset into the cool, velvety indigo of true night. Around your thighs, the bioluminescence of the shore was beginning to wake up, greeting the darkness in tiny, flickering pulses of neon blue beneath the surface. The tide was low, revealing the skeleton of the reef—a labyrinth of coral and sandbars that usually lay hidden beneath the turquoise waves.
You shifted the weight of your woven basket, resting it firmly against the curve of your hip as you waded through the knee-deep water. The woven palm fronds dug slightly into your skin, damp and rough, but the weight was satisfying. It was a physical promise of the hours of creation ahead; a heavy basket meant a busy night at the loom, crushing shells for pigment and threading beads for the clan’s ceremonial sashes.
A few yards away, the soft splashing of water broke the rhythmic lapping of the tide. Lo’ak and Tsireya were lost in their own world, a bubble of laughter and shy touches that seemed impenetrable to the outside world. Lo’ak was submerged to his waist, his tail splashing playfully behind him as he ducked down, his movements unrefined but enthusiastic, to scoop up a handful of polished stones.
"For you," he mumbled, his ears flushing a dark violet as he offered them to her.
Tsireya giggled, the sound like the wind chimes her mother once strung around awa’atlu, and their heads leaned close together as he showed her his finds. It was a common sight now; since they’d started courting, Lo’ak had become a permanent fixture at Tsireya’s side. By extension, Aonung had stopped trying to drown him, or at the very least, had ceased his active antagonism. In fact, they moved with a comfortable, brotherly ease now—a mix of teasing and begrudging respect that made the evenings in Awa’atlu feel peaceful.
"Found another one!" you chirped, spotting a flash of cream-colored calcium beneath a sharp ledge of brain coral.
You bent over, your focus narrowing on the prize. It was distinct against the darker sand, a spiral of pure white that would grind down into a perfect, snowy paste for dye. As you leaned down, the water rippling around your waist, your thick curls tumbled forward. Gravity pulled the heavy, damp ringlets over your shoulders, obscuring your vision and sticking to your cheeks.
With a practiced, absent-minded flick of your wrist, you tossed the damp mass back over your shoulder. The beads braided into your hair—tiny pieces of shell and wood—clacked softly against one another, a musical accompaniment to your labor.
You didn't notice Aonung standing just a few feet away, his movements going perfectly still.
He had been pacing the perimeter of the sandbar, ostensibly keeping watch for akula or merely patrolling his territory, but in truth, he had been circling you. Now, he froze. He was watching the way the seawater droplets clung to your skin, shimmering like liquid crystals against your patterned teal skin. He watched the concentrated line of your brow, the tip of your tongue just barely poking out between your teeth in focus, and the way your eyes—wide and bright with genuine wonder—lit up as you pulled the small, fluted shell from the sand.
To the rest of the clan, you were a diligent worker, a kind soul. To him, in this quiet moment between day and night, you looked perfectly in your element—a pretty girl collecting pretty things, entirely unaware of how the starlight caught the curve of your collarbone.
Your head turned toward the figure looming a little ways away. Your eyes unexpectedly landed on Aonung, and a confused expression took over your features. He usually spent this time of day sharpening his spear or boasting with his friends by the fire. You wondered what he was doing here, standing so silently in the shallows, but deciding not to press, you simply waved at him.
Your inviting demeanor was one of his favorite things about you, though he would sooner die than admit it out loud. You never let anyone in the clan feel left out or less than. You were loyal to your people, a healer of spirits if not of bodies, always trying your hardest to make sure everyone was doing well.
"Look at the ridges on this, Aonung," you said, breaking the silence as you lifted the shell up toward him.
You took a step closer, water swirling around your thighs. Your eyes were wide, sparkling with that infectious excitement you only got when you found a new treasure for your art. "The symmetry is perfect. Eywa really was showing off when she made this one."
Aonung stared at the shell, forcing his eyes to focus on the calcium spiral rather than the water dripping from your curls, and gliding over your ceremonial tattoo. Then, against his will, his gaze drifted up to your face. He felt that familiar tight pull in his chest—a mixture of suffocating pride and a desperate, surging need to be the reason that look stayed on your face. He wanted to be the source of that wonder, not a dead piece of calcium.
"It is... adequate," he managed to say, his voice a bit deeper than usual, rough like gravel rolling in the surf.
He felt foolish the moment the words left his lips. Adequate? It was a beautiful find. But his defenses were high, a wall built of teenage bravado and the terrifying vulnerability of a first love. He didn't wait for you to respond. He turned abruptly and effortlessly dove, his powerful tail kicking up a spray of glowing foam that misted the air between you.
You simply hummed with a small tilt of your head, unbothered by his stoicism. You dropped the shell into your basket, the clack of it joining the others, and watched his figure disappear into the darkening water.
Unbeknownst to you, underneath the surface, Aonung was on a mission.
The water was cooler here, silent save for the rush of the current. His bioluminescent spots glowed brightly in the dim depths, marking his path like a constellation. He swam past the easy finds—the common cowries and the drift-wood that Lo’ak was content finding in the shallows for his little sister. That was child's play. That was easy.
