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[amorieile]

CAUGHT IN A LOUSY WEB! ⸝⸝ oneshot

SUMMARY. . . You'd made a habit out of chasing Spider-Man across the city, phone in hand with your heart in your throat, just to catch a glimpse of him. Peter knew it was stupidly reckless. He also knew he should have stopped encouraging it. But when you look at him in that way, something in him gives way.

pairing: peter parker/spiderman x reader

content warnings: reckless behavior, kinda stalker-ish behavior, reader repeatedly chasing active crime scenes, danger, explosions, injuries, blood, peter parker being chronically stressed, near-death experience, protective spider-man, arguing, down bad pining, emotional vulnerability, identity secrecy, tracking apps, disastrous flirting, light hurt/comfort, panic and fear, bruises and minor injuries, kissing, making out, masked kisses, peter parker's severe boundary issues & reader's even worse self-preservation instincts, accidental emotional confessions, possessive undertones, references to violence and crime, PLEASE MDNI! 18+, smut. creampies, cockwarming, degradation/praise, dirty talk, doggy style, dry humping, groping, hair pulling, marking/biting, missionary, multiple rounds, oral (f!receiving), overstimulation, rough sex, secret identities (mask stays ON! until it doesn't), sensory deprivation (m!&f!), sensory overload (m!&f!), slight manhandling, teasing, unprotected p in v sex, lmk if i missed anything!

comments and reblogs are appreciated ♡

— amazing support banners used are from @moonstoneandmoonlight !

w/c: 13k (she's a big girl im sry </3)

a/n: big credits to @rip-quizilla who gave me the idea for this, and all my other friends/moots who helped me spent so long watching me lose my mind over finishing this. guys, please do NOT do anything you see in this fic, this is purely for fictional purposes sakes 😭

The first time you saw Spider-Man in person, you hadn't meant to follow him.

At least, that was what you told yourself.

You had been two blocks from the laundromat, carrying a plastic bag of warm clothes against your hip while your phone buzzed violently in your hand. The tracking app had lit up with a sudden red pulse near Delancey, a messy little cluster of comments flooding beneath it.

SPIDEY NEAR ESSEX. CAR CHASE??

NO WAY HE JUST FLIPPED OVER A BUS!

You had stopped in the middle of the sidewalk. Someone had muttered behind you annoyed, and stepped around your laundry bag. The city kept moving in every direction, yellow cabs pushing through the intersection, steam curling from a grate, somebody laughing too loudly outside a bodega. But your attention had narrowed to that blinking dot.

You had only meant to look. Just for a second. Just to see if the app was accurate, because people exaggerated online all the time and half the sightings turned out to be drones, cosplayers, or blurry red jackets photographed from four avenues away.

Then something had swung overhead.

A blur of red and blue cut between the buildings, so quick your breath caught before your mind could name him. The air shifted with him. People on the sidewalk looked up in scattered bursts, phones rising, mouths open, one man yelling, “Yo! Spider-Man!” like he was calling to a friend across the street.

You had craned your neck so hard it hurt.

He landed on the side of a brick building as if gravity had simply made an exception for him. One hand stuck to the wall, knees bent, white lenses angling down toward the street. Below him, a black SUV fishtailed hard around the corner, its bumper half-torn loose, sparks spitting from beneath the frame.

Spider-Man pushed off the wall.

Your bag split somewhere behind you. A white sock escaped onto the curb. You didn't bother going back for it.

You had run.

Not toward the SUV exactly, because you were not stupid enough to run into traffic on purpose. Not then, at least. But you ran in the same direction, weaving through pedestrians, shoes slapping pavement, pulse climbing higher with every shout and honk. 

By the time you reached the next block, the SUV was webbed to a lamppost, the driver was dangling upside down from a fire escape, and Spider-Man was crouched on top of a dented mailbox with one hand pressed to his ribs.

He looked smaller up close than you expected. Not small, exactly, but strangely human. 

Breathing hard. Shoulders rising and falling. Suit scuffed dark along one thigh. A tear near his side showed a thin line of skin beneath before he twisted away from the cameras.

You stood behind the police tape with everyone else, hair sticking to your face, lungs burning, and one sock missing from your laundry life forever.

He turned his head.

For half a second, those white lenses landed on you.

You knew he couldn't have recognized you. There was nothing to recognize. You were just another girl in a city full of people who wanted to see a miracle and then post about it before the adrenaline wore off.

Still, your stomach dropped.

Then he lifted two fingers in a quick salute to the crowd, shot a web, and vanished between buildings.

You downloaded two more tracking apps that night.

After that, seeing him became less of an accident and more of a bad habit you pretended was harmless.

You learned the patterns the way other people learned train delays. Robberies traveled fast through comment sections. Sirens became invitations. Helicopters meant something serious. If three different users posted the same grainy red-blue blur within five minutes, you grabbed your jacket before the app could refresh again.

Sometimes you missed him completely and arrived only in time to see cops clearing debris or tourists replaying videos at full volume. Sometimes you caught him from far away, a streak against the gray of the sky, no closer than a rumor. But sometimes you got lucky.

Lucky meant standing across from a jewelry store with shattered glass glittering over the sidewalk while he webbed a man’s wrists to a parking meter.

Lucky meant watching him swing down to stop a delivery cyclist from being clipped by a fleeing van.

Lucky meant hearing him talk.

That was the part nobody could capture right in videos. The way he sounded in person. Younger than the headlines made him, sharper when he was annoyed, and funny even when he was clearly in pain. He filled dangerous moments with words, like if he talked fast enough nobody had time to panic.

“Okay, so, quick note,” he told a guy holding a crowbar outside a pawn shop one wet Thursday evening, “if your getaway plan involves running directly into a bike lane during rush hour, I do think maybe crime isn’t your strongest career path.”

The guy swung at him.

Spider-Man ducked, webbed the crowbar to a street sign, and added, “Oh-kay, so that was a growth opportunity that you just missed.”

You laughed before you could stop yourself.

His head snapped toward you.

You were standing too close. Not past the tape, not exactly in the line of fire, but close enough that a cop had already told you twice to move back. Rain dotted your cheeks. Your hood kept sliding off. Your phone was clutched against your chest, recording nothing because you had forgotten to press the button.

Spider-Man stared at you for one beat too long.

Then he pointed at you.

“You,” the words were barely clear to your ears. 

Your face warmed so fast it felt humiliating. “Me?”

“Yes, you. With the…” He gestured vaguely at your entire existence. “The enthusiastic crime tourism thing.”

A few people nearby turned to look at you. Someone snorted. You should have been embarrassed enough to leave. Instead, you smiled.

“You noticed?”

His lenses narrowed. Somehow, they managed to look exhausted. “That is not the takeaway I was hoping for.”

You lifted your chin as if that proved something to him. “I’m behind the tape.”

“You are practically dating the damn tape.”

“I respect boundary lines!”

His tone turned slightly incredulous. “You followed a man with a crowbar into a rainstorm.”

The correction came quickly on your lips. “I followed you.”

“That is relatively worse.”

It should have ended there. He should have swung away and become a story you told yourself later, replaying every word until the edges wore smooth. But the man webbed to the street sign started yelling about unlawful restraint, the cops moved in, and Spider-Man hopped backward onto the side of a parked van.

Before he left, he looked down at you again.

“Go home,” he said as if you needed the reminder. 

You had grinned like an idiot. “Will you be there?”

There was a pause.

Not long, just enough for him to register the line, process it, and decide he absolutely did not want to touch it.

“Nope,” he sighed, voice flatter than before. “Wow. Okay. Definitely go home.”

Then he was gone, leaving you with rain in your eyelashes and the distinct, dangerous realization that Spider-Man could be flustered.

Peter remembered you after that.

He didn't mean to.

He remembered plenty of people in flashes: New York was made of recurring characters if you paid attention long enough.

But you, you became hard not to notice.

You were at the edge of too many scenes, always just outside safety, and always pretending you had arrived by coincidence while breathing like you had sprinted ten blocks. Sometimes your hair was pulled back messily. Sometimes you wore work shoes that were really not made for running. Once, you showed up with a grocery bag still looped around your wrist, and had a bunch of cilantro sticking out the top while an armored car smoked behind you.

He saw the app open on your phone once when he swung low past a bus shelter.

That made his stomach twist.

The city had always watched him, but the tracking apps made it worse. They turned danger into a scavenger hunt. They pulled kids, tourists, thrill-seekers, and people with too much faith in his reflexes toward scenes they should have been running from. 

Peter hated them in the abstract way he could. 

He hated yours specifically because you looked at the screen like it was a promise.

He told himself he was not responsible for your choices. He told himself he had bigger problems than one reckless woman with quick comebacks and bad self-preservation instincts. He told himself a lot of things while dragging stolen cars out of intersections, yanking weapons from hands, and getting punched in the same bruised shoulder three nights in a row.

Still, every time Peter landed somewhere and spotted you in the crowd, his first reaction was not annoyance.

It was relief.

Then anger, quick and hot behind it, because relief meant he had started looking.

“You’re here again,” he sighed again one night, landing on the fire escape above you after a group of teenagers tried to rob a closed pharmacy.

You looked up, breath fogging in the cold. There was a knit scarf wrapped around your neck and one glove missing from your hand. You had probably lost it running.

Your response came instinctive in its quickness. “You say that like you’re not also here again.”

Peter pinched at the bridge of his noise as if that could stifle his second sigh. “I’m working.”

“So am I.”

He tilted his head, looking down at you with clear disbelief. “Your job is standing under active crime scenes?”

Your chin tilted back up in a counter measure. “My job is none of your business.”

“Fair. Is your hobby standing under active crime scenes?”

You tucked your ungloved hand into your sleeve and looked around with fake surveying. “Maybe I’m a concerned citizen.”

His words came out too quick and too impulsive. “You are a concerning citizen.”

That got a smile out of you, small but entirely pleased, and Peter hated how quickly he noticed the shape of it. He was hanging upside down from the railing, one knee hooked around metal, and blood drying uncomfortably under the torn fabric near his elbow. The cold bit through the suit where it was damp. Below, police lights washed your face blue, then red, then blue again.

“You’re bleeding,” you faltered slightly when your gaze caught on the blood. 

He glanced at his arm and the white lenses dilated before going back. “It’s not mine.”

You gave him a look that had him sighing. “It’s mostly mine.”

You stepped closer before you were cut off. “Do you need—”

“No.”

A scoff left you. “You didn’t even know what I was going to offer!”

Peter felt the need to run his hands through his hair to stifle the whirlwind of exasperation you made him feel instantly. “Unless it was ‘a renewed commitment to staying several blocks away from felonies,’ no.”

You shifted your weight. The crowd had thinned behind you. People were still filming from across the street but the immediate danger had passed, and with it came that strange hollow quiet after a loud thing ended. Sirens faded. Glass crackled under people's boots. 

You looked up at him with your scarf covering your chin, your gaze narrowing suddenly. 

“Do you ever get tired of doing that?” 

“Bleeding?”

“Deflecting.” The word landed too cleanly, you saw it in real time. 

Peter’s fingers flexed against the railing. The easy answer was right there. A joke about reflective surfaces, maybe. Something stupid and quick that would let him swing away before the conversation took on weight.

Instead, he looked past you toward the pharmacy windows. Fluorescent lights flickered inside. A display of cough drops had toppled near the door, someone would have to sweep all of that up. Someone would have to call insurance. Someone would wake up tomorrow and deal with the ordinary consequences of extraordinary panic.

“Go home,” he repeated, though it was quieter this time.

Your expression changed, not much. Just a pause around the eyes. “You always say that.”

Peter's exasperation came back tenfold. “Because you never do it.”

A face got made instantly at the words. “I do eventually!”

“Eventually is not good enough.”

You hugged your arms around yourself, and the words came out light. “You worried about me?”

“Yes,” he scoffed before he could stop himself.

The answer sat between you, plain and unarmored.

Your mouth parted slightly at the unexpectedness of it.

Peter pulled himself upright too fast, his boots sticking to the fire escape. “I mean—generally. In the way I worry about all civilians who make terrible decisions near blunt objects.”

“Right,” you nodded, but your voice had taken a slight tone that had Peter instantly regretting the words even more. 

He pointed toward the subway entrance with intensity. “Home.”

You glanced at his arm again, seeing the material start to soak up the darker redness. “You too.”

Peter let out a humorless little laugh. “Yeah. Sure.”

He swung away before you could say anything else, before he could do something stupid like ask your name.

You told yourself the chase was harmless because Spider-Man always won.

That was the lie at the center of it.

You knew he got hurt. You had seen him limp. You had watched him press a hand to his side and pause on rooftops when he thought nobody was looking. You had noticed how he changed after harder fights, how the jokes thinned out, and how his head turned sharply at sudden noises. 

He wasn't invincible.

But he survived so consistently that survival became part of the spectacle. People cheered before the danger fully ended. Phones came out before the weapons were down. The city trusted him with the unreasonable ease of people who needed someone to trust.

You were worse than most because somewhere along the way, your fascination had stopped being abstract and freeformed.

It was not just the suit, though the suit did something humiliating to your ability to think clearly near him. It was not just the swing of him between buildings, the impossible strength, the quick hands, or the way he landed with a dancer’s balance and a boxer’s readiness.

It was the pauses he had. 

The way he crouched beside frightened strangers and made his voice gentler. The way he checked on shop owners after the crowd moved on. The way he sometimes stayed an extra second after saving someone, hand hovering near their shoulder but not actually touching unless they leaned in first. The way he seemed both everywhere and entirely alone.

That was what kept pulling you closer to him. 

The app buzzed late on a Friday, when the city had already loosened into nightlife. You were in a corner booth at a diner, poking at fries that had gone soft with vinegar, half-listening to your friend complain about a coworker who microwaved fish in the break room.

Your phone lit up.

Three alerts. Then five. Then too many.

SPIDEY SIGHTING NEAR 42ND. BIG GUY WITH TECH??

STAY AWAY FROM 9TH AVE. EXPLOSION HEARD.

Your friend stopped talking.

“No,” she reached for you immediately when she saw you were already reaching for your jacket.

She grabbed at your sleeve with intent. “Are you serious?”

“It’s close.”

A groan left her from knowing you too well. “That’s the problem.”

“I’ll stay back!”

She didn't seem convinced. “You always say that.”

The echo of his words should have slowed you.

It didn't.

Outside, the air was sharp with exhaust and fried food from a halal cart. You ran until your lungs burned, cutting through clusters of people spilling out of bars, and ignoring the tightness that formed under your ribs. The closer you got, the more the city changed. Laughter thinned. Traffic tangled. People moved in the opposite direction with their heads turned back, faces lit by emergency lights.

Then something slammed into the side of a parked car half a block ahead.

The impact folded the roof inward. Windows burst. People screamed and scattered.

You froze.

For once, your body understood before your obsession did.

Spider-Man hit the pavement hard beside the car, rolled, and barely got a hand under himself before a heavy metal device skidded after him, sparking violently. It looked homemade and expensive at the same time, all black plating and unstable blue light. A man in a reinforced jacket limped into view, one arm fitted with some kind of mechanical brace that whined when he lifted it.

Peter saw you from the ground.