Aonung wanted the deeper parts of the reef. He wanted the places where the current was often unpredictable, where the pressure built against his ears, but where the rewards were unparalleled. He kicked harder, propelling himself toward a jagged drop-off where the coral grew thick and ancient. He scanned the crevices, his eyes adjusting to the gloom, hunting. He needed something that spoke of effort. Something that said, I went where others could not, just for you.
When he surfaced minutes later, he didn't just walk over and drop his finds into your basket. He waited. He treaded water, watching you scan the shoreline, waiting until you were standing still with that contemplative look on your face. He watched the way you bit your lower lip as you decided where to step next, your tail swaying in the water behind you for balance.
Only then did he move. He walked right into your space, dripping wet, the rising heat of his body radiating through the cool evening air. He stopped mere inches from you, close enough that you had to crane your neck slightly to look him in the eye.
"The shallows only give you what the ocean is tired of holding," he said softly, his voice low and intimate.
He reached out, his large hand hovering over your basket. He placed a cluster of small shells onto the pile of your woven treasures. They were heavy, distinct—a deep, blood-red color, their surfaces smooth as glass but thick and sturdy. They looked like they could withstand a storm, or a thousand years of tides.
You gasped, your fingers immediately abandoning your own basket rim to ghost over them.
"Aonung... these are beautiful," you whispered, the breath leaving your lungs. You looked up at him through your lashes, eyes wide. "The color... I’ve never seen this shade before. I can use the pigment from the broken ones to dye my thread the color of the eclipse sun. How did you find so many?"
You smiled, your ears swiveling back in delight as you felt your heart thump at the gesture. The realization hit you suddenly—he was so close. His broad frame towered over you, blocking out the view of the distant village fires, encompassing your entire world in that moment. You could practically trace every line of his tattoo that streamed from where his brow met his nose, to the right side of his face.
Aonung felt a swell of triumph so potent it nearly made him dizzy. He noticed the way you looked at the shells—with reverence and joy—and he silently vowed to empty the entire ocean floor, to fight an akula with his bare hands, if it meant you’d keep looking at him with those wide, appreciative eyes.
"I know where the hidden pockets are," he said, clearing his throat and trying to sound nonchalant.
He crossed his arms over his chest, though his own heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. A smirk grew on his lips, that familiar teasing glint appearing in his eyes as he narrowed them. He did a dramatic look away toward the other couple, shrugging his shoulders. "Lo’ak and Tsireya are happy with the scraps. I thought you might want something... more."
You gasped, your ears swiveling back, and you slapped his bicep playfully. The muscle under your hand was hard as rock, and wet skin slick against your palm. A small giggle of shock fell past your lips.
"Do not be mean, Aonung," you chided, though there was no heat in it. "But... thank you. Thank you for being so helpful today."
You gave him a bright, blinding smile, one that crinkled the corners of your eyes, before happily going back to your searching. You adjusted the basket, treating his contribution like gold, and bent down again to inspect the sand closely.
Predictably, your curls fell forward again.
Aonung stood rooted to the spot. Once more, you huffed softly and flipped them back with that graceful, unconscious toss of your head. Aonung watched the movement, his hands twitching at his sides. His fingers curled into fists. He wanted so badly to reach out. He wanted to be the one to tuck those wayward curls behind your ear. He wanted to be the one to carry the basket that was clearly getting too heavy to rest on your hip. He wanted to do everything for you, and the intensity of the desire was terrifying.
"Hey! Y/N! Aonung! Check this out!"
The shout broke the spell. Lo’ak was waving his arms frantically from a tidal pool a twenty meters away. He was holding up a bright orange sea star, visibly dry— either a shed or it simply died before it could make it back to the water. "It’s huge!"
Aonung looked at Lo’ak, his jaw tightening. Then he looked back at you.
He saw you laugh at Lo’ak’s find, your attention shifting entirely to the forest boy. "That’s amazing, Lo’ak! It will make a great center for a chest piece!" you called, your voice light and affectionate.
A sudden, sharp spark of jealousy—not of Lo’ak as a rival, but of the attention you were giving the sea star—flared in Aonung’s chest. It burned hot and fast. A starfish? Anyone could find a starfish. A starfish was nothing.
He didn't say a word. He didn't acknowledge Lo'ak's shout. He just turned and dove again, slashing into the water with more force than necessary. He went deeper this time, past the red shells, past the coral ridge. He was determined to find something so magnificent, so rare, that you wouldn't be able to look at Lo'ak, or the stars, or anything else for the rest of the night.
You laughed softly at his sudden departure, shaking your head. "He is so competitive," you murmured to yourself, amused by his antics. To you, it was just boys being boys, trying to outdo one another in speed and skill.
As the time passed, the moon rose higher, casting a silver sheen over the water. Your basket grew heavier, forcing you to switch hips frequently. You shifted the weight of Aonung's growing pile of treasures—he had returned three more times, each time with something more impressive: a piece of obsidian glass, a pearl still inside the oyster, and a branch of coral that looked like frozen lightning.