Even through smoke, flashing lights, and the chaos of running bodies, he found you standing beside a newspaper box with your phone in your hand and fear finally catching up to you.

His blood went cold.

“Move!” he shouted with a loud rasp.

You did not.

Not because you refused, but because for one terrible second, you couldn't even tell where to go. People shoved past you. A cab jumped the curb. The device near Spider-Man pulsed brighter, high-pitched and wrong, and the man with the brace swung his arm toward the street.

Peter fired a web at you before he thought about gentleness.

The strand hit your waist and yanked.

Your feet left the ground and the world snapped sideways. Your shoulder clipped something hard, maybe a signpost, maybe somebody’s elbow. You gasped, more startled than hurt, and then you were against him, one of his arms locked around you as he twisted midair and slammed both of you behind the concrete mouth of a subway entrance.

The street exploded white-blue.

Heat washed over your back and the sound swallowed everything.

For a moment there was only his body curved around yours, the texture of his suit under your fingers, the hard rise and fall of his breathing. Dust rained over the steps. Someone was crying nearby, your ears rang so badly the world seemed underwater.

Spider-Man lifted his head first.

“Are you hit?” he demanded with his grip tightening to pull you back enough to look at you. 

You stared at him, and apparently it must've been a flatter look than you had tried to express. 

“Hey.” His hand came up to the side of your face, not tenderly, not quite. He turned your head enough to check you, fingers firm along your jaw. “Are you hit?”

The world returned to you in pieces and you shook your head enough to move. “I—no. I don’t think so.”

Peter's voice came out strangled before he tried to reign it in. “You don’t think so?”

You emphasized better. “I’m not.”

His white lenses narrowed and the hand at your jaw stayed for half a second longer than necessary, then dropped.

He pushed himself up and looked over the edge of the subway entrance. The man with the brace was running now, injured but still moving. Peter’s shoulders tensed with the need to follow.

Then, he looked back at you.

You were covered in dust. Your phone was certainly gone. There was a scrape along your cheekbone where something had caught you, and your eyes were too wide, your breath coming shallow in a way that finally made you look as scared as you should have been all along.

The anger hit him so hard it almost steadied him.

“Stay here,” he all but demanded

You nodded because it seemed like it was necessary to do so. 

He pointed at you, sharper now. As if you weren't truly listening. “No. I need you to hear me. Stay. Here.”

“I heard you.”

“Because if I turn around and you are not exactly where I left you—”

“I’ll stay.”

Peter really didn't believe you.

But someone shouted from the street, and the brace whined again, and it was clear he had to go. He launched himself back into the fight with his teeth clenched so hard his jaw ached.

You stayed.

For three minutes, maybe four, you sat on the subway steps with dust in your mouth and your hands shaking in your lap. You heard the impacts, webs snapping tight, and Spider-Man’s voice cutting through the noise in strained bursts.

“Hey, buddy, quick question—did you build that in a garage, or was there a coupon situation?”

A crash came next.

“No? Cool, cool, just asking because it’s very explode-y for something near civilians.”

Another loud noise of impact.

You pressed your palms together to stop them from trembling.

The fight ended with a sound like metal tearing away from itself, followed by a heavy thud and a chorus of relieved shouting. When Spider-Man came back where he left you, he was limping.

Badly so.

He dropped into the subway entrance hard enough that one hand hit the tiled wall to steady himself. His suit was scorched along one side. Dust clung to the webbing pattern across his chest. One lens had a faint crack through it, thin as a hair.

You stood up too quickly, instincts taking over. “you’re hurt.”

Peter laughed but it was entirely without humor. “You have got to be kidding me.”

The frown came instantly. “I’m serious.”

His answer came too quick. “So am I.”

The space between you seemed smaller than it had before. The city kept roaring above, but down here everything echoed: footsteps, sirens, your breathing, his. 

He stepped closer.

“What is wrong with you?”

The words were not shouted. That made them even worse somehow. His voice was rough, scraped thin at the edges, and controlled only because he was forcing it to be.

You swallowed because he seemed actually upset this time, and you figured it wasn't time to poke the bear. “I know—”

“No, you don’t. You don’t know.” The words had your head flicking up in surprise for their intensity. “You keep showing up with your phone and your big eyes and your little comments, and you think because there’s a crowd, because there are cops, because I’m there, that nothing can happen to you.”

Your throat tightened and you opened your mouth but shut it when he pointed up toward the street. “That was not a photo op. That was not a cute story. You almost got turned into collateral damage because you ran toward an explosion.”

“I didn’t know it was going to—”

“That’s the point!” His voice cracked around the words. He stopped, breathed hard, and tried again. “You don’t know. You never know. Hell, I barely know half the time.”

You looked down at his hand because the movements caught your attention. His fingers were flexing open and closed, like he wanted to grab something and couldn't decide whether it should be the railing, his own temper, or you.

“I’m sorry,” you stopped him from going further and he went still.

Maybe it was because you had never said it before. Not really. You had flirted, teased, and smiled your way around his warnings until they became part of the game. But there was no game left in your voice now because there wasn't in his. 

“I am,” you continued quieter and immediately hated it because of how exposing it felt. “I know it’s stupid. I know you keep telling me to stop.”

Peter's voice loudened before he could've controlled it. “Then stop!”

You looked up again quickly with widening eyes. 

There was dust on his shoulder, a rip near his ribs, and a dark stain spreading slowly through the fabric at his side. He was standing in front of you like he could hold the entire city back by force if he had to, and yet he would not give you one ordinary piece of himself. 

Not a name. Not a face. Not the truth behind the voice that kept finding you in crowds.

“I just wanted to know you,” the words came out smaller than you meant them to.

Peter forgot how to breathe.

Not because nobody wanted to know Spider-Man. Everybody wanted that. They wanted the picture, the secret, the headline, the face under the mask. They wanted proof, access, even ownership. They wanted to solve him.

But that was not how you said it.

You said it like you had already noticed the part he worked hardest to hide. The pauses. The pain. The loneliness that leaked through the jokes no matter how quickly he patched over it.

You said it like knowing him didn't mean unmasking his whole identity. 

You said it like you had been chasing danger for the stupid, impossible privilege of standing close enough to ask if he was okay.

Peter hated how easily that worked on him.

He hated that after everything, after the blast and the blood and the fear still souring his mouth, some tired part of him wanted to believe you.

“You don’t,” he scoffed, but it was smaller this time. 

Your brows drew together immediately at the insinuation. “I don’t what?”

“Want to know me.”

You made a face, and answered just as quickly as he stopped. “I do.”

“No.” He shook his head once, and even the movement had him straining, you could tell by the way he held himself in tension. “You want the guy who swings in at the right second. You want the banter and the upside-down thing and whatever version of me lives in your phone notifications.”

You stepped forward again and forced a huff away when he shot you a pointed look that had you stopping short. “That’s not fair—”

Peter cut you off. “It’s accurate.”

You found your voice again, because you kept letting it be cut off by him. “You don’t know what I want.”

“I know you don’t want the rest.”

You stared at him, anger beginning to push through the shock. Good, Peter thought. Anger was safer than that open, aching look you had given him.

“The rest?” you asked with your brows twitching together in a face that wasn't clear in its expression. 

He laughed again, though more bitterly this time. His head kept moving, looking around the emptiness of the place between you too as if that gave him a refuge.  “The blood. The missed calls. The lies. The never showing up on time. The disappearing without explaining because if I explain, someone gets hurt. The fact that I know where you live because I’ve followed you home twice to make sure you got there safely, and I hated myself both times.”

The confession landed badly.

You blinked blankly, the movement was fast and clearly unexpected.  

Peter realized what he had said half a second too late when your lips parted. “You know where I live?”

“No.” His answer came too quick and that only spurred you on more. 

Your lips opened and let out a puff of air. “You just said—”

Peter's hand went up to the back of his neck, immediately cutting you off again. “I said a lot of things. Head injury, probably.”

“You followed me home?”

He looked up to the sky and felt his eyes shut tightly. “Not in a creepy way.”

You threw him a well deserved glance of judgement. “That is exactly what someone says when it is a creepy way.”

“I was making sure you were safe.”

Your expression shifted. The fear had not left you completely, but something warmer and more reckless, moved beneath it. You took one careful step closer.

“You know where I live,” you repeated, breathless now, almost vindicated by the confession. 

Peter pointed at you again, but there was less force behind it. His jaw strained again just from listening to you throw his words back at him. “Do not make that sound romantic.”

You kept going, your voice turning more observational by each passing second, but not losing its tone. “You noticed me that much.”

“I notice threats.”

“You think I’m a threat?”

His answer came swift. “To yourself? Constantly.”

“To you?” He didn't answer fast enough.

Your gaze moved over him, slower now that the immediate danger had passed. He felt it through the suit in a way he should not have. The cracked lens, the torn fabric, the blood near his ribs, even the tense line of his shoulders. He knew what he looked like after a fight. He knew people saw the damage and either flinched from it or turned it into a bigger moment.

You looked at him like the damage made him harder to ignore, not less.

“Let me help,” you softened again because it was hard not to when looking at him. 

The response came expected, but still unwelcome. “No.”

“You’re bleeding.”

“I noticed.”

You let out an exasperated groan,  one hand coming up to knead through your hair and the other stretching it towards him. “Then let me do something.”

“You can do something.” Peter willed his voice to be sharpened again. “You can stop chasing me.”

Your jaw tightened and a scoff escaped you. “You keep saying that like it’s easy.”

“It should be.”

“Well, it’s not.” The honesty of it hung there, inconvenient and too human.

Above you, officers shouted to each other. The subway tiles gleamed under harsh fluorescent lights, grime caught in the grout, and had old posters peeling at the corners. Peter could smell smoke, rain, metal, and the faint sweetness of your perfume beneath the dust.

He should have left.

He should have just webbed up to the street, given one last warning, and removed himself from whatever this was before it became another thing he could ruin.

Instead, the only thing that came out was, “You’re impossible.”

You let out a shaky breath that almost became a laugh. “So you’ve mentioned.”

“I’m not joking.”

You finally quieted down when he did, the air felt still. “I know.”

“Do you?”

Not entirely, but you just nodded. “Yes.”

He stepped closer this time.

You had to tilt your head back to keep looking at him. Up close, he was all controlled tension, every line of him caught between staying and going. The white lenses hid his eyes, but they didn't hide the way his attention dropped briefly to your mouth and snapped back up.

Your pulse jumped and you figured Peter saw that too.

“Don’t,” he rasped out quickly after you opened your mouth again, but the word had no clear target. Maybe it was to you, or maybe to himself.

You lifted your hand slowly, giving him time to move away. And when he didn't, your fingertips touched the center of his chest, light enough that it should not have mattered.

It mattered.

The suit was warm from his body, textured beneath your fingertips, and damp in places from rain and sweat. His chest rose sharply at the contact.

“You’re really here,” you let slip out with your voice barely above a whisper.

His laugh was low and strained. You had a feeling his expression mirrored that. “That explosion did a number on you.”

Your voice hadn't lost its lightness,  but you paused for a moment. “I’m serious.”

Peter let out a wry exhale to himself. “That’s what worries me.”

Your fingers drifted, not very far, just over the red fabric where dust had settled into the raised black lines. He caught your wrist before you reached the torn place near his side. His grip was firm, but not painful though.

It was a warning with a pulse.

“Careful,” he murmured and the word ran through you in a way it should not have, roughened by exhaustion and the edge of pain.

You looked at his hand around your wrist. It felt tingly for all the right reasons. “You always sound like that when you’re mad?”

His fingers flexed slightly against you.“No.”

“When you’re hurt?”

Peter attempted repetition for it to stick. “No.”

You decided to push more. “And when you’re trying not to be?”

He went quiet.

That was answer enough for you.

You should've apologized again. You should've stepped back, let him have the distance he kept asking for, promised to delete the apps and mean it. Some responsible part of you knew that. And some part of you was still sitting on the subway steps with shaking hands, understanding far too late that your fantasy had edges sharp enough to cut.

But he was still holding your wrist.

And, he hadn't let go.

“Tell me to leave,” you all but challenged him and Peter didn't bother containing the groan that left him. 

“I did.”

“Tell me again.”

Peter’s grip tightened for half a second. You felt his fingers twitch against the inner area of your wrist. 

Under the mask, his jaw shifted. You could see the shape of it where the fabric clung to him, could see the movement of his throat when he swallowed. He was close enough now that you heard the faint hitch in his breathing, and betraying close enough that the city above felt less real than the narrow pocket of space between your bodies.

“You need to leave,” he said instead, but still, he didn't move away. 

Neither did you.

The misunderstanding was almost laughable, except neither of you laughed or probably could've. His words said one thing. His hand said another. His body, angled toward yours despite every reason not to be, said something else entirely.

You reached up with your free hand.

This time, you touched his jaw.

Not skin, not yet at least. Just the mask, the red fabric pulled taut over the hard line of him. His whole body went still, frighteningly still, like even breathing had become a choice.

“Don’t take it off,” he commanded and the intensity of him sent prickles up your spine.

Your fingers settled where his jawline rested, and your head tipped back slightly when your eyes fluttered shut.“I wasn’t going to.”

Peter tilted his head slightly at you from the proximity, his face did a funny thing that mixed genuinity with suspicion. “No?”

“No.”

That seemed to undo something in him more than if you had begged for his face.

You did not want the reveal, not right now. Not in this way, in a dirty subway entrance with sirens overhead and blood drying beneath his suit. You wanted what he was willing to give. The covered jaw beneath your palm. The breath he was trying to control. The impossible nearness of him.

Peter let go of your wrist only to catch your waist.

The motion was sudden enough that you inhaled sharply. He turned you, backing you against the tiled wall beside an old transit map, his hand braced near your shoulder before your spine met cold ceramic. He left you space to pull away. Barely, but still enough that the choice remained yours and his restraint remained visible in the strain of his posture.

“Tell me no,” he exhaled and you had to tear your eyes away from where the material of his suit strained against his shoulders. 

Your voice came out unsteady. “No to what?”

“To this.”

You looked at him then almost incredulous, at the cracked lens, the scorched suit, and the careful violence of how still he held himself.

“I’m not saying no.”

Peter's head dipped on bodily instinct the second his ears registered the words. 

He stopped an inch from you.

The pause was unbearable. Awkward in the way real wanting often was, full of breath and doubt and the tiny adjustments of two people realizing they had crossed a line before either had agreed where it was. Your hand slid from his jaw to the edge of his mask.

Peter caught your fingers again.

“Mask stays on,” he murmured with warning. 

Your voice came breathless in its agreement. “I know.”

“I mean it.”

“Yeah, I know.”

He searched your face for something. A trick, maybe. Regret. Fear. A demand he could refuse so he could return to familiar ground. You gave him none of those things. You were breathing too fast, still dust-streaked, but your gaze held steady in truth.

Peter reached up and tugged the mask just high enough to bare his mouth and jaw.

Only that.

The reveal was smaller than you had imagined and somehow more intimate for it. A cut marked his lower lip. His jaw was tense, faintly shadowed, skin flushed from exertion. He looked painfully real in pieces.

You didn't reach for more despite your inner voice. 

His mouth found yours before you could say anything.

The kiss was not gentle at first. It was too full of everything that had nowhere else to go: anger, fear, adrenaline, the weeks of him telling you to run and you refusing, the awful second when he had seen you frozen in the path of the blast. Peter kissed you like he was still furious with you for almost dying. Like he was furious with himself for caring. Like the only way to stop the argument was to take it apart with his mouth.

You made a small sound against him when he nipped at you with the sharpened corners of his teeth, and he pulled back immediately. “Too much?”

You shook your head, fingers curling into the front of his suit. Your eyes were blown wide by the chain of actions and the unmistakable grip of him on you. “No.”

“You sure?”

You nodded again, almost embarrassingly eager and his breath left him unevenly. “You are so bad at self-preservation.”

“You keep saving me.”

Peter pulled away despite his best efforts to stand still, and felt that familiar pathetic exasperation creeping back in. “That is not a plan.”

Your lips pulled into a lazy grin as you tried to chase the space he made away. “It’s worked for me so far.”

He gave you a look, or he tried to. With the mask half-up and the lenses still covering his eyes, the effect should have been ridiculous. It wasn't because his mouth was still too close for your to.focus on anything else. His hand at your waist was too warm and his voice had dropped into something lower, rougher, stained by the night.

“You’re so not funny,” Peter shut his eyes behind the mask and looked back to the sky as if that would prove his point more heavily. 

You disagreed with that. “I made you pause.”

His scoff came absentminded, and so did his words. “You make me do a lot of stupid things.”

You smiled despite the tremor still living under your skin, and Peter was already weary of that smile even more now. The path you fingers trailed up on his abdomen was careful, as if trying to coax a street cat into staying longer. “Like what?”

He answered by kissing you again.

This time, it built slower. Still hungry and edged with frustration, but less like impact and more like surrender dragged unwillingly into the open. His gloved hand slid along your waist, then stopped, fingerpads flexing once as if he had to remind himself of the shape of restraint. Your hands moved over his chest, careful around the torn places, less careful when he made a quiet sound into your mouth and pressed closer.

The tile was cold through the back of your jacket. His body was warm everywhere he touched you. Smoke clung to him and rainwater dripped from the ends of your hair. New York kept shouting above, honking, and demanding. Down here, your world shrank to the scrape of his breath, the brush of his bare jaw against your cheek, the strange intimacy of being kissed by a man who still wouldn't even let you see his eyes.

When he pulled back, his forehead almost touched yours. The mask’s fabric brushed your brow.

“You have to stop chasing me,” Peter found the words finally after catching his breathe. 

The words were softer now, which made them harder to deflect. You looked down at your fingers that were still hooked in his suit, holding on like he might disappear if you didn’t. “I know.”

“I’m serious.”

“I get it.”

“You could’ve died tonight.”

You sighed with your head tipping back against the solid frame behind you. “I said I get it.”

Peter exhaled through his nose, frustrated by your agreement because it left him nowhere to put the rest of his fear. His thumb moved once against your waist before he seemed to realize he was doing it.

“You can’t know me by getting yourself killed,” he said and you looked back up at him.

There it was again. Not the superhero or the symbol, just the simple person beneath the suit, saying the closest thing to please that he would allow himself.

“Then let me know you another way,” you let out quickly and instantly regretted it when you saw his mouth tighten alongside his jaw. 

For a second, you thought he would step back. Pull the mask back down. Make a joke mean enough to end the moment. It would have been easier for him, maybe even kinder in the long run.

Instead, he lowered his head until his mouth brushed the corner of yours.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking,” Peter murmured and found himself crazy for even leaning back in. 

You closed your eyes for half a breath. “Then tell me.”

His silence moved over you slowly.

He didn't tell you his name or give you any truth clean enough to hold. Maybe he couldn't. Maybe that kind of trust did not arrive all at once in a stairwell after sirens and smoke.

But his hand left the wall and settled against your cheek, careful of the blooming scrape there. His thumb hovered near the bruise without touching it. The tenderness of that restraint did something to you more than the roughness had.

“I’m not good at this,” Peter finally spoke up once more when he realized you were waiting. 

Your reply came back softer. “At what?”

“Letting people stand this close.”

Your fingers loosened against his chest and a stupidly placed smile grew on your lips. “Yeah, I can tell.”

He huffed a quiet laugh, the sound was tired and real against your ear drums. “That obvious?”

You gave a merciful nod. “A little.”

“Great.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s really not.”

You smiled faintly because you knew what he meant. “No. Probably not.”

That earned you another silence, but this one was different. It was less defensive. He stayed close enough that you could feel the warmth of his breath when he spoke.

“I’ll take you home,” Peter inhaled once, quickly and reminding. 

A lighter breath left you alongside the silent, almost wondrous laugh that bubbled from your throat. “You know where that is.”

He groaned and did that thing where his jaw tensed and head tilted back in resignation. “Please never say that with that tone again.”

“What tone?”

“The tone that says you’re about to make my severe boundary issues into some sort of a compliment.”

You bit your lip, mostly to stop the small smile that grew because there was no telling if he wouldn't run off just yet. “You have severe boundary issues?”

Peter fought and lost the urge to throw you a disbelieving glance. “I wear spandex and fight strangers on rooftops. What do you think?”

“I think you’re avoiding.”

“I think you’re concussed.”

“You asked if I was hit.”

His words came back mumbled. “And I’m revising my assessment.”

You laughed then, breathless and completely unsteady, and some of the tightness in his shoulders eased.

He looked at your mouth again.

You noticed.

This time, Peter didn't pretend he hadn't.

The kiss that followed was quieter than before, but it carried more danger because it felt less accidental. Your hands slid up to his shoulders, feeling the strength there and the tremor of fatigue beneath it. He leaned into you for one brief second like he needed the support, then seemed to hate that he needed it and kissed you harder.

You gave back as much as he took.

That surprised him. You felt it in the way his breath caught, the way his fingers tightened at your waist, the way his mouth paused against yours before continuing with darker intent. He was careful with his strength, but not soft. He let some of the frustration show in the press of his body, in the angle of your chin guided by his gloved hand, and in the low sound he made when your fingertips traced the edge where his mask had been pushed up.

“Careful,” he said again.

This time, you understood he was not only warning you about him. You were both quiet for a moment. Then you decided to break the silence, “I don’t need to be another person with a video of you.”

His hand stilled on impact of your words. 

“I don’t want proof,” you continued bevause it felt necessary. “I don’t want your face because I won some game. I just…” You searched for the right words and found none that didn't sound too exposing. You tried again.  “I wanted you to feel real. And then you did. And I didn’t know how to stop wanting more.”

Peter listened without interrupting.

That felt worse to him somehow. It was easier when he was joking. Safer when he was pushing back. But he only stood there with the mask covering most of him and his bare mouth pressed into a line, taking in what you said like it had cost him something too.

Finally, he cursed faintly and tried to circle back, “You can’t use danger to get close to me.”

“I won’t.”

His voice came low and questioning. “You mean that?”

You nodded with more energy than you'd expected. “I mean it.”

He studied you for another long second. Then, he leaned in, not quite kissing you yet, and said, “If I see you at another active crime scene—”

You cut him off with that all too familiar pleased look. “You’ll lecture me?”

Peter scoffed at your sheer ability to get on his nerves all over again. “I’ll web you to the nearest bus stop.”

“That seems really excessive.”

“Yeah? I’ll leave a note too.”

You tilted your head, the movement making his own tip into yours. “What would it say?”

“Please return reckless civilian to sender.”

You smiled against his mouth before he kissed you again, and this time there was something almost relieved in it. It was still heated and messy. Still far too much for a subway stairwell while police lights strobed faintly above. But beneath the hunger, there was a fragile shift, a thread pulled taut between warning and permission.

Peter did take you home.

Not immediately, though.

The route blurred into faint fragments: his firm grasp around your waist, the startling lift of your feet leaving the ground, and your face tucked against his shoulder because the height stole the breath from you. Wind tore tears from your eyes and the city flashed beneath you in streaks of light and shadow, rooftops silvered by old rain, and apartment windows glowed with lives that had nothing to do with yours.

Peter moved differently while carrying you.

Less flashy and more controlled. He avoided the busiest streets and landed twice to check his side, though he insisted he was fine both times in a tone that made the lie obvious.

By the time he reached your building, your nerves stopped feeding into the adrenaline. 

Mostly.

He landed on the fire escape outside your apartment window with a soft metallic creak. You stared at him, then at the window, then back at him. 

A laugh escaped you before you could control it.  “You really do know where I live.”

Peter scrubbed a palm at his temple. “I am begging you to focus on the part where I brought you here safely.”

Your brows twitched together slightly. “You brought me to my window.”

“It seemed less awkward than the lobby.”

The question came with instinct now. “You’ve thought about this?”

“No.” A pause. Peter cursed when he met your diluted pupils.   “Not in a way I’m discussing.”

You laughed softly, and he looked away toward the alley like the brick wall had suddenly become intently more fascinating.

The window stuck, as usual. You had to shove it twice before it groaned open. The ordinary annoyance of it grounded you so abruptly that you almost felt embarrassed. Your room waited beyond the sill, cluttered and warm, a sweater thrown over a chair, a half-empty glass of water on the nightstand, even shoes abandoned near the closet. 

Evidence of a life Spider-Man had no business knowing and yet somehow did.

You climbed in first, turning back when he remained crouched on the fire escape.

“You’re not coming in?”

Peter looked at the window frame, then at you with clear weariness. “That is a bad idea.”

You pointed it the obvious. “You’ve had a lot of those tonight.”

“You were most of them.”

“Still.”

His mouth twitched up before he willed it away. The mask was still pushed up just enough to show it.

You reached out before you could overthink it, fingers curling lightly around his wrist. Peter could have resisted without any real effort on his part. But instead, he let you draw him closer to the window.

“Just for a minute,” your lull came strong. 

Peter knew that was how bad ideas survived. They dressed themselves as small things. One minute. One kiss. One exception. One person who looked at him and didn't ask for the mask.

He really should have said no.

But your room smelled faintly of laundry detergent and whatever candle you had burned earlier. Your cheek was scraped because of him and not because of him. Your fingers were warm around his wrist. The city had spent the whole night taking pieces out of him, and here you were, offering one quiet moment where he didn't have to be a symbol or a headline or a blur in someone else’s footage.

Peter climbed through the window before reason could take hold of him.

The room felt too small with him in it.

Not because he was larger, though he seemed broader here than he did against the skyline. It was the impossibility of him among ordinary things. Spider-Man standing beside your desk. Spider-Man ducking slightly to avoid the curtain rod. Spider-Man glancing at a stack of books and a mug with chipped paint as if he had crossed into a place more dangerous than the street outside.

“You’re nervous,” you couldn't help but gape at the clear display of nerves bundled in red and blue. 

“I’m injured.”

You made a face and tilted your head with an all too pleased expression. “That’s not what I said.”

Peter scoffed with little humor. “It’s what I’m choosing to answer.”

You stepped closer.

He watched you do it.

The air changed again, slower than before. There were no sirens here. No crowds. No urgent reason to pretend this was only adrenaline. Your radiator hissed, a car passed below in the street, and somewhere in the building, a neighbor’s TV murmured through the wall.

Your hand rose to his chest, then paused.

“Is this okay?” you asked hesitantly,  more hesitant than you'd have imagined. 

Peter looked at you for a long moment, then he covered your hand with his.

“Yeah,” he cleared at his throat, rough and quiet. “It’s okay.”

The kiss in your room felt different from the ones taken in the subway, less stolen from disaster and more chosen in spite of it. Peter backed you toward the edge of your bed, stopping when your knees touched the mattress, giving you that narrow sliver of space again. You took it away yourself, pulling him closer by the front of his suit.

A low sound left him.

“Still terrible at self-preservation,” he muttered when your hand reached for anything that could be used to pull him in closer. 

Your hand landed on the back of his neck, with your thumb pressing into his collar to bring him in nearer. “You like it a little.”

The refusal came expected once again. “I absolutely do not.”

Peter kissed you before you could smile any wider.

His gloved hand slid to the back of your neck, careful but firm, angling you up to meet him. The mask stayed where it was, bunched above his mouth and tight over his nose, his eyes still hidden behind white lenses that made every exposed inch feel more deliberate. You kissed the corner of his mouth, then the cut on his lip lightly enough that he went still.

“That hurt?” you whispered against him.

“No.”

A laugh escaped you, all quiet and breathless. “You liar.”

“Maybe.”

Your thumb brushed his jaw and he turned his face into the touch despite himself, and the motion was so tired, so unguarded for one brief second, that your chest ached.

Then his hand caught your waist again, and the softness sharpened into heat.

He kissed you deeper quickly after that. Your back met the mattress, and he followed only as far as you pulled him, bracing one hand beside your shoulder so his weight didn't crush you. The suit rasped beneath your palms. His breath came unevenly against your mouth. Every time you touched too close to an injury, he flinched and pretended he had not, which made you slow down until he grew impatient and kissed you harder for it.

“You’re impossible,” he said again, but this time it sounded less like an accusation.

“You keep kissing me.”

His mouth hovered above yours.

For a moment, neither of you moved after that.

The truth of that sat in the dim light between you. He had come back. Again and again. To warn you, to argue, to make sure you got home. 

Peter lowered his head until his covered forehead rested near your temple.

“You can’t chase me anymore,” he said it softer this time, catching your attention more than any other shout could. 

Your tongue slid over your teeth and finally exhaled when his silence felt defeating. “I won’t.”

Peter pushed. “You swear?”

“I swear.”

“And if you see me on that app—”

You turned your head up to point a finger up at him to answer. “I’ll close it.”

He lifted his head slightly, giving you a such a pointed grasp of his silence that you could only sigh. “I’ll delete it.”

“Now.”

You blinked, his request caught you off guard. “Now?”

“Yes.”

Your tongue looked at the inside of your cheek now, clearly trying to stall under the weight of his stare. “You’re very demanding for a man bleeding on my comforter.”

Peter didn't take the bait just yet. “I’ll bleed less judgmentally after you delete it.”

You stared at him in confliction, and despite everything, you laughed.

He climbed off you enough to let you reach for your phone with begrudging fingers. The screen was cracked from where it must have hit the pavement, but it still worked. You opened the app under his silent, watchful stare. For a second, your thumb hovered over the icon of the app.

It felt strange to let it go.

Not because you needed the app itself, but because deleting it meant admitting that what you wanted from him could no longer be taken by chasing red dots across a map. If he came back after this, it had to be because he chose to.

You deleted it.

Then the second one.

Then the third.

Peter said nothing while you did so. 

When you set the phone down, he was looking at you with an unreadable stillness that made your pulse climb again.

“There,” you let an exhale of breath out and narrowed your eyes at him with no real spite.  “Happy?”

“No.”

You rolled your eyes at that. “Of course not.”

“I’m…” Peter stopped, like the word he wanted to find was difficult to translate through the mask. His bare mouth pressed together, then softened. “Slightly less actively horrified.”

Despite your better judgment, you let your grin form again. “That’s romantic.”

“I’m known for that.”

You reached for him again and this time, he came willingly.

The kiss deepened slower, then became not slow at all. His restraint was still there, visible in every careful placement of his hands, but the darkness you had sensed in him edged closer to the surface. It was something more conflicted than plain cruelty or defensiveness. It was hunger tangled with fear. 