Finally, Tsireya waded over to you, Lo'ak trailing behind her like a happy puppy.
"Your brother is in such a good mood today, isn't he?" you said, wiping the sand from your hands as you turned to Tsireya. You gestured to the waterline where Aonung was currently surfacing, holding something that glowed faintly purple in his hands. "It's so nice of him to help me collect materials. Usually, he says weaving is boring work."
Tsireya froze. She looked at the rare, aesthetic hoard in your basket—materials that would have taken days to find in the shallows. She looked at the blood-red shells that required a dangerous dive into the trench.
Then, she looked out at the water. She saw her brother, the future Olo'eyktan, usually so proud and aloof, practically vibrating with the hope that you would like his latest offering. He was looking at you with an expression so open, so full of longing, that it was almost painful to witness.
Finally, she looked back at your sweet, oblivious face. You were smiling, genuinely believing Aonung was just being a dutiful clan member.
Tsireya let out a long, slow sigh, shaking her head.
"Yes, Ma tsmuke," Tsireya murmured, a pitying smile on her lips as she patted your arm. "Extremely... 'nice.'"
The following week dissolved into a blur of turquoise water and sun-bleached moments, defined less by your daily chores and more by the sudden, omnipresent gravity of the chief’s son. It was as if he had developed a sixth sense for your whereabouts, appearing whenever you were just starting to feel relaxed.
He appeared at random, unpredictable hours, disrupting the rhythm of your day with the chaotic energy of a storm tide. If you were mending nets by the docks, his shadow would suddenly fall over your work, his hands "accidentally" brushing yours as he offered to help with a knot you perfectly understood how to tie. If you were having a quiet meal, he would drift by, dropping a fresh fruit onto your woven mat without a word, only a smirk that lingered long after he had walked away.
But it was the afternoons beneath the water that became his favorite hunting ground.
You were deep underwater, the sunlight filtering down in shimmering "god-rays" that danced across the sandy floor, riding ilus with the Sully children and Tsireya. Down here, the world was silent save for the muffled clicks of the sea life and the rhythmic beat of your own heart.
You were all gliding through a forest of giant sea fans, the Sullys struggling a bit with their breathing rhythms while Tsireya moved with the effortless grace of a creature born of the current. You were focused on your own mount, adjusting your grip on the neural bond, when a large, dark shadow swept over you.
Aonung appeared right beside you, his ilu banking sharply to match your speed. In the turquoise gloom, his bioluminescent dots glowed like a map of the stars. He caught your eye and flashed a wide, shit-eating grin that sent a jolt through your chest. He didn't say a word—he didn't have to. He simply raised a hand, signing one sharp, challenging word:
“Race?”
You didn't even wait to signal the others. You leaned flat against the ilu’s neck, and the two of you went full throttle.
The pressure of the water increased as you accelerated, the reef becoming a blur of neon streaks. You pushed through the resistance, your tail acting as a secondary rudder, feeling the raw power of the ocean rushing past your skin. You and Aonung were neck-and-neck, weaving through coral arches and tight rock formations, completely dusting your friends. By the time you looped around the massive sea-wall and tore back toward the shore, the rest of the group was nothing but distant, tiny specks in the blue.
As the water turned from deep indigo to the pale, sun-drenched teal of the shallows, you both breached the surface simultaneously.
You gasped for air, the transition from the silent depths to the crashing sound of the waves making your head spin for a moment. Aonung popped up just inches away. He was desperately trying to play it cool, smoothing his hair back with both hands, but he couldn't hide the heavy, ragged heave of his chest. The race had pushed him just as hard as it had pushed you.
In the heat of the moment, your eyes betrayed you.
Instead of looking at the horizon or checking on the others, your gaze drifted. It started at his soaked hair, which was plastered to his forehead, then traced the dark, intricate tattoos that marked his face as a future leader. Your eyes lingered on his broadening shoulders and the powerful swell of his chest, following the lines of his body down to his core. His abs were defined and tense from the exertion, partially obscured by a beautifully woven chest piece that slung around his shoulders—a piece you knew he’d spent time choosing.
Aonung went still. He caught you staring, the exhaustion in his eyes instantly replaced by a predatory, playful spark. His ears flickered once, twice, and then that arrogant, knowing grin returned.
“My eyes are up here, ma txe’lan,” he teased.
His voice was a low, honeyed rumble that cut through the sound of the surf. You felt the blood rush to your face instantly, your ears flattening in pure mortification as your eyes shot back up to meet his. He watched your panic with absolute delight, his smile growing wider as he realized exactly how much of an effect he was having on you.
You quickly regained your composure, holding your head high as you huffed at him, trying to summon every ounce of dignity you had left while your face still burned a vivid shade of violet.
“I was simply observing the weaving!” you shot back, splashing a handful of water toward him to distract from your blush. “I helped make that piece, y’know? I was checking to see if you’d managed to fray the edges already with your... recklessness.”