He held you like he was still deciding whether he was sure he could and you kissed him like the decision had already been made. And for you, it had. 

Peter's mouth crashed back into yours with a low sound that vibrated through the mask and straight into your chest. The second your lips parted he pushed his tongue in, deep and wet, tasting every inch like he was starving for it. Your back sank deeper into the mattress under his weight, the mattress springs creaking as he braced one hand beside your head and let the other slide down your side.

His suit scraped against your palms when you grabbed at him again, your fingers curled into the textured fabric over his ribs. You tugged hard, trying to work it up, but the material barely budged. Peter made a rough noise into your mouth and suddenly caught both your wrists, pinning them above your head with one hand.

"Nuh-uh," he muttered against your lips, his voice low and amused. "You don't get to strip me just because you're feeling greedy."

“That can't be fair.” You scoffed and tried to twist free, your hips rolled up to grind against the hard line of his cock through the suit. The pressure dragged a hiss out of him. He pressed his hips down in answer, grinding slow and deliberate to let you feel every inch of him trapped behind the fabric. The suit was warm from his body heat, slightly rough where it rubbed your inner thighs.

"Fuck, look at you," he breathed out with forehead pressed to yours. "Already trying to climb me like you can't wait five seconds."

“You're hard, isn't that contradicting?” You bucked harder, chasing friction and he smacked your hands away again, this time letting them fall to the sides so he could shove his knee between your legs and grind it up against you through your clothes. The pressure was perfect and not nearly enough. 

You gasped into another kiss and Peter swallowed the sound, and had his tongue sliding deep again while his hips kept that slow and punishing roll.

Every time your fingers crept back toward the edge of his suit he caught them, smacked them away, or pinned them down. The teasing only made you even more worked up. You could feel how pent-up he was in the way his breathing stuttered every time you ground up against him. It was in the little involuntary jerks of his hips when you would moan into his kisses.

"Fuck," you whispered with your voice shakier than you'd meant it. "Please—"

"Please what?" He dragged his mouth down your jaw and had his teeth scraping against your skin. "Please let you rip my suit off so you can ride me? Not happening. You get what I give you."

Peter rocked his hips harder, grinding the thick line of his cock right against your clit through the layers between you. Your back arched and he caught the movement and pressed you flat again with his body, one hand sliding under your shirt to palm your breast, thumb flicking over your nipple until you squirmed.

"You're so fucking eager," he groaned and his voice cracked with how turned on he was. "Been driving me crazy for months and now you're just—fuck—spreading your legs the second I touch you. You like this? Like me holding you down, keeping the suit on, making you work for it?"

You nodded frantically and had your hips jerking up to meet every grind in tandem. Peter kissed you again, deeper and messier this time, the mask brushed against your cheek every time he tilted his head too high. His free hand slid down to grip your thigh with his fingers digging hard as he rocked faster, keeping the friction building until you were panting into his mouth and clutching at his shoulders.

"That's it," he whispered against your lips, though it was followed by a chuckle that had your stomach tightening. "Be a good girl and take it. Show me how bad you want it. Maybe if you keep being this eager for me I'll let you come like this, grinding on my cock through the suit. Maybe."

He kissed you again before you could answer, he tried to swallow every desperate sound you made while his hips kept that relentless rhythm that had you completely at his mercy.

“You're annoyingly mouthy.” A weak scoff escaped you and your fingers found the hem of your shirt. You peeled it upward in one impatient motion, tossing it somewhere off the side of the bed. The cool air hit your skin just before his palm did, landing firm and flat against your ribs.

"Slow down," Peter muttered, the words half-laugh, half-warning. His hand slid lower, smacking lightly at your hip. "Lift."

You lifted up obediently, hips rising off the mattress. He hooked his fingers into your waistband and dragged the fabric down your thighs in one slow, deliberate pull, leaving your panties exactly where they were. The cotton clung to you, already damp, and Peter made a low sound when he saw it.

"Look at that," he inhaled with his voice tight. "Soaking through already."

"Maybe stop teasing me then," you shot back, breath hitching when he pressed his palm flat against your sternum and shoved you back down flat. The mattress dipped under your weight. His hand stayed there, pinning you in place while his other hand worked the last of your bottoms off your ankles.

"You're the one who can't keep still," he only answered, reaching for the pillow beside your head. He shoved it over your face without ceremony, muffling your next protest. "Keep that there. If it comes off, I'm gone. You won't see me again. Understand?"

You nodded hard against the pillow, fingers clutching the fabric on either side of your head. The threat landed somewhere between fear and heat, making your thighs press together. Peter watched the movement, then pushed them apart with his knee again.

"Good girl," he repeated quieter now. His hand left your sternum. You heard the faint rustle of fabric shifting, then felt the mattress dip as he settled lower between your spread legs.

The first press of his mouth landed through the thin cotton of your panties. Hot, open, and unhurried. He licked a slow stripe from bottom to top, pressing the fabric against your clit until it was plastered to you. The wet heat of his tongue dragged again, firmer this time, soaking the material until it clung obscenely. You moaned into the pillow, hips twitching up toward his face.

Peter cursed under his breath, the sound was rough and conflicted. His tongue flattened and dragged again, then curled, tracing the shape of your folds through the soaked fabric like he was trying to memorize it. Every pass made the cotton wetter, until you could feel every ridge of his tongue pressing through. Peter sucked at the fabric, pulling it tight against you, then released it with a wet sound that made your face burn.

"Fuck," he hissed, pulling back just enough to hook two fingers into the side of your panties. He tugged them aside, exposing you to the cool air for half a second before his tongue was back. This time there was nothing between you. The flat of his tongue dragged up through your folds in one long, messy stroke, then curled at the tip to flick over your clit. He did it again, slower with his lips sealing around you while his tongue worked in deep, filthy strokes.

“Fuck, woah—don't, don't do that!” Peter breathed out a chuckle when he felt you shake under him, your thighs trembling on either side of his head. Your grip on the pillow tightened until your knuckles ached. Every time his tongue curled just right you whined into the fabric, hips rolling up to chase the pressure. Peter didn't let you have it easy. He pulled back when you got too close, licked around your clit instead of on it, then dove back in with that same hungry rhythm.

The mask came off.

You felt the shift in pressure first, the way his hand shoved the pillow harder against your face as he used the other to yank the fabric up and over his head. The sudden absence of the mask's texture against your inner thigh made you gasp into the pillow. Your body went loose for a second, boneless, before instinct kicked in.

One hand stayed obedient on the pillow. The other reached out blindly, fingers searching for his shoulder, his hair, anything. You barely brushed skin before his hand snapped around your wrist, grip tight enough to make you still.

"No," Peter stopped, and had his voice raw and mean. "You don't get to touch. Keep that hand on the pillow or I stop."

“Fine, whatever. Just, fuck—don't stop.” You nodded frantically, pulling your hand back to clutch the fabric again. Your whole body trembled as he lowered his mouth once more, tongue dragging through you in those same messy, desperate movements. Peter groaned against you like he hated how much he wanted it, the sound vibrated straight through your core.

Your moans came out muffled and broken now. Every time his tongue curled just right your hips jerked, and every time he pulled back you whined like you were begging without words. He kept you right there, shaking and soaked until your thighs were quivering and your grip on the pillow was the only thing keeping you from reaching for him again.

“Holy shit, I'm so close—” Your fingers dug into the pillow, flexing and twitching as you tried to form words, but every attempt dissolved into broken moans that the fabric swallowed whole. Your hips rolled up against his mouth, chasing the pressure, and the tension coiled so tight in your belly that when it snapped it hit like a live wire.

You came hard, thighs clamping around his head as your whole body jerked. The orgasm tore through you without warning, soaking his face in a sudden rush that hit his cheeks and chin, dripping down his jaw. Peter groaned against you, his tongue still working through the mess, and his lips parting to lick at the slick coating his mouth. 

Every flick of his tongue sent another twitch through your over-sensitive folds, and he gave your clit a few light, wet smacks with his fingers, watching the way your hips jumped at each one and the slick connecting at his fingertips before breaking apart in stands. 

The sound of fabric shifting reached you through the haze. His suit peeled away in sections, the material sliding over skin until you felt the sudden press of bare warmth against your inner thighs. His chest, his stomach, the hard line of his cock brushing your slick folds. You reached again, one hand lifting off the pillow in desperate need to touch, and he caught your wrist with a low, raspy laugh.

"Fuck, you're shaking," Peter breathed out with his voice turning rougher by the second. He brought your palm to his mouth and kissed it, lips dragging over your skin before he let your hand slide down his side. Your fingers traced the hard muscle of his abdomen, feeling the heat of him, the faint tremor in his body as he held himself back. He let you explore for a few seconds longer, then shoved your hand back to the pillow and pressed down harder on the fabric covering your face.

"Keep it there," Peter warned, though the edge in his voice wavered. "Didn't I tell you that already?"

“Shit, sorry—” The apology came mindless, distracted by the frantic muffled agreement vibrating against the pillow. He shifted between your legs, the blunt head of his cock dragging through your soaked slit in one slow, teasing pass. 

The contact made him hiss through his teeth, and had hips jerking forward like the restraint was finally cracking. He pushed in deep on the next stroke, burying himself to the hilt in one rough thrust that knocked the air from your lungs.

The pace turned brutal fast. Deep, heavy strokes rocked you up the mattress, each one forcing a broken sound out of you that the pillow barely contained. He watched the way your body jolted with every thrust, the way your tits bounced, the way your thighs trembled around his hips. Peter's hand stayed firm on the pillow, keeping you blind and muffled while he fucked into you like he'd been starving for it.

"God, listen to you," he murmured with a humorless chuckle. "So fucking wet. You like this? Being held down, can't even see me, can't touch?" He drove in harder, the slap of skin on skin echoing loud in the room. "Been holding back too long. Lonely too long, God I'm going insane. Fuck—"

Your hands went slack against the pillow, fingers twitching uselessly as the intensity built again. He noticed the moment your grip loosened and pressed the pillow down harder, the fabric smothering every whimper. The control should have felt demeaning, but it only made the heat spike hotter, making you clench around him like your body was begging for more even as your mind spun from the overwhelming sensation.

Peter kept the rhythm punishing, having hips snapping forward with a desperation that matched the conflict in his voice. Every thrust pushed you closer to the edge again, and every time you tried to reach for him his free hand caught your wrist and pinned it back down. The threat hung between you, unspoken but heavy: touch him and he'd stop. Don't touch and he'd keep going until you couldn't think straight.

Your moans turned frantic, muffled and wet against the pillow and he answered with a low groan that vibrated through his chest as he drove into you again, chasing the feeling without letting himself finish just yet.

He finally pulled out with a wet drag that left you clenching around nothing, the sudden emptiness making your hips twitch back toward him. And before you could even form a protest his hands were on you, gripping your waist hard enough to leave marks as he flipped you onto your stomach. The mattress dipped under his weight when he pressed your knees apart and yanked your hips up, forcing your hips into the air while your face stayed buried in the pillow.

"Fuck, look at you," Peter exhaled, and his voice cracked between a laugh and something unintentionally darker. "So eager. You want it this bad?"

You tried to push up on your elbows, twisting to look back at him, but one of his hands slid up your spine and pressed between your shoulder blades, pinning you back down. The other hand gathered at the base of your neck, tugging just enough to arch your neck as he leaned over.

"Can't fault you. I'm not doing much better," his voice hit your ear though the words came out shaky. His cock dragged through your folds again, the head catching on your entrance before he sank back in with one rough thrust that stuttered the air away from your lungs. The angle was deeper like this, hitting something that made your thighs shake. "God, you're tight. Squeezing me like you don't want me to leave."

His hips snapped forward in a punishing rhythm, skin slapping wetly against skin while his free hand roamed under your body to grab at your tits, squeezing hard before sliding lower to rub tight circles over your clit. Every thrust rocked you forward, your muffled moans vibrating into the bedspread as he fucked you like he was trying to crawl inside.

"This is so fucked," Peter breathed out against your spine with his lips dragging hot and open-mouthed down the curve of your back. He kissed each vertebra like he was apologizing for how hard he was pounding into you, even as his cock kept driving deep enough to make your vision blur. "I shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be doing this. But fuck, you feel too good. Can't stop."

You managed to prop yourself up on your elbows again, and your voice was hoarse when you gasped out, "Then don't stop. Please, keep going—"

His hand tightened in your hair, yanking your head back as he slammed into you harder, the pace turning almost frantic. "Don't say it like that," Peter groaned to himself, conflicted and desperate all at once. "Makes me want to stay. Makes me want to ruin you."

The hand under you kept working your clit in tight, relentless circles while his cock pistoned in and out, the wet sounds were obscene in the quiet room. Every time you tried to push back against him he shoved you forward again, controlling the angle, the depth, the pace. His breath came in ragged pants against your skin with his lips still trailing kisses down your exposed skin even as his thrusts grew rougher and more desperate.

"Been too long," Peter admitted between thrusts, and he could hear his voice turn thick with frustration. "Lonely too long. And you—fuck—you're so wet. So fucking perfect. I can't—"

His words cut off into a broken moan as you clenched around him. Your body responded to every rough stroke with another rush of slickness. He pressed his forehead between your shoulder blades, having his hips stuttering for a moment before he caught himself and started at you even harder, like he was trying to outrun whatever guilt was eating at him.

"Tell me to stop," he rasped, even as his hand in your hair pulled tighter and he drove in deeper. "Tell me this is wrong. Because I can't make myself leave."

“Told you, don't stop—” the words hung there frantically in their plea, and you pushed back against him, meeting every thrust with a desperate roll of your hips. The sound he made was half-laugh, half-groan. "Yeah," Peter breathed against your shoulder. "That's what I thought.”

His fist tightened in your hair again, yanking your face up from the pillow until your neck arched and your spine bowed. The sudden pull made your vision swim, but you kept your eyes squeezed shut, forcing yourself to obey even as every instinct screamed to look back at him.

"Good girl," he rasped against the shell of your ear and his voice shredded. "Keep those eyes closed. You feel that? Feel how fucking deep I am?"

You nodded frantically, a broken whimper escaping as he dragged out slow and deliberate before slamming back in. The angle had you seeing stars, each thrust punching the air from your lungs in sharp little gasps.

"Fuck—I'm—"

"Don't look," Peter tried to warn again, but his voice cracked on the words. His lips found the back of your neck, having his teeth scraping before he sucked hard enough to bruise. The wet pull of his mouth made your clench around him, and the groan that tore from his chest vibrated straight through your spine. "Christ, you're squeezing me so tight. Like you want me to lose it."

You tried to be good. Really tried. But when his teeth sank into the side of your throat, just below your ear, your hand twisted back on instinct. Your fingers found his hair, soft, sweat-damp curls that brushed against your knuckles, and you buried your hand in them, tugging him closer even as your eyes fluttered open for half a second.

"Fuck, I knew it," Peter breathed, catching your wrist and pinning it to the small of your back. His pace never faltered like his voice, hips continuing to snap forward in that relentless rhythm that had your thighs shaking. "Told you not to touch. Told you to be good. But you can't help yourself, can you?"