Aonung didn’t flinch at the water; he leaned into it, his grin only sharpening. He looked down at the woven leather and shell-work crossing his chest, then back at you, his eyes hooded and dark with mischief.
"Ah, so it was a professional inspection then?" he asked, his voice dropping into a conspiratorial whisper. He began to paddle his ilu closer, the creature’s wet skin squeaking against yours as he closed the gap. "Tell me, weaver, did the 'work' meet your standards? Or do you need to get closer to check the... structural integrity?"
He was so close now that you could feel the heat radiating off his skin, a stark contrast to the cool ocean mist clinging to your shoulders. The playful arrogance in his posture was infuriating, mostly because it was working.
"The work is fine," you managed to say, though your voice lacked its usual bite. "The wearer, however, is being a nuisance."
"A nuisance?" Aonung laughed, the sound deep and genuine. He reached up, his large hand lingering near the strap of the chest piece, right over the fastening thrum of his heart. "And here I thought I was being helpful, giving you a chance to admire your handiwork in action. Most artists would be grateful for such a... fine canvas."
He flexed his shoulder slightly, making the shells on the strap clack together—the very shells he had dived into the deep reef to find for you just a week prior. It was a silent reminder of the effort he was putting in, a hidden thread of vulnerability beneath his teasing— and unbeknownst to you, he’d chosen that piece because he recognized your work.
Before you could think of a witty retort, the sound of chattering ilus and splashing water announced the arrival of the others.
"Finally!" Lo’ak’s voice boomed as he surfaced a few yards away, his expression a mix of annoyance and awe. "What was that? You guys took off like you had an akula on your tails!"
Tsireya pulled up beside him, her eyes darting between your flushed face and Aonung’s smug expression. She didn't miss the way her brother was lingering in your personal space, or the way your tail was twitching nervously beneath the surface. A knowing, slightly weary smile touched her lips.
"Aonung, stop pestering her," Tsireya chided gently, though there was a twinkle of amusement in her eyes. "She came out here to enjoy the water, not to be run ragged by your ego."
"I was merely testing her speed, sister," Aonung said, finally pulling his mount back a few inches, though he kept his gaze locked on yours. "And it seems she is almost as fast as I am. Almost."
He winked at you—a quick, daring movement that felt like a secret shared in front of everyone—before turning his ilu to join the group.
The afternoon that followed was shared between the both of you.
The sun, a bloated orb of fire, dipped toward the horizon, bleeding amber and gold into the turquoise waters of the reef. In the weavers' pavilion, the air was thick with the scent of dried sea grass, crushed minerals, and the faint, sweet aroma of the incense the elders burned to honor the Great Mother.
You sat nestled in your usual spot, your legs tucked beneath you. This was your sanctuary. While the others were out hunting or practicing with their spears, you found a different kind of power in the loom. There was a rhythm to it—a heartbeat in the clack-clack of the wood and the sliding of the shuttle.
You were surrounded by the elders of the clan, women whose hands were stained with dye and whose skin was etched with the deep, storied lines of many seasons. You loved their company; they didn't care about the petty dramas of the teenagers or the posturing of the hunters. They spoke of the ancestors, of the flow of Eywa, and today, they were particularly interested in your recent progress.
"Your thread is becoming stronger, little one," Ti’miria, the eldest among them, remarked as she peered over her spectacles made of polished translucent shell. "And your eye for color is improving."
You beamed, dipping a bundle of fibers into a bowl of fixative. "Thank you, Ti’miria. I’ve been trying a new technique for the binding." you watched a her eyes wandered to your material basket.
"You have been blessed by the tides, little one," Saeyla remarked, her voice like crinkling parchment. She gestured with a gnarled, dye-stained finger toward the cluster of deep, blood-red shells resting atop your fibers. "Those are not found by mere luck. They cling to the undersides of the jagged rocks where the currents are strong enough to rip a weak swimmer from the reef."
You flushed, reaching down to pick one up. It felt heavy and cool, its surface polished by the violence of the ocean. "I didn't find them," you said, your voice softening. "Aonung went to get them for me. He said the shallows were only for things the ocean was tired of holding."
A hush fell over the circle. It wasn't a cold silence, but one pregnant with meaning. Ti’miria exchanged a look with the woman beside her—a look that held the weight of a thousand seasons. They knew the pride of the Olo'eyktan’s son; they knew he didn't risk his life for "weaving supplies" unless his heart was already caught in the thread.
"Is that so?" She whispered, a secretive, knowing smile stretching her lips. "How very... helpful of him."
Before you could defend his honor or insist it was just a display of his typical arrogance, a shadow lengthened across the pavilion floor. The heavy, rhythmic footfalls were unmistakable.
Aonung strode in, looking entirely too large and too vibrantly alive for the quiet space. He wasn't carrying a spear or a net. Instead, he held a small, sturdy basket of his own. Without a word of greeting to the elders—though he gave them a respectful dip of his head—he dropped onto the mat directly beside you.
"Aonung!" you hissed, your eyes wide as you leaned toward him. "What are you doing here? This is a quiet space."
He didn't look at you. Instead, he began pulling out strips of dark, cured leather and a handful of small, iridescent shells that shimmered like oil on water. "My father says a leader must know the craft of his people," he grumbled, though his ears were twitching in a way that suggested he was lying through his teeth. "I have... things to make. I am joining you."
You stared at his basket. It wasn't filled with broken gear to mend. It was filled with beautiful, hand-picked treasures—small, delicate white shells, obsidian beads, and a strange, glowing blue seaglass.
"Since when do you weave, Aonung?" you whispered, your voice hushed so the elders wouldn't hear your teasing.
"Since I decided I wanted to," he snapped back, though there was no heat in it. He fumbled with the leather strips, his large, calloused fingers looking comically oversized as he tried to start a basic four-strand braid.
You watched him for a moment, your heart doing a strange little skip. He was being so deliberate, his brow furrowed in that same intense concentration you had seen when he was hunting. You assumed he was making a new grip for his knife or perhaps a decorative band for his ilu. You had no idea that every shell in his basket had been chosen because it reminded him of the way the light caught your eyes, or that the length of the kelp leather he was braiding was exactly the circumference of your neck.
The hour stretched on. The elders eventually stopped staring and went back to their own work, their low hum of gossip returning like the evening tide.
Aonung was struggling. A low, frustrated growl vibrated in his chest as the leather strips slipped from his grip for the third time.
"You're pulling much too hard," you murmured, reaching over without thinking.
Your fingers brushed his, and he went perfectly still. The heat of his skin was startling against yours. You gently took the leather from his hands, showing him how to keep the tension even. "If you pull too hard on the left, the whole braid will twist. You have to be patient, Aonung. You have to follow to the material."
You guided his hands with yours, your smaller fingers resting over his knuckles. For a moment, the world narrowed down to the sensation of his skin, the smell of salt and sun that followed him everywhere, and the rhythmic sound of his breathing.
He didn't look at the braid. He was looking at you. His gaze was heavy, focused on the way your hair fell over your shoulder, on the small patch of bioluminescence near your collarbone where this necklace would soon rest, on the way your lips moved as you explained the craft.
"Like this?" he asked, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that made your stomach flip.
"Yes," you whispered, finally meeting his eyes. "Exactly like that."
You spent the rest of the evening in a state of quiet bliss. You discovered that Aonung was actually quite funny when he wasn't trying to be the toughest warrior in the village. He told you about the time he tried to ride a skimwing before he was ready and ended up face-first in a patch of stinging coral. He told you about the hidden caves behind the northern cliffs where the water turned a color so bright it looked like the sky.
And all the while, he worked. He meticulously wove the shells into the leather, his movements becoming more fluid under your guidance. He was creating a necklace—a piece of jewelry so intricate and beautiful it would have taken an expert weeks—but he was doing it in a single night, fueled by a desperate, silent need to give you something of his own making.
By the time the moon was high and the fireflies of the reef began their nightly dance, you were both finished. The pavilion was empty, the elders having slipped away long ago with knowing smiles.
"I should get back," you said, feeling a sudden, shy heaviness in your limbs. "My family will be wondering where I am."
"I will walk you," he said. It wasn't a suggestion.
He picked up your heavy basket, slinging it over his shoulder as if it weighed nothing, while he tucked his own finished work into a hidden pouch at his waist.
The walk to your marui was slow. The village was quiet, the only sound the soft slap-slapof the water against the pilings and the distant call of a night-bird. Aonung walked close to you—so close your shoulders occasionally brushed.
When you reached the entrance to your home, he handed you your basket. The moonlight caught the sharp angles of his face, softening the arrogance into something much more vulnerable.
"I enjoyed the weaving," he said, rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. "Even if the elders are nosy."
You let out a soft giggle, your tail swaying behind you. "They just like to see you doing something that doesn't involve throwing a spear, Aonung."
You looked up at him, your heart hammering against your ribs. You wanted to say more. You wanted to ask him why he had really come, why he had looked at you like that over the leather strips, but the words felt too big for your throat.
"Thank you for walking me," you said instead, giving him a shy, radiant smile. "And for the help today."
"Goodnight, Y/N," he whispered.
You turned to go inside, your mind racing, but just as you reached the curtain, you looked back. He was still standing there, a dark silhouette against the silver water, watching you with an intensity that made your breath hitch. You waved a small, hesitant hand, and he nodded once before turning to melt into the shadows of the village.
As you stepped inside your marui and set your basket down, you felt a strange sense of completion. You didn't know yet that tomorrow, he would find you by the shore and press a cold, woven necklace into your hand—a gift of blue teardrop pearls, starlight and the talon of a reef bird to match his own, woven by the hands of a warrior who had finally found something worth holding onto more than his pride.
The golden hour in Awa’atlu was more than just a time of day; it was a transformation of the world. The Great Mother seemed to hold her breath as the sun, a bloated and magnificent orb of molten fire, dipped toward the horizon. It bled a palette of impossible colors—burning amber, bruised plum, and a liquid gold that turned the surface of the ocean into a shimmering mirror of fire.