"I'm sorry," you gasped and your voice was hoarse, you shook your head at nothing as you continued. "I won't look, I swear! Just—please don't stop. Please, I need—"

His forehead dropped between your shoulder blades again, his exhales came breathless and ragged against your skin. "I shouldn't have taken the mask off. This is so fucking stupid. You could—god, you feel too good. Been too long since anyone—fuck—"

The words dissolved into a guttural curse as you clenched around him again, your second orgasm building fast and sharp in the pit of your stomach. Every thrust dragged across that perfect spot inside you, and the lack of allowance from him made it worse. It made every touch electric. You could feel his cock throbbing, feel the way his rhythm stuttered when you squeezed him, and feel the desperate way his free hand grabbed at your hip hard enough to bruise.

"You're close," Peter groaned into your ear, and he sounded completely wrecked now. "I can feel it. Fuck, you're dripping everywhere. Making such a mess."

Your eyes rolled back despite yourself, and a broken moan tore from your throat as he bit down on your shoulder. The sensation of his teeth marking you while he relentlessly pounded into you pushed you right to the edge. Your hand twisted in his hair again, fingers tightening in frenzied motion and this time he didn't stop you.

"That's it," Peter panted and cursed wordlessly when his hips stuttered at the feeling. "Come on my cock. Let me feel it. Been so fucking lonely, and you—god, you're just fucking insane—"

His words cut off into a choked groan as your orgasm crashed over you, your cunt pulsing around him in rhythmic waves. Your whole body seized; your thighs shook violently as you came with a broken cry, and the feeling of you clenching around him dragged a wrecked sound from Peter's chest.

"Fuck—fuck—fuck—" His hips jerked erratically, his pace faltering as he fought to hold back. "You're gonna make me come. God, I can feel every fucking pulse. Don't—don't look back, fuck."

Peter buried his face in your neck, sucking another bruise into your skin while his cock throbbed inside you. His hand stayed tangled in your hair, keeping your face turned away even as his body trembled against yours, every muscle tight with the effort of holding back his own release.

"You're too good," he whispered against your ear, all hoarse and desperate. "Too fucking perfect. I can't—"

His hips snapped forward one more time in a loss of control, burying himself to the hilt as he fought to regain control, his breath coming in harsh pants against your marked throat.

A broken gasp tore from your throat as his hips stilled, the thick length of him buried to the hilt inside you. Instead of pulling back, he ground forward, rolling his pelvis in a slow, deliberate circle that forced another inch of him deeper. Your walls fluttered around him, oversensitive and raw, and the sensation made your vision blur even with your eyes squeezed shut.

"Fuck, too much—" The words came out ragged and barely coherent. Your body had gone limp in his grip, head only held up only by his fist in your hair and the arm banded around your waist. Every nerve ending sparked like live wires, the stimulation making your head spin.

"I know," Peter groaned against your ear with overwhelming rasp. "I can feel you shaking. God, you're so fucking tight around me. Can't stop—need to feel all of it."

You tilted your head back desperately, blindly seeking his mouth. "Please, need—"

His palm came up rough and warm, fingers splaying across your eyes to keep you from looking, and then his lips crashed into yours from the side. The kiss was messy, uncoordinated, all teeth and tongue and shared gasps. Peter swallowed your whimpers as he started to grind again, short, shallow rolls of his hips that kept him buried deep while the head of his cock dragged against that oversensitive spot inside you.

"Fuck, fuck—I'm—" His voice cracked. You could feel it happening from the way his abs flexed hard against your back, the tremor that ran through his thighs, and the way he throbbed inside you like a heartbeat. His rhythm stuttered with his hips jerking in shallow pulses as he came with a guttural groan that vibrated through your spine.

You felt every pulse of it. Hot, thick spurts flooding you, filling you until it leaked out around his cock with each weak thrust. Peter kept fucking it deeper, grinding the mess back into you while his hand stayed clamped over your eyes and his mouth devoured yours in desperate, open-mouthed kisses.

"God—god—" He panted against your lips, and his hips kept twitching in movement.

Your hand reached back blindly, fingers finding his hip and your nails dug into his skin as you held onto him. He was shaking against you, every muscle tight, his breath coming in harsh pants against your neck. The hand over your eyes softened, thumb stroking your temple as he slowly came down, his cock still twitching inside you with aftershocks.

"You okay?" Peter whispered with his voice strained after the moment quieted down, his high climbing down in shallow breaths. His forehead dropped to your shoulder against your marked skin. "Did I—fuck, tell me you're okay."

You nodded weakly, still floating in feeling, still feeling the slow leak of him between your thighs. "Don't pull out yet," you managed with your voice barely audible. "Just—stay. Please."

Peter's arm tightened around you, pulling you closer even as his own breathing started to even back out. The hand he had over your eyes slid down to cup your jaw, gentler now, and his thumb brushed your bottom lip. "Yeah, okay," he murmured. "Just for a while."

The room was quiet except for your mingled breathing and his lips pressed soft kisses along your shoulder, soothing the bite marks he'd left, and you could feel the tension slowly bleeding out of his body as he held you through the afterglow.

The last thing you registered was the slow drag of his cock easing out of you, the wet slide of his cum following in its wake, and the gentle press of his lips against your shoulder. Then everything went soft and dark.

You didn't even feel yourself slipping under.

Consciousness returned in pieces.

Firstly, it came with the weight of the sheets tucked up to your chest, cool cotton against your bare skin. Then, with the faint ache between your legs, a deep, pleasant throb that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. Your thighs felt sticky, but when you shifted, the sensation was clean. There was no dried mess, just the ghost of it cleaned away.

Your eyes cracked open.

The room was dim at first, the only light filtering in from the streetlamp outside your window. The space beside you was empty, the sheets cool. And he was gone.

You pushed yourself up on one elbow, wincing at the pull in your hips, and spotted the bottle of water on your nightstand. Beside it, a folded piece of paper with your name scrawled across the front in handwriting you recognized: messy, rushed, and unmistakably his.

You reached for it, unfolding the note with fingers that still trembled.

Drink water. Eat something. Don't let me see you at any more crime scenes.

Beneath it, smaller, almost an afterthought:

P.S. If you behave, maybe you'll see me without those stupid apps.

A laugh bubbled up in your throat immediately after reading it, all hoarse and disbelieving. You pressed the note to your chest, letting your head fall back against the pillows with a soft thud.

"Well," you muttered to the empty room, voice scratchy from use, "guess I finally deleted the right thing."

Your body sank deeper into the mattress, sore in all the right places and light in a way that made no sense. The ache between your legs was a reminder, the faint scent of him still clinging to your sheets. You closed your eyes, the note crinkling softly against your skin, and smiled.

The ball was in his court now, and you couldn't wait to see what he'd do with it.

other links: ▪︎ my masterlist

[uhhhj13iguess]

hurts, but i know how to hide it. kinda like it.

BND!peter parker x fem!reader

summary: when your upstairs neighbor, spider-man, had begun to experience bizarre side effects to his arachnid DNA taking over, he fought to suppress it. you encouraged the idea of him letting go and seeing what happened, knowing he would always be peter. for months, he didn’t even entertain the thought, not willing to 'become a monster'. today? today he was a bit more susceptible.

written with something’s off with peter parker dynamic written in mind, but by no means a required read before this one

wc: 5.3k

cw: BND SPOILERS!!! nothing monumental to the storyline, and i would argue nothing that wasn’t mentioned in the trailer, but the descriptions of The Spider™️ are very much written and talked about in the context of the film. read at your own discretion for those who have not seen it.

actual cw: !!MDNI!! smut (p in v), vivid spider-like descriptors, dubcon and bdsm elements (absolutely everything is consensual, but in peter’s current state, he is not “himself”, which therefore makes the consent dubious): bondage/restrained by webs, slapping (but you hit peter 🤭), choking, a dash of fear play and a touch of some primal/prey descriptors going on. dacryphilia, mean dirty talk by peter that also has a dubcon vibe, finishing inside, minor subspace mention, Def domdrop mention for peter, and probably more. jesus christ, let me know if i missed anything.

also a gross overuse of italics and bold. title is from 'my strange addiction' by billie eilish

don’t like, don’t read! enjoy my little freaks!

two years ago, your neighbor, you supposed, moved in to the apartment's storage loft right above you. peter parker, he had introduced himself as, was a rather shy, reserved guy for someone who created an entire new list of expectations for the upstairs neighbor archetype.

a year and ten months ago, peter parker was a frequent weekly guest for tuesday dinner and switch tournaments. what had started as a knock on his door and some of your grandmother's brownies had evolved into peter spending hours losing to you on mario kart over bowls of bland spaghetti and spongebob mac and cheese.

a year and eight months ago, spider-man swan-dove through your window instead of his on accident, mask stripped before he knew better.

a year and a half ago, peter parker had managed to become the person you trusted most in this life. and in a measly six months, you had become that for peter in return. he opened up to you about the deaths of his aunt and tony, how he'd lost his friends - fuck, his whole life - to the spell.

and after about a year, though he'd never admit it, you could tell he was happy to have a "guy in the chair" again. to have someone in his headset, someone to patch him up after a rough night with scorpion. suddenly, peter wasn't so alone. he had someone who knew him as well as he knew himself, someone who - while you didn't get it necessarily - was the only one in the world who finally knew he fucking existed again.

which is exactly why you also knew about the headache's peter had been getting more and more over the past few months.

you were the first person he ran to when they started, collapsing on your bedroom floor in tears as he tugged at his curls for relief from the pounding. he was begging you to make it stop, curled in on himself like, well... a spider.

the first time was the worst of them, mostly due to not knowing what was going on. but after decorating your room in a thick layer of web (despite not having his web-shooters), it was clear this was outside your basic first-aid training. that didn't stop you from helping how you could. in that moment, and beyond.

you attended professor banner's lectures with him, taking whatever notes you could understand. you stayed up late into the night with him, acting as his assistant as peter worked up in his loft on getting to the bottom of whatever the fuck was happening with his own DNA. he jokingly called you "Dum-E" once, and was quick to backtrack as he saw bewilderment flash across your face. he apologized and rambled on that it was a good thing, tripping over his words to explain himself, though the hurt in his eyes when telling the story told you it wasn't a time to push.

all of this to say, you knew that something about the arachnid DNA was evolving, and going fucking haywire in the process. which is exactly why, when you heard a thunderous crash and sharp curses from peter in the loft above you, worry immediately flooded your system.

you bolted up the stairs, the obscene noises coming from peter's apartment growing louder as you approached his door. you knocked rapidly, calling out his name as you did.

another loud crash sounded, and you heard peter howl. "uhh, not right now! not a good time!"

you huffed. "yeah it doesn't seem like a good time! let me in, parker!"

peter went to respond, but was cut off by his own pained groan, and a worried whine left your own lips in reply. he deserved his privacy, hell, he deserved his own autonomy, but your concern overrode all ethical dilemma as you heard his knees hit the floor. hard.

thank fuck peter never locked his door.

you crashed into the loft, stopping dead in your tracks as you took in the state of peter's apartment. there was webbing everywhere. it covered the ceiling and his furniture, splattered over the windows which caused the light to scatter in awkwardly. you could only describe the state of his webbed bed as a nest. there was a PC monitor on the ground next to his desk that looked like it had been torn in fucking half. in the left most corner, there were handprints in the exposed brick on the wall from where peter had tried to catch himself before hitting the ground below where you saw him now.

peter was hunched over in a similar position you had seen him in that first time, limbs curled in on himself as he gripped his head, no doubt pounding like a motherfucker. he was facing away from you, but his shirt was ripped off, showing off just how pale he looked. a thin layer of sweat glistened off his skin, droplets forming and almost looking sticky. peter was shaking and breathing heavy as you approached him.

you had seen him like this before. it hadn't been this bad in a while, but you had been there for peter through it before and you could do it again. you had seen him when everything got too loud and he started to shut down, something else fighting to take over. that was the entire point of the inhibitor he had been working on. to suppress whatever the fuck this was.

you had pushed back initially, playing devil's advocate to encourage him to let it happen. to let the spider in. prove to himself that he was still peter parker when spider-man took over. after seeing him in this much pain and discomfort enough times, you stopped entertaining the notion.

because seeing him like this? was heartbreaking. you knew just how much everything was hitting him right now. how every sense was stabbing at him individually, how each breath you took was a knife to his eardrums. so you approached cautiously, keeping a step or two away and knowing not to touch him right now.

you met him with a hushed voice. "peter, hey. it's just me."

he flinched at your whispers and you cringed, feeling nauseated knowing it was your voice that hurt him. "let me help, okay? how can i help right now? do you need me to grab your-"

"no," he rasped out. his voice was deep, in a tone you hadn't heard from him before. "no, i'm not kidding. you need to fucking go."

"pete, i'm not-"

"no!" peter's voice boomed throughout the loft as he screamed your name. "i don't fucking care what you think right now!"

"parker," you went to scold, but he cut you off.

"i cannot get this fucking inhibitor to calibrate, and i-i.. fuck, i'm not myself right now. you need to go." his voice cracked on the last word, like he was trying to hold back tears. a moment ago, his voice literally shook the building. now, it just sounded broken.

you stood your ground. "peter, i'm not leaving you. don't do this alone."

his fist slammed into the floor in front of him, shattering the hardwood. as if it were fucking glass, splinters flew around him like shards of glass snowing in the air. peter held onto the edge of the newfound hole in the ground while trying to recenter himself, his grip on the floorboard literally causing the wood to disintegrate into dust in his hands.

you heard him fucking growl at you, and while you still weren't afraid of him, part of you was a little grateful peter was still facing the other way as you felt your cheeks heat up at the outburst.

"do you not see that i fucking have to?!" peter screamed into the corner, dust and loose grout crumbling from the ceiling at the sheer strength of his voice. you could see his back expanding and inflating as he desperately tried to suck in breaths, his many muscles flexing around his ribcage, and-

okay jesus, maybe not the time.

you sighed, shaking your head and taking another step closer. "peter-"

"fuck, get out of here! i don't want to hurt you!" he pleaded, still trembling and pulling at his hair.

you took a step back to look over at his computer, noticing his vitals freaking out on one monitor as the other was hooked up to some homemade tech he had running sequences on the inhibitor. EVIE was working with the same desperation that peter was oozing, already on trial #392. you looked back to the corner where he was still hunched in pain, and decided with unwavering finality that you were not leaving him alone during this.

walking back over, you crouched down to brush his shoulder with your fingertips, hoping to ground him with a singular sensation. he caught your wrist before you could even bother.

"i said. don't."

peter finally looked up at you for the first time, and your heart dropped to your stomach.

a lot about peter had begun to change during his "molting process" (as you referred to it). his strength had grown expotentially -- so had his spidey-sense. even the organic webbing, which was brand fucking new.

you hadn't seen his eyes go black like that before.

you stared into his fully darkened eyes, hoping the shock wasn't as evident in your own as you knew it was. hoping the tinge of something else in your eyes wasn't as evident as you thought it was. you flicked between his deep glare and his hand on your wrist as you regained your composure.

"peter. i'm not leaving you. i'm not scared of you."

he laughed. peter parker honest to god laughed at you, as he kept a firm grasp on your wrist and held your gaze.

"you fucking should be."

before you could blink, peter launched upwards, fucking jumping from his spot on the ground as shoved you against the wall. hard. despite the aggressive action and your back slamming against the brick, his hand landed behind your head to cushion the impact. the rest of you still hit with enough force that the wall cracked behind you, dust from the concrete swirling in the air.

you coughed hard, though, whether that was a result of the dust or the grip of peter's hand on the base of your fucking neck, it was hard to tell. he stared at you for a moment, black eyes darting up and down your body as he tracked your every movement. every rise of your chest, every twitch of your lip as you wheezed through his grip.

peter looked at you like you were his prey. like you were a fly that had been caught in his fucking web. you tried not to be as turned on as you were.

his eyes flickered slightly towards his hand on your neck and he loosened the grip, though still not letting you go. he regained a bit more of himself, a bit more of peter, as his shaking hand kept you pined to the wall. his voice betrayed the stone cold look on his face, trembling as he told you: "clearly, you should be".

peter didn't miss how your eyes jut down to his lips before hitting him with a rattled but firm: "well, i'm fucking not."

he smirked at you and let you go fully, stepping back to analyze as you took a moment to catch your breath. he drank you in, sizing you up before letting out a deep chuckle. before you could look up at him, both of your wrists were webbed to the wall behind you, pinned over your head as your back was once again pressed against the hard brick. peter closed in on you, boxing your frame in against his own. he pressed against you, getting in your face. literally breathing down your neck.

"no, you are. just a little," he growled in your ear. "but i think you like it."

you felt how fucking hard peter was through his juicy sweatpants, felt just how fucking big he was pressed against your hip. this was not a side effect of the arachnid DNA that either of you had seen in the last few months. or at least, nothing that peter had mentioned. come to think of it, why would he? it's not like he felt the same way.

you were snapped out of your thoughts as peter fucked sniffed you. you shook off the self-doubt as you took stock of the man in front of you, restricting himself to the point of physical pain right now as he caught whiff of your arousal. consequences to the friendship be damned, you were determined to stay at his side through this as his inhibitor kept running sequences on the computer, red flashing from the screen every few minutes to signal yet another failed attempt.

and, well. he exactly wasn't wrong.

you fought to hold contact with his deep, piercing eyes. "maybe i do, spider-man. what are you going to do about it?"

those were the magic words.

he ripped you off the wall, webbing still hanging from your wrists as he picked you up like you were nothing. a scream escaped your lips as you were airborne suddenly, flying through the air shortly before your back hit peter's bed.

his bed. oh fuck, you hadn't expected that to work so easily.

it was starting to become crystal clear that you were in fact going to have whiplash and possibly even a concussion tomorrow, but you were too fucking wet to care. you'd analyze what that meant about your psyche later. for now? you were simply too excited to see what the fuck he was going to do to you.

you watched as he stalked, taking in your frame as you laid hopelessly in his bed. his bed, which, was covered in webbing that extended down to the floor where peter was standing. you shifted with hesitation and watched peter's head flick towards you, almost like...

almost like he could feel your fucking vibrations against the webbing. like a fucking prey caught in his web, writhing for help and sending vibrations up this silk to signal the spider.

the spider, who was watching you through his black-hooded eyes, like he was fucking hungry.

peter started to squat down, and you sat up in turn, instantly worried his headache was consuming him again.

you didn't even get to meet his eyes.

peter pounced forward, a hydraulic explosion coming from his legs as he fucking jumped you on the bed, using his limbs to pin your own underneath him. your breath had initially hitched, but all air was taken from you as peter's hands were on your clothes, tearing the garments from your body like you'd only been in a paper fucking bag. shreds of cotton stuck to the webs around you as peter stared down at your mostly naked body.

he straddled you properly, using his hands to hold down your own again as he leaned close, breathing you in heavy. no doubt catching the pheromones in your sweat, a downright villainous smirk creeping on his lips as he got confirmation of just how turned on you were.

peter pulled back to see your eyes, and was taken aback to see the fear in them. regardless of every other emotion you were feeling right now, you were also scared.

and fuck, he did that.

he sat up straight, the black around his sclera retreating slightly as his breathing picked back up. you could feel him start to tremble over you again as peter buried his face in his hands for a moment.

"fuck, i don't- that's not," he choked out. "fuck, i'm so sorry. you need to get out of here, i fucking meant it earlier."

you could tell the headache was back as his grip tightened in his curls, a pained groan escaping from deep in his chest. he was fighting himself, trying to use the strength he had just minutes ago to lift himself off of your lap. you grabbed his hips to hold him down.

"peter, listen to me."

"please, i-i can't, i shouldn't have-"

"peter." he shook his head, refusing to look at you.

"i can't believe i put you in this position, oh my god. i-i, fuck i can't even begin to apologize..." he rambled. you tried to fight back, to tell him that it was okay, to let it happen.

you had been a firm supporter this entire time of the notion that peter just needed to let the spider in and see what the fuck happened. obviously, he had never wanted to do that. too afraid of what would happen. at this point, you were afraid of what would happen to him if he didn't submit to what was desperately trying to crawl out of him. this had seemed like as good time as any to test your theory, as peter's monitor still continued to flash red, the trial number now surpassing five hundred.

besides, if you died because spider-man ripped you in half from fucking you too hard? that was a fine way to go out, in your opinion.

so you antagonized him. just... a little.

"spider-man!" you yelled in his face, and your voice rang out alongside the CRACK! of your palm across his cheek.

peter looked back at you, slight shock on his flashing on face before his eyes went fully black again. he locked sight on you, eyes twitching as he analyzed each minute movement your body made. and there was that fucking smirk again.

"oh i see. you want this, don't you?" peter rasped in your ear as he leaned back down, his breath hot against your skin. "fine. but don't be mad at me when it gets to be too much."

in a split second, your hands were whipped high above your head, warm and sticky webs encasing your wrists once again. this time, attached to peter parker's headboard. fuck.

you squirmed in his grasp, fighting the webbing even though you knew it was no use. you were there when he discovered just how fucking strong his organic web was in comparison to the lab-designed. you couldn't move, and you knew it. he knew it too.

peter's hands were on you in a frenzy, ripping your bra clean from your body in a single motion. you gasped as he stared down at your chest, vibrating with restraint. restraint that peter didn't have right now.

perfect.

his hands weren't off your body for long, quickly lunging to wrap around your exposed breast. he squeezed the soft tissue, hard enough to elicit a scream that ripped straight from your throat. he growled at your response, loosening his grip and focusing on pinching your erect nipples instead. he leaned down to bite one, earning another piercing scream.

peter pulled back to admire his work, and you looked down to see the instant handprint that was bruising over your left tit. it made you dizzy, seeing peter spider-man mark you with such a primal fucking desire. blood rushed back to comfort the sore area, leaving your chest feeling warm and fuzzy. you weren't allowed much of a reprieve, however.

peter manhandled you exactly how he wanted you, crawling out of his hold on you to spread your legs and raise your knees. once he had you positioned, you felt the warm rush of webbing cover your feet as well. oh, you were so fucked.

his fingers trailed up your legs, starting at your feet and working their way towards your aching core. you shivered against his touch, and noticed how he relished in the way it caused his webbing around you to vibrate. you were but a bug in his web, caught and waiting to be eaten.

you let out a moan as he grabbed at your inner thighs, no doubt leaving matching handprints to the one on your chest. peter just snarled in response.

"so fucking desperate for it. is this why you've been helping me all along? just waiting to get fucked by spider-man?"

he stared up at you from where he was in between your legs, hot breath teasing against your damp underwear. "so desperate i bet you don't even need any prep, am i right?"

peter reached his hand towards your core, fingertips trembling with constraint as he could feel just how wet you were for him. he hissed, retracting his hand as though he had been burnt. within seconds, your underwear had been ripped off your body like the rest of your clothes, leaving you fully naked in front of peter parker.

in front of spider-man.

you stared into the black void of his eyes as he repeated the same action to himself, shredding the infamous juicy sweatpants in the process. you were pretty sure your eyes were as dark as his were, pupils blown to shit as you stared at the fucking greek statue in front of you.

did spiders have insanely large dicks, or was that just a peter thing?

not now, jesus.

as he promised, there was no goddamn prep. no easing into it. peter climbed back on top of you, his limbs stalking over yours as his webbing held you firmly in place. you tried to struggle against it, even if just for the show of it. definitely for the show of it.

"just a dumb. fucking. bug. aren't you? landed right where i fucking wanted you to."

peter gave no warning as he thrust all of himself inside you, a sharp cry punching from your chest as he bottomed out in one go. the line between pain and pleasure was a fine one as he set a disgustingly rough pace, pistoning in and out of you like it would literally kill him to go any slower.

maybe it would. you weren't here to find out.

you squirmed against him on a particularly heavy thrust, only to be met with a hand at the base of your throat again.

"no, hold still. you fucking wanted this."

oh, you were so gone. you weren't even sure you were going to remember enough of this to be able to psychoanalyze these newfound kinks, you were too fucking cock-drunk off peter. he was still relentlessly forcing his way into you, but you seemed almost distant from your body now. as though the pleasure was so good, you had started floating.

peter noticed and it only drove him crazier, watching your limp body move in time with his thrusts as he milked you dry, a creamy ring around his cock each time he pulled out.

"is this why you've been so against the fucking inhibitor? been wanting me to lose my goddamn mind like this?"

you weren't sure when you had started crying, but warm tears were now flooding down your rosy cheeks. peter mock cooed at the sight.

"don't cry now, baby. this is exactly what you wanted, isn't it? this is exactly what you fucking asked for."

you moaned at his words, too lost to form your own. peter only held you tighter. "such a pretty fucking crier. taking me so well."

peter dropped his head in the crook of your neck as he kept going, reaching new levels of overstimulation. and for the first time, the overstimulation wasn't destroying him. it was consuming, driving his every movement and decision -- but it didn't hurt anymore. it almost felt... good. natural.

he had never had sex like this before. sure, in the past, the physical intimacy of it all had been overwhelming, feeling each sensation of the other person as if it were also his own. but something about this was different. peter could feel your heartbeat inside of his own body, each time you pulsed around him sent an electrical current through his system that was, well... electrifying.

peter could feel you getting close, the constrictions of your muscles changing every so slightly to signal to him that you were on the edge. not only that, but he could fucking smell the hormonal change in your body before you even knew it yourself, soft moans falling from your lips in a desperate attempt to let him know.

like he didn't already fucking know.

"i know, that's it. come for me, baby. i want you to feel me for weeks. i want you to hurt so bad that no one else can fuck you. only me. you're fucking mine," peter snarled possessively in your ear.

that was all it took for you to fall over the edge, weightless as you screamed through the orgasm. the feeling of your cunt tightening around him, your juices slicking his cock even more, the sounds of it all: it was beyond lewd. peter was immediately behind you, the sensations coming from you enough to reset his entire system. it was a sensory overload in the best way possible, his vision going white as he came the hardest he ever had.

peter flooded you with his warmth, and you had come back to earth just enough to notice how similar his cum inside of you felt like his webs against your wrists. he gave one final thrust before collapsing on top of you, using his remaining strength to rip the webbing from your hands and feet. his breathing was heavy again as he pulled his head up to look at you, and you noticed that his eyes had returned to the soft brown rings of peter parker.

he flickered his gaze around you and where you both were, confusion flashing across his face as he fought everything in his body telling him to sleep.

"what... oh my god, what happened?"

peter barely slurred it out before he passed out on top of you. still inside of you.

you fought against your own haze, still on cloud nine as you caught a green glow from the corner of your eyes. thank god for his loft set up -- his desk being tucked next to his bed, allowing you to close access to his tech in this moment. sometime in the last god knew how long, EVIE had run a successful trial, signified by the incandescent green radiating from his monitor.

you reached out as far as peter's weight over you had allowed, just barely catching the inhibitor in your fingertips. you guided the small machine around his sleeping frame, connecting it to the spot on the back of his neck. you were already out of breath, fucked dumb and on the verge of passing out, but this was about peter. it had been since the beginning.

with the inhibitor finally latched and active with a soft chrip!, you let out a sigh of relief watching peter's vitals and DNA level back out on the computer monitor. you could feel peter further relax on top of you, and it was enough to give you a final sense of accomplishment before you let the lull wash over you too, pulling you under with peter into a blissful slumber.

you woke up hours later, tucked into the covers, still on peter's stiff mattress. the webbing around his bed was gone, leaving you to wake up on fresh sheets. the scent was overwhelming peter, causing a smile to graze your lips before you even opened your eyes. he must've moved you in your sleep, as both the bedding and you were cleaned off.

you opened your eyes slowly, a dull headache settling behind your eyes and confirming your whiplash/concussion hypothesis from earlier. you saw the evening light coming through the loft windows, which had also been cleared of the previous webbing, and noted that it had in fact been hours that you'd been sleeping. it was now that you also noticed you were still naked while wrapped in peter's comforter, and a blush settled over your cheeks.

you went to sit up, but your entire body screamed protest as you moved. only a soft grunt left your lips, but it was enough to alert peter that you were awake again. he was at your side in an instant.

"oh my god, you're awake. thank fucking god, i was so worried that-"

you cut off his rambling with a hand to his chest, grateful to feel his heart beat almost at a normal rate again. normal for anxious peter, at least.

"pete, i'm okay." you gave him a soft smile, but it was the comfort that sent him over the edge. he quivered next to you as tears fought to fall from his eyes, physical proof of just how sorry he was.

there was your peter parker.

"no, listen. i'm so fucking sorry. i can't actually describe to you how sorry i am, there's no words for it. i-i'm a fucking monster, i can't believe that i... fuck, oh my god- i'm going to fucking throw up. i-i have the cops on speed dial, you know that, right? i'll call them. i swear to god, i will turn myself in right fucking now-"

"peter," you tried again, sitting up to meet his eye level more. to stop his spiraling.

the opposite happened as the blanket fell slightly in your adjustment, revealing a bit of your chest where he had left a handprint. peter's eyes locked onto the bruise, and he looked moments away from throwing himself off the building. his nervous shaking had turned to violent, full body tremors as tears finally slipped down his cheeks. he opened his mouth, surely to apologize more, but you weren't having it.

you pulled him in for a kiss, ignoring how tender your wrists were as you grabbed onto his sweatshirt. peter was hesitant at first, but soon melted into the kiss, feeling something deep and primal within him relax.

you broke the kiss to look at him again, and peter was beyond confused. "but i-"

"peter, i wanted it. all of it." you held his gaze firmly, one hand holding his comforter over your bare chest, the other tightly holding his own trembling palm. "i wanted to push you and see what would happen. to help you prove to yourself that you aren't a fucking monster, even if you don't know what the fuck is taking over. you're still my peter parker. you're still good."

peter let out a relieved huff of air, pulling you in for a gentle and cautious hug as happy tears landed against your bare back. he held you, thanking you profusely for trusting him. for helping him trust himself.

"do you feel better, pete?" you mumbled into the crook of his neck.

he choked on a laugh, and you felt a soft nod against your cheek. "yeah. yeah, fuck, i guess i do."

peter pulled back, concern laced in his eyebrows once again. "but you-"

"but i nothing, parker. i'm okay, really. think i can't handle a good fucking? being hurt a little?"

peter's cheeks lit on fire, a red flush extending down under the collar of his shirt. he laughed nervously, absentmindedly reaching up to graze his fingertips over the bruise blooming over your breasts. "good, huh? you're not too hurt?"