The air was heavy and warm, carrying the sweet, intoxicating scent of the night-blooming flora from the shoreline and the sharp, clean tang of salt spray. It was the kind of evening that felt permanent, as if the universe had paused just to witness the transition from the frantic energy of the day to the bioluminescent peace of the night.
You were wading in the waist-deep water near the village docks, the cool, rhythmic lap of the tide a soothing balm against your skin. Today, you had finally unraveled your hair from its tight, intricate ceremonial braids. Without the weight of the beads and the structure of the weave, your hair felt immense—a thick, wild sea of curls that cascaded over your shoulders and floated atop the water like dark, silken kelp. You felt free, untethered, and entirely at peace.
Beside you, Tsireya was a picture of effortless grace. She was humming a soft, melodic tune—a song the Metkayina used to call the spirit of the water—as she moved through the shallows. In her hands, she held a woven basket of small, silvery fish. With practiced ease, she tossed them one by one to a group of young ilus that had gathered around you both.
The creatures were in a playful mood, their chattering clicks and whistles vibrating through the water. One particularly bold calf nudged its snout against your hip, nearly knocking you off balance. You laughed, the sound bright and clear in the evening air, as you reached down to stroke its smooth, rubbery skin.
"They are hungry tonight," you remarked, your fingers tracing the glowing patterns on the ilu's flank. "And very demanding."
Tsireya smiled, her eyes crinkling with warmth. "They know who has the best spirit, ma tsmuke. They can feel that you are at rest today."
But as the words left her lips, her gaze drifted past you, toward the pale curve of the shoreline. Her expression shifted—a mischievous, knowing glint entering her eyes that made your heart do a sudden, unprompted hop. "It seems we are not the only ones drawn to the water tonight," she murmured, her voice dropping into a conspiratorial tone.
You followed her gaze, squinting against the blinding gold of the setting sun. There, standing at the edge of the tide where the sand met the surf, was Aonung.
He looked different than he had in the weavers' pavilion or during the frantic races on the reef. Gone was the loud-mouthed warrior, replaced by someone who looked uncharacteristically hesitant. He was standing perfectly still, his hands tucked behind his back, his tail giving a sharp, rhythmic flick that betrayed his internal nerves. He was watching you—not with his usual smirk, but with an intensity that felt heavy, even from a distance.
He seemed to be contemplating his next move, caught in a moment of rare indecision. From where you stood, you couldn't see the sweat on his palms or the way his heart was hammering against his ribs, but you could see the way he looked at you. To Aonung, you were the center of the world. The golden light caught the curve of your neck, the wild tumble of your hair, and the way your woven top rested perfectly against your skin. You were a vision of everything he had been working toward for weeks.
Tsireya, never one to let her brother suffer in silence, cupped her hands around her mouth. "Aonung! Are you waiting for the tide to go out, or are you going to join us?"
The shout broke his trance. You saw him jump slightly, his ears pinning back in a flash of visible panic. He looked around as if hoping a rogue akula might appear to give him an excuse to leave, but when he realized he was trapped, he squared his shoulders. With a deep breath that expanded his broad chest, he began to wade out into the water.
His movements were slow, deliberate. As he drew closer, the water rippling around his strong legs, the playful chattering of the ilus seemed to fade into the background. There was a gravity to his approach that made the air feel thick.
"Tsireya," he said stiffly as he reached the two of you, offering his sister a curt nod. Then, his eyes locked onto yours, and the rest of the world simply ceased to exist for him. "Y/N."
Tsireya didn't miss the way his gaze lingered on your hair, or the way your own tail was twitching beneath the surface. She let out a soft, knowing giggle. "I believe the ilus by the marui’s are feeling neglected," she announced, already turning to swim away. "Do not be a bore, Aonung. Try to use your words."
She disappeared into the golden glare, leaving the two of you in a pocket of profound, charged silence. The water swirled between you, the rising heat of his body radiating through the cooling evening air.
"You look..." Aonung started, his voice cracking slightly. He cleared his throat, deepening it to regain his composure. "Your hair. It is different."
"I took the braids out," you said, feeling a sudden, shy heat rise in your cheeks. You reached up to brush a damp curl from your face. "Do you like it?"
"I... yes. very much," he breathed, his eyes traveling over every feature of your face.
The moment felt fragile, like a piece of spun glass. Aonung took a half-step closer, his large frame towering over you, blocking out the sun and surrounding you in his shadow. He reached into the small pouch at his waist, his movements slow and reverent.
"I have been thinking," he began, his voice dropping into a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in your chest. "I have been courting you for a while now. It has been... a process. But I think I am finally ready to present you with this."
He held out his hand. Lying across his broad, calloused palm was the necklace he had labored over in the pavilion.