"oh i'm definitely hurt," you smirked at how quickly his face fell, your hand cupping his over your chest. "dare i say, hurt so bad that no one but you can fuck me?"

maybe it wasn't so bad if peter let the spider take over every now and then.

main masterlist

tip jar!

[amandarauart]

The galaxy's favorite singer!

[moonyanddaisies]

sorry but not sorry: ryland grace will be the type of boyfriend/husband to wear a "i heart my hot black girlfriend"/"i heart my hot black wife" t-shirt and embarrass the fuck out of her.

[sydcarmyism]

two platonic coworkers

[livelovecaliforniadreams]

#The Most Beautiful Romantic Hug I’ve Seen In My Entire Life 

[wickedslashdivine]

Literally starving for some Ryland Grace x Black Reader!

[attemptedrandomwriting]

What Does It Mean, question?

Ryland Grace x Reader - 4.4K words

Part Three of Nightmare

Summary: Grace has a tendency to do a pattern of three. Especially around you. You try to figure out what it means.

Three. 

Maybe it was his favorite number? Or maybe he just liked the rhythm of it, the pattern, the consistency of doing it.

Grace has a…quirk. A tendency. Not that you mind. You first noticed it when you comforted him after his nightmare. After his memory. He had squeezed your hand three times and you still remembered the flash in his eyes when you didn't copy him.

Maybe you should follow Rocky's method of connecting. Just repeat things to learn. 

It kept happening, though, and there was no flash in his eyes. He was still…something…whenever he did it. You would smile at him and he would smile back, but almost sadly. Or resigned at least. Like you weren't doing it right, but you didn't know what the right thing was to do. 

He kept doing it though, so you just went with it.

When Grace had to pass you in the ship, he would pat your shoulder three times as he went by. When you discovered something new, a memory, or even something to help you all out on whatever problem you were onto next, he would clap three times or high five you three times. 

It caught you off guard the first time he high fived you the first time like this. You held your hand up for the one and you were bringing it down after the one, but Grace followed your hand down, getting in the three while he could. His face had turned bright red after he realized what he did, stuttering over his words, running off to go "fix the petrovascope" or something, which you just watched, not sure why he would fix something that wasn't broken. 

Ever since that night, you both decided you slept better next to each other. You also both decided that holding hands was essential. Humans are social beings, right? They need touch to survive. It wasn't weird, it was actually important for both of your mental health. It also helped Rocky keep an eye on both of you while you slept, so really, it was to help everyone out.

When you say goodnight to each other and Grace taps his fingers on yours three times, you don't question it. Out loud, at least. 

You've been thinking about it more and more. He's always touching you when he does it. Or at least, very close to you. Almost as though he prefers to do this pattern of three in reference to you. You don't mind it, though, that's for sure.

It's something that is just so 'Grace'. 

You still aren't sure why you are on this mission. Grace had remembered that he was a molecular biologist, but you still couldn't remember. Bits and pieces of your life had made their way to you, but you still didn't really know who you were. 

So, you decided to follow in your fellow human's footsteps and decided to observe and write down the science. 

Over the next week or so, you quietly documented when Grace would do the pattern of three. Who he would do it with or if he did it by himself. The context of the pattern. 

You totally weren't just bored on the ship.

The first one you documented was the next day after you decided to stop musing about it and actually pay attention. Rocky had been overhearing your conversation about life on Earth when the topic of video games came up.

"We have everything ever on the ship right? In terms of media?"

"Yeah, pretty sure we do, why?"

Your eyes light up, a mischeivous smile growing on your face. "You ever play Mario Kart?"

"Of course, I'm a middle school teacher." Grace gestures to his t-shirt, which had a joke about the noble gases being knights, "And a nerd."

"You any good at it?"

Grace scoffs at you, rolling his eyes. "C'mon. I got a solid third place while playing at a school event one time. Against middle schoolers? That's like a gold medal."

"You talk a big game. Wanna prove it?" You get up from your seat at the table, telling Rocky with your hand to follow you two. "Let's go play Mario Kart!"

"Rocky no understand."

"I know, bud, it's easier to just show you. Make sure you bring your screen gun, we are going to the screen room."

Two hours later, Rocky has a finally finished his xenonite workaround to being able to play, holding a controller. Grace put up a good fight at the beginning, but you are now on a roll, getting first place after first place. 

"Grace bad bad bad at game." 

"She's cheating! Got to be!"

"Nope" you say, throwing up some finger guns, "Just that good."

"You are so embarassing, finger guns, really?"

"Oh, as if you don't do that any time you don't know how to finish a conversation."

Grace throws up a hand in mock offense to his chest, "How dare you. Finger guns are a classic way to signal the end of a conversation."

"Right, right, sure. Rocky, you wanna play Grace? You get a turn now."

"Rocky want play game. Rocky going to 'smoke' Grace." 

Grace looks over at you over his glasses, a pointed look clearly displaying his displeasure at you teaching Rocky more slang. You try to ignore the flutter in your chest at it. Your hands go up, telling him back, 'What can you do?' He chuckles at your response. 

You watch them play a round or two, Grace teaching Rocky how to play and you throwing some tips in every now and then. Rocky takes a liking to Bowser as their character, as Bowser is a character with interesting texture. You tried to get Rocky to play as Bones, but the alien described bones as "boring, no spikes". Grace, of course, plays as Luigi. You sit back on your hands, watching the two of them, smiling the whole time. 

"Man, what the hey. I thought I was really good at this game."

"Grace bad at game. Bad bad bad. Rocky great at game. Natural. Awesome."

Grace throws himself back, laying on the platform with his hands over his head. "You would think that practicing flying a spaceship would help me win video games." You miss it, but when you throw your head back to laugh, Grace watches you, biting his lip to prevent the smile from escaping. He's brooding. He can't smile when he broods.

You look back over at him, seeing his "brooding face" and shake your head. "Well, now it's my turn to prove us humans are good at video games. Gotta represent the human race!" Grabbing your controller, you pick your favorite character. 

When Rocky plays, they act like the movement of their body helps them play. When they veer right, they shift the same way. When releasing special items, they tap one of their limbs. You keep an eye on their mannerisms as you play and when you pass over the finish line, first place flashing across the screen, Grace cheers you on. 

"Yeah! Nice one, take that Rocky!"

"Rocky hate game."

"Oh, don't be a sore loser, Rocky" You say, stretching from your seated position. "I think we may have to postpone the rematch. I need a screen break." Grace stands up before you, offering you his hand. You grab it, but before you stand up, there it is. You feel him tap the back of your hand with his, three times. 

"Yeah, I don't know about you, but I think I'm ready for some 'Day whatever, meal 3". 

You let him pull you to your feet, dusting your self off, eyebrows furrowed. "Yeah, me too. Give me a second, though, want to grab something."

"Alright, I'll meet you in there."

You go to your storage bin, where you keep your notebook. You write "Day 1 - Three Taps on Hand" followed by a quick summary of how it happened. You don't understand if it was you winning that triggered it or the changing of tasks, but it was only data point one. 

By data point ten, you are so confused. It's only day two. Early day two. He does it all the time. When you eat food and you ask Grace to pass the mustard, his fingers brush yours, tapping the bottle as he gives it to you three times. When it's bedtime, he says "Good night" and strokes his thumb over the back of your hand as you lay facing each other with hands intertwined, as you always do now. When working on a problem together in the lab, both of you sitting on stools, he pats your knee three times to get your attention. 

It's constant. It's consistent. 

It's confusing. 

You want to ask him about it, but you fear breaking a rule that seems to have been put in place. Every few seconds after he does it, he looks at you, waiting. And every time, you don't do something right because he looks down, away from you, his smile fading a little at the edges. The first time he did it after you were both sitting on the floor, after the nightmare, you asked him about it, but he locked up on you.

He had stuttered out some excuse of hearing Rocky calling for him, even though you heard nothing, and he had run off. Hours later, you had sought him out, feeling lonely, only to find he had gone to bed early.

Which never happened. And never did he lay down without you now. So, it became a rule. Don't bring it up. 

You wished you could remember more. You felt like you were breaking his heart every time, but you couldn't talk about it. He was ahead of you in remembering things and if you didn't catch up soon, you feared your relationship would stagnate, become strained. 

You weren't sure why you felt that way, but you still feared it. Very much.

Ten data points wasn't enough, though, so you continued observing. Continued to write it all down. 

Two weeks later, at data point 92, you are desperate for answers. Grace and Rocky have noticed that you've been off, asking why you keep going off to be on your own and you can't tell them. One night, you hear them talking to each other before the next night cycle.

You had been going to put away a tool and had come back to lay down, but stopped when musical notes made their way to your ears.

"Rocky concerned about friend."

"I know, bud. I am too."

"Rocky hear friend write lots. No understand what write. Can't hear texture. Friend don't talk much with Rocky."

"She writes? That's where she goes all those times?"

"Yes. Grace not hear Rocky? Rocky say word loud. Grace need sleep."

"Ok, no need to get sassy. I was just confirming what you said. Why would she write so much? Do you think she's…upset at me?"

"Rocky don't know. Grace think friend mad at Rocky?"

"No, no, no. I don't think she could ever be mad at you. You're Rocky! You're awesome and fun and honest. I think it's something I did."

"What Grace do?"

"Mmm, not sure, but I have a hunch. Don't worry Rocky, I'll fix this."

"Friend is near. Fix now?"

Your eyes had widened at that, but you loudly stepped down into the crews quarters to make sure they didn't suspect you were listening. You had come in, stretched your arms above your head, before saying, "Man, I am tired. Everyone ready for bed?" Walking over to the bed, ignoring the looks that they were both giving you. 

Grace had laid down next to you, holding your hand in his, facing you. This was your nighttime routine now, but as you both said good night to each other, you waited for the three squeezes that you always got. Your eyes flicked from his to your hand, eyebrows furrowing. When you looked back at Grace, he had closed his eyes. 

You waited a few more minutes. Maybe he just forgot? You shifted in your position, unable to fall asleep without the routine completed. 

"You ok?"

"Yeah, yeah! Sorry, just getting comfortable."

"Alright. Good night."

"Good night, Grace."

As you closed your eyes, you tried to wait for it still, but it never came.

In the morning, when you found yourself resting your head once again on his chest, it was as though the night before hadn't happened. The warmth coming from his body was lulling you back to sleep when Grace's eyes fluttered open. You felt his head move, so you looked up at him, smiling.

"Good morning"

"Good morning" he returned, smiling at you. 

"Good morning, human friends."

"Morning Rocky." "Morning Rock."

"Time go for day cycle. Much work need to be done."

"Yeah, yeah, bud, I'm up."

Grace slowly untangles himself from you, getting out of the bed. You roll over, letting him up, but stay in the bed for a few more seconds. You realize it quickly. 

He didn't pat your back three times this morning. He had only been doing it for about two weeks now, but it was engrained in your routine. 

You propped yourself up, rubbing your face, trying to wake up. Grace always did this pattern. Always. At least five or six times every day. He always did it in relation to you. Now he didn't do it. 

You froze. Grace said he would fix this. Now he wasn't doing the one thing you were tracking. 

No, no. It couldn't be that. He will do it the rest of the day. Right?

Three days later and all of you are off. You feel like something huge is missing from your life, when really you just haven't had that pattern of three. Grace is more awkward with you, less touchy. You still sleep at night in the same bed, but something's changed. 

Rocky has noticed it too. If you weren't also suffering from this change, you would find it funny. Rocky has been asking you to play video games, asking if you need more sleep, or if you need "to look at trees". Apparently, Grace told Rocky about enrichment for humans and included seeing greenery as one of those things that helps mental health, so now trees are a must for you both to Rocky. 

But you aren't amused by his concern. You can barely focus on your work. You feel distant from them, othered. All because of this stupid pattern. It's like a drug and you are in withdrawal. 

As time continues on, you barely sleep. You find yourself waking up in the middle of night, extracting yourself from Grace while he sleeps, going to stare out into the stars through the window. You don't talk as much. 

Grace and Rocky try their best to get you out of this. They make sure you eat your three meals, invite you to play games, watch movies, chat about Earth culture, and help you do your work. 

None of it works. There's something missing desperately from your day and you can't do anything about it.

Except, you are exhausted, sleep deprived, when you get the idea. If you miss this stupid pattern that's upending your life on board the Hail Mary because one person won't give it to you, why don't you just do it?

This brilliant thought pops into your head randomly while you are working next to Grace at a microscope, both of you sketching notes down, not talking.

You pull your head away from the microscope, looking at Grace from the corner of your eye. You hold your hand out next to him. 

It takes a second, as he's staring down into his own work, but the next time he goes to write a note, he sees your outstretched hand. Glancing up toward you in confusion, he gets no information as you still haven't turned to look at him.

So, he slowly grabs your hand. Constantly looking between them and you. As though he's worried you'll change your mind. 

You latch onto his hand like it's a life raft and your alone at sea. You take a breath, then squeeze his hand three times.

You don't see his eyes snap up to your face because you are too busy remembering. 

You are both sitting in a conference room, big windows showing the sun setting on the horizon. Purple streaks through the red and orange of the sky and clouds. 

It had been a day. Long hours of meetings with various scientists, mathmeticians, and astronomers. Stratt had told you all that you had only weeks until the launch date and everything had to be checked and checked again to be ready.

You and Grace had stayed behind after the last meeting, just sitting in your chairs next to each other. You were both always next to each other. Carl never heistated to call you two "love birds" because you were so close, which caused both of you to immediately sweat and awkwardly say that's not what it was. 

It was quiet in the conference room. Quiet was a luxury these days. One would think that scientists and people working on the most important mission in the world would sometimes want quiet to work, but meeting after meeting filled the air with conversation. 

Grace usually also talked. A lot. But he seemed to understand that quiet was necessary right now. You usually didn't mind his rambling, loving hearing about his day and his life, but you laid your head down into your arms on the table.

Resting. Just resting. The weight of the world on your shoulders left one with a tendency to sink down into themselves. 

After a little while, Grace spoke up. 

"You alright?"

A muffled, "yeah" came from you. 

"Can I ask you a question?"

You lifted your head, looking at him with tired eyes. "Yeah"

"What are you going to do once this is all done?"

You tilt your head a moment, before shrugging. "Hard to think about a life after all this. It's a lot, but I'll miss the companionship. The work. The sense of purpose."

Grace nodded along as you spoke. "I get that."

He drummed his fingers on the table for a few moments. "Do you think we… we'll still be-" he drifts off in his words.

"Still be what?"

"Oh, y'know. Like talking?"

"Yeah. If you want to. I'd love to hang out still. We still have to watch Zathura, remember?"

Grace chuckles at that. "Well, yeah, of course I want to. I've only heard great things about this movie." He pauses, again.

"Would you ever…nevermind."

"No, what? Would I ever what?"

"No, no, it's stupid."

You roll your eyes. "Grace."

"No, it really is, you don't want to hear it."

"I really do."

He huffs at you, before turning his swivel chair away from you. "Ok, but I can't look at you when I ask."

"Grace, really?" 

"Yup. You want to hear this, you got to turn around too."