In the dying light of the sun, it was breathtaking. The green woven kelp-leather was vibrant and rich, a testament to the patience you had taught him. At the center hung the reef bird talon, polished until it gleamed like a piece of dark glass, a perfect mirror to the one he wore himself. But it was the additions that made your breath catch—trailing along the weave were small, blue teardrop pearls. They were the exact shade of the pearls you wore in your hair, shimmering with an iridescent light that spoke of the deep ocean.
"Aonung," you whispered, your fingers ghosting over the talon. "It’s beautiful. It’s perfect."
"I wanted it to be right," he said, his ears perking up at your praise. "I wanted it to match you. To show that I see you."
You were staring at the intricate knots, moved beyond words, but then his earlier phrasing finally clicked in your mind. You looked up at him, your brow furrowing in genuine, sweet confusion. "Wait... what did you just say?"
Aonung blinked, his confident posture wavering. "I said I wanted it to match you?"
"No, before that," you said, your head tilting to the side. "The part about... courting?"
Aonung’s ears did a slow, dramatic droop. His mouth fell open, and for a moment, he looked entirely lost. "Yes. Courting. The gifts? The rare shells from the trench? The racing every afternoon? The fact that I have sat through three weaver's circles just to be near you?"
You blinked back at him, your mind racing through the memories of the past weeks. To you, it had been a series of fun, increasingly close moments with a friend who was finally softening. "I thought you were just... being helpful? I thought we were becoming very, very good friends, Aonung."
Aonung looked like he wanted to throw himself into the surf. He groaned, a long, dramatic sound of exasperation, and threw his hands up in the air. "Very good friends? Y/N, that was courting. My presence at your side every waking hour for the past fourteen sun-cycles just to be very good friends?"
He paced a small, frustrated circle in the waist-deep water, his tail splashing the surface. "Did you think I was doing that for Lo'ak? You truly didn't know? After everything?"
The heat in your face was now a full, violet flush. Looking back at the intensity in his eyes, the way he always stood a little too close, the way he had essentially become your shadow—it was so blindingly obvious that you felt like a fool.
"Well... now that I think about it," you murmured, a sheepish, radiant smile spreading across your lips. "I guess it was a bit more than 'friendly' behavior."
Aonung stopped his pacing and looked at you, his frustration melting into a look of pure, helpless affection. ""I am courting a girl who is as blind as a cave-fish," he muttered to himself, though the corner of his mouth was twitching.
"I'm sorry!" you giggled, stepping into his space until your chests were nearly touching. "But I accept. The gift... and the suitor."
Aonung’s breath hitched. "I see you, Y/N"
"I see you, Aonung"
You took the necklace from his hand, the weight of it a physical promise. You moved closer, stepping up onto your tippy-toes in the swirling water to reach him. You wrapped your arms around his thick neck, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder. Aonung didn't hesitate this time; his large arms surged around you, pulling you flush against his warm, damp skin. He held you with a strength that made you feel entirely safe, his heart hammering a frantic, joyous rhythm against your own.
In the distance, Tsireya watched from the sully Marui with lo’ak, her heart full as she saw the two of you silhouetted against the last sliver of the sun. It was done.
You pulled back just enough to look at him. "Will you help me put it on?"
Aonung’s hands were trembling as he took the leather cord. You turned around, lifting the heavy, curly mass of your hair to expose the nape of your neck. You felt the cool touch of the pearls against your skin, and then the feather-light, reverent brush of his fingers as he secured the clasp.
When you turned back to face him, the necklace sat perfectly against your collarbone, the blue pearls glowing in the twilight. Aonung reached out, his thumb grazing your jawline, his gaze darkening with a sudden, heavy intensity.
"Y/N," he breathed, his hand sliding into the curls at the back of your head to pull you closer.
You didn't wait for him to ask. You leaned in, closing the distance, and then his lips were on yours.
The kiss was everything the last few weeks had been—intense, sweet, and deep like the ocean. It tasted of salt and the warmth of the sun. Aonung groaned low in his throat, his other hand splaying across your back to hold you as if he’d never let go. You melted into him, your fingers tangling in his hair, the world around you dissolving into nothing but the feel of him and the pulse of the tide.
When he finally pulled back, his forehead stayed against yours. He was breathless, a triumphant, vulnerable smile on his face. "Now," he whispered. "Do you still think we are just 'very good friends'?"
You laughed, pulling him back down for another kiss. "No, maybe best friends."
your body washed up on the beach, unconcious, scarred, tangled in algae and… different than any other na’vi seen by metkayina clan. questions are left without any answer, when your eyes finally open, but not a single memory occurs in your mind. without a name, without any familiar face around you, you need to learn how to navigate your new life, connect with new poeple and discover where did you came from.