You scoff, but turn around, the squeak of the chair showing your compliance.

He shifts side to side and you wait. 

"Would you ever want to…to get dinner with me? I know this small diner near my apartment. It's nothing fancy, seriously, but they have good burgers and fries. Or salads, if that's what you want. Not to say that you need to eat salad! Ceaser salad's are really good, y'know, not made by Julius Ceaser, that's just a myth. I don't think we actually know when it was invented, although Ceaser Cardini in Mexico is pretty believable, but-"

You stop him in his tracks, turning his swivel chair toward you. Grabbing onto his cardigan, that fox cardigan that he always wears. That you love. 

You pull him close and it has the effect you hoped it would.

Grace shut up.

You look into his eyes intensely, "Are you asking me out, Ryland Grace?"

"Uh, well, I mean, yeah, I think so."

A smile slowly creeps onto your face. "Grace, we have known each other for years now. I thought you'd never ask."

"Is that a… a yes?"

You let go of his cardigan, instead taking his hands into yours. "Of course, it's a yes."

A brilliant smile crosses his face, as bright as the last shining rays of light from the sun outside. "Really?"

"Yeah. Of course it is. Can I say something now?"

"Of course."

"I need you to turn around too."

Grace laughs. Then he sees that you are serious, "Oh, sorry, yeah, let me just-" Before turning his chair around. You turn yours too.

Grace hears you take a breath, fidgeting in your seat. "This might be really forward, but…we've known each other a long time now. And with you asking for a date after all this time, and the sun is dying and we don't know how long we have, I think I want to just say it early. I want to not waste any more time. So… here it is. Ok. I love you. I've been in love with you."

Your hands are shaking in your lap as you desperately try to hear any kind of movement behind you. You wait a few more seconds before slowly turning your chair around. 

"Grace?"

No response.

"Grace? Any words to shine a light on your mental state right now?"

You get up from your chair, slowly walking toward Grace's front.

"Grace, I'm getting worried now, you can just tell me off if you need, but please say something."

You finally walk far enough to see his face. His eyes blank, mouth open, face tinged red. You kneel in front of him, not daring to touch him, afraid to misread any signals.

Not like there are many coming your way.

"Grace? Did you hear me?"

"You love me?"

A breath escapes you, glad to have signs of life back. "Yeah. Did I break you?"

"A little. Hold on. I'm rebooting."

"Ok."

He blinks, runs a hand through his hair, before pulling his glasses down to under his chin. He looks at you then. "You love me?"

"Yup."

"Can you say it again?"

Your mouth twists a little at that. "Umm. I don't know if I want to say it again until I know how you're feeling about this."

He pulls you up to sit into a chair next to him. A shocked "hey" escapes you before you still as he places his forehead to yours, eyes closed. He reaches for your hands, holding them gently, so gently, before a ragged, "I love you too" is whispered in the space between you. 

"Oh."

"Now that you know, can you say it again?"

You nod against his forehead, getting him to chuckle in amusement.

"I love you."

He pulls back a little, mouthing "wow" to himself. His eyes are still closed. 

When you speak up again, his eyes open, staring into yours, soft and happy.

"It's funny you asked me three times if I did. In my family, three times meant 'I love you'. Like, if I tapped your hand three times or if I squeezed your hand three times while we held hands, that would be 'I love you."

Grace immediately squeezes your hand in his three times. You laugh, a loud joyful sound that fills the room. "You catch on quick!"

"I try."

The memory ends abruptly, throwing you back into the present moment, unlike other memories that fade from your vision. Grace is holding onto your shoulders, face full of concern and emotion. At this point, you both know when a memory has surfaced, what it looks like and that they can have different effects depending on what was remembered. 

"You love me?"

Grace recoils from you, arms snapping back away from you and mouth dropping open, just like it did in the memory. 

Your hand goes to your forehead, a headache surging forward, a pained hiss leaving you.

"Hold on, I'll go get you a pain pill." Grace gets up to leave, practically jumping from the stool to leave, but you grab his wrist, pulling him back towards you.

"You love me?"

He looks at you over his shoulder, before his shoulders drop and he sits back down on his stool. 

"What do you remember?"

"You asked me out. You were going to wait until the whole mission was over to take me out on a date. So I told you I loved you."

His eyes close, eyelids pressed tightly together as you say those last three words, as though it hurts him to hear you say it.

"Do you?"

"Do I what?"

"Do you love me? After all this time? Even with limited memories? I don't want to rush you into anything, I mean we're practically different people now and-"

You squeeze his wrist three times, stopping him in his tracks. Again.

He looks at you up at you over his glasses. "I had to be sure."

"Oh. I'm sure too. I love you."

That same smile, the one from the memory, finds its way onto his face again. The lab seems brighter because of it.

"Can I hear you say it now, Grace?"

"I've been saying it. I'm sure you know now."

"Oh, you caught onto that?" You grin at him, ducking your head down,"I was trying to be a scientist."

"Yeah, I caught on. A scientist, huh? That's sweet of you."

"Yeah. I have all my notes on it if you ever want to check it out. You do it a lot. But, it's different to hear it… out loud?" Your hopeful tone betrays your wants.

He dramatically takes a big breath in, "I love you too." You giggle at him, wrapping your arms around his neck. 

"Wow."

He laughs, too, "Wow indeed."

"I'm so glad I decided to take a chance. To tell you I mean."

A smirk graces his face. "Was it… a hail mary?"

You sigh, getting up to leave. Hiding the amusement on your face from him. 

"No, wait, c'mon. It wasn't that bad!"

"Rocky! I need your help. We have to put Grace in the airlock."

You hear an outraged "What, question!?" Come from nearby, causing you to burst out laughing. Grace joins you, both of you doubling over, causing a distressed Rocky to enter the room completely confused.

"Why Grace go outside, question? What Grace do, question? Grace said he fix. Grace bad at fix."

This, of course, only made you both laugh harder. You would explain to Rocky after that it was a joke, but the whole time, you and Grace would be sneaking glances at each other, excited at the new relationship forming between you. 

[doctor-ryland-grace]

I’m DYING for a reader x Grace fic where they’re on Eridani and reader is pregnant. Idc what you do w/ the idea, just need some fluff and a bit of angst!!

Title: The Space Between Us. Pairing: Ryland Grace x Fem!Reader. Rating: T. ( A lil' bit of angst, I'm cutting onions for us all. ) Words: 2.3 K. Summary: Ryland Grace is a notorious over-thinker. Why else would he be awake at 3 AM, Eridian Standard Time, thinking about his life and his future? ☆Ryland Grace Masterlist☆

The room was still half-dark, that quiet shift in color from dark indigo to grey-blue that crested right before the sun fully decided to show up in the biodome. It took a long while for the team to get that just right, but it was a welcome sensation against your sleepy eyelids as you rested in the bed, on your side. Everything felt softer than usual, the blankets from the Hail Mary, the pillows and the slow breathing of your mate behind you, intertwining with yours. 

The cool air kissed your exposed shoulder as the warmth from Ryland radiated down your spine while he trailed that much closer to you in the semi-small bed. The only sound was the faint hum of the biodome itself and the steady beat of Ryland’s heart against your back as he tangled his legs with yours and effectively spooned you into place.

There were no efforts for you to move, no thought trailing in your tired mind to deny him access and moments later you could feel his hipbones scooping yours into a more comfortable position as if he had sensed the uncomfortability that you body found itself in constantly these days. A soft huff leaves your half-asleep lips as Ryland’s careful hand rested on you. Not just on you, but right on your stomach, fingers sprawling across the pulled-taut skin and letting his fingertips almost seep in to caress his baby. Your baby. Absent-minded circles are being traced along the sensitive skin, on the underside of your bump, right along the ridge of your sleep shorts before they drifted upwards to case along the top, holding such care and reverence for something neither of you had expected. You move sleepily, shifting closer without even opening your eyes. The bed jostled with your motion as your back conformed more firmly against his bare chest, the heat from him now almost overbearing to your system but you weren’t willing to move anymore. “You’re up early…” Your voice is full of thick sleep, a husky sort of whisper that trailed along the quiet room. “Is it early if I couldn’t sleep in the first place?” The scientist’s voice is a low rumble that you feel more than hear almost a courteous action as to not pull you out of your drowsy haze. 

Instead, Ryland lifted his head just enough, the sound rustling in your ears faintly and pressed a soft, saliva-stricken kiss against your shoulderblade before trailing them up, all without breaking contact with your skin, to your neck and let himself place a few kisses there. Sloppy and uncoordinated but more than appreciated. His hand rested now, no longer moving, on the underside of your bump, letting himself hold some of the heavy weight he knew your body would never quite get used to. 

The lack of movement wasn’t from nervousness, it was more wrought with thoughtfulness. Gentle around the edges as you drew a deep breath in, Ryland’s fingers expanding a bit with that motion as you were tugged back to the idea of a few more hours of sleep. His thumb began its task of sweeping back and forth against your navel, a usually ticklish action but now in the deep recesses of early dawn, it was more than welcome. A hypnotic rhythm that was lulling you to sleep like a song a mother would sing to their child. “You’re staring.” You mumbled, smooshing your face into your pillow a bit as Ryland behind you drifted his blue eyes from your stomach to your expression. 

Your eyes were still shut, a small huff leaving his lips at that. There was no way for you to know that he had been looking - admiring you - admiring the life inside of you. But then again… Ryland found himself staring quite frequently these days, it probably was a safe assumption for you to make that he was doing it at this very moment.

There’s a quiet wonder against his face, the same one he got when something scientifically interesting clicked in his racing brain, but… softer. More innately human and swallowing with warmth you wanted to bathe in. It was the look of a man who spent years with only data and the vague idea of who he was as a person, now confronted with something beautifully, terrifyingly real. 

“I’d call it observing.” He corrected you gently, kissing your neck once more before glancing at your stomach with droopy eyelids. The scientist in him always had to come to the surface, but as he made a tired movement of his hand against your bump, a self-aware chuckle came from his lips, rich and straight from the deeper parts of his chest. “Okay… I’m staring… But, can you blame me? It’s a very fascinating subject.” Another hum comes from you as Ryland continued his slow exploration, dropping his hand and readjusting so he could trace the curve of your hip earning himself a shift in your body to get more comfortable. His fingers make shapes there for only a moment before he trailed them upwards, along the side of your bump. “It’s just…” You can feel the exhale of his quiet laugh against your skin. “This is… kind of the biggest thing I’ve ever been a part of. And I’ve you know… Done some stuff.” The vibration of his words against your back makes a small smile tug to your lips, words teasing but muffled by the pillow, “That’s debatable.” Ryland’s mouth popped open at that as his beard tickled your shoulder, another kiss placed, this time against your jaw. “I’m serious…” His fingers splayed wider now, covering more of your stomach as if he were suddenly desperate to feel it all, to hold the life he helped create in the palm of his hand. 

“I’ve done a lot of things… Here, and on Earth. Some good, some…. Very bad.” You giggled, the sound dripping with intention to fall back asleep as you were teetering but still vaguely listening to his rambling. Something more frequent now as you were coming to term, the start of your third trimester. “But this… You… The baby…” His words trailed off, something uncommon for Ryland. His mouth pressed together as he nuzzled his face into the crook of your neck.

Fluttering your eyes open for the first time, just barely, the garish light of the biodome just outside the xenonite window blurred at the edges of your vision. The feeling of Ryland’s face nuzzled into your neck, the slight scratch of his beard against your skin was more grounding than the solid metal floor beneath the plush bed as you turned your head just enough to look at him. He moved with you like water, conforming to whatever your body deemed comfortable before he rested his face back into your neck. There were things unspoken that drifted through the air, stifling with the weight of a confession that he clearly didn't know how to shape into existence. “Hey…” You murmured, your voice nothing more than a soft, raspy vibration. Your eyes traced the dark fan of his lashes against his cheek, his eyelids shut, brow furrowed slightly in a way that had nothing to do with the desperation for sleep and everything to do with the overwhelming nature of his own suffocating thoughts.

“Shhh…” You soothed, bringing a hand up and letting it rest on the side of his face, your fingertips tickling at his blonde hair. Not styled, just flat with what you imagined to be hours rustling and trying to fall asleep before giving up. "Ryland… It’s okay. You don’t have to say it.” His pretty eyes opened at that, and in the dim light that encased you two in this intimate moment, you could just barely make out the raw, unguarded vulnerability that Ryland so rarely let others see. It was the same look you’d captured in your memory maybe once or twice. One in a stolen photograph from the lab on Stratt’s Vat. A moment of pure, unfiltered humanity that showed he was more than just his mind. The second time… Your eyebrows creased together. More recent in your mind when he had confessed his desire to have a child with you in Erid. “I n… need to say it. All that other stuff.” He whispered. “The Hail Mary, the science, the survival of two planets… Feels sort of like a prologue. This…” Ryland’s hand which had been still against your stomach began moving again, his palm flattening against you as if to anchor himself to the reality of it actually happening. “This is the main story. And…” His voice cracked, your fingers quick to kiss away one of the stray tears that bounced the light off and began trailing down the side of his nose. “I-I’m terrified I’m going to mess it up.”

A small, tired and empathetic smile touched your lips fleetingly. And with a soft grunt of effort, you moved, maneuvering your body with the same careful precision you gave the Hail Mary when docking with the Blip-A. It was an awkward, rolling motion on your part, your heavy bump leading the way until you were settled on your other side, face to face with Ryland in the slow light.

The movement displaced his searching hand for a moment, and there was the look of being internally lost until you got comfortable again, reaching forward and grabbing it. Slowly, your fingers twisted into his, kissing his skin in much needed attention before drawing it back to its rightful place against the growing life between you. Your free hand came to cup his cheek, your thumb stroking the same pattern he chose against your stomach, enjoying the languid sensation of the coarse hair of his beard. “You’re not going to mess this up, baby…” Ryland drew a deep breath in, stuttering it out and letting it kiss along your face. “You’re the smartest… Most capable man I’ve ever known. You solved an impossible problem to save all of Earth and Erid. To save us…” You squeezed his hand against your bump. 

“I solved a math and science problem.” He countered, a self-deprecating humor in his tone that seemed muffled by your closeness. “This is… Life. There’s no equation for me to work out. There’s no predictions. There’s no margin for error.”

Your eyes met his in the flurry of self-doubt. A few more tears escaped from his eyes, your touch gently wiping them away before you let your thumb trace his bottom lip. And without the reserve he usually showed, Ryland closed the gap between the two of you, a lingering kiss of desperation and plea placed against your lips. 

“W-we spent four years getting here to Erid. We spent f-four years thinking we’d only ever touch our own bodies again, never having…” Ryland’s jaw clenched and you were quick to let your touch graze there to relax the muscle.

“I n-never thought I’d have this… You… Them…” Ryland drifted his lips against yours once more. “It’s so much m-more than I ever let myself ho-hope for… It feels like I’m dreaming sometimes. And I’m just going to wake up back in my small apartment on Earth, all alone…” There is a deep aching in his vocal cords to the point where it became a physical sensation. A phantom pain from the wound that was finally, finally beginning to heal. You searched for his eyes, Ryland capturing your gaze almost frantically like he needed it to keep himself grounded further. And yours were steady for him. 

“Hey, hey…” You