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warning: brief description of panic attack
chapter ii: out.
silence was the only thing everyone around you got in answer. whatever was in eywa’s plans, you weren’t voicing it.
ronal’s patience run out shortly after first question. the feeling in her gut wasn’t getting any lighter, your lack of response solidifying the feeling towards you. what were you hiding? what secrets were you guarding that you couldn’t even grace her with your name? she wasn’t used to hearing ‘no’ and even more she wasn’t used to someone ignoring her presence.
truth was, you weren’t ignoring it, not on purpose. you were dissociative for the time that felt like forever, hearing questions thrown at you and not knowing the answer was putting you in state of constant panic that was blurring your vision, caused ringing in your ears and heat running through your veins.
tonowari’s approach was more gentle at first, but the longer he had to wait for any sound from you, the more he believed his mate that you could be a mystery that shouldn’t be solved on their ground.
tsireya stayed in the pod with you longer than any of them, still tending to your wounds, even when her mother was giving her judging looks.
how could they think you were dangerous, when your eyes were full of such sadness the words couldn’t even describe? tsireya wanted to comfort you in any way that was possible to her, so she often brought you food, soups that helped you heal. she had to feed you, because taking the restrains off your hands wasn’t even a conversation she wanted to start with her parents.
you could feel with passing days getting some of your strenght back, but with lack of movement it was worth nothing.
ao’nung was keeping eye on tsireya, he wasn’t necessarily on board with his mother making you an enemy to their clan, but he still preffered to be somewhere around whenever his sister was about to stay one on one with you.
this lead him to peek his head into the pod you were staying in quite often. sometimes he was right and tsireya was sitting next to you, talking, telling you things with hope that it would help you open up, he could see some days that you were listening, but other days you had this empty look on your face that made him stop for a moment.
what was the ending of this? would you finally speak up and they would let you out? where would you go? would the truth you were holding lead to never letting you go or… never letting you leave alive?
your eyes connected, when he was standing in the door, thinking about every possibility. this was one of the days when you seemed present enough that words would get to you. there was some awareness in your golden eyes. his mother said that forest na’vi were known to have yellowish eyes, but she was sure you weren’t one of them.
“can you even speak?” he asked with a scoff. you were just wasting everybody’s time.
you looked into his eyes with such hurt in your own as an answer, he couldn’t keep looking at you.
he turned around, ready to leave, but something caught his ears.
“i can,” you sighed out.
this was the first time you heard a question you could answer and something in your brain pushed you enough to act, instead of running back into your mind with a panic that it was in fact, the only question you could answer.
ao’nung’s head whipped around, wanting to catch your lips still moving to make sure that he wasn’t just imaginig it. he stood still for a second, before making his way to you.
“now you can?” he huffed, standing over you. you were sure that even if you weren’t on the ground and tied, you would feel intimidated by his form. were you always this scared? was that the kind of person you were? or were the conditions of the situation making your body feel constantly on edge?
ao’nung watched your eyes get foggy again and he couldn’t let it happen. it was the most they all got from you in over a week since you washed up on a beach. the satisfaction he felt that it was him you answered to also played a role. he knew that he would rub it in tsireya’s face so much she’ll smack him.
“you made a step, don’t take that back,” he said, slowly kneeling down on the ground next to you. “i’m ao’nung,” he tried to offer.
if he only knew that was the worst thing he could do to you.
you couldn’t give him anything in return.
one shaky breath turned into whimper, you sniffled once and you couldn’t even think straight, turning into a mess with tears spilling down your temples. in a matter of seconds, you started to choke on your breath and laying down only made it harder to let air back inside your lungs.
oh, his mother was going to be so mad.
ao’nung picked a knife he was carrying with him at all times, before his mind could flash with disappointed look his mother always gave him whenever he did something against her wishes. with two precise moves, he cut the vines binding you and hoisted you up to sit.
he was always bad with reacting to people crying, usually he made fun of them, especially when it was tsireya and in this moment any move seemed bad. he debated if he should step back or stay close.
was his name that terrible for you to end up in such state?
“it’s alright,” he said awkwardly, patting you on the back, as you cried.
ao’nung heard from people who saw his father carrying you to the marui that your skin was like midnight sky, such a deep shade of blue and now he could see this especially, when tears were running down your face, caught in sun trying to break into the pod.
he hated to admit that, but he wished tsireya was here, she would’ve know what to do you. one time he truly wanted her to waste her time sitting close to you, and she wasn’t there… he had to think like her.
“fresh air will help you,” he said, catching your elbows and slowly standing up. your body followed him, your legs were wobbly, hips felt weak, but you couldn’t stop him from leading you out. “easy,” he hummed, putting an arm around you, when he felt how pliable you were in his hands.
tsireya said countless time to him that she wished you to step outside for a moment, maybe some shining on your face could help you as much as it was helping her everyday.
he lead you outside, just few steps in front of marui, and watched. he saw your skin glisten in the sunlight and bright markings almost come alive. your eyes were closed, but your face could say it all, how much you needed to feel breeze and warmth of the weather.
“better?” he asked quietly, holding you still.
soft hum left your lips as you let the sun dry away your tears.
whatever that was, you felt first touch of familiarity ever since you woke up.
#mistytalks i didn’t expect so many people liking this story so quickly… i’m kind of new to posting on tumblr (wattpad was my bread and butter when i was writing things some time ago and it took a long time before people really started reading it) anyway! i’m really excited to see where the story leads us!! leave a comment if you want to be tagged in next parts :3
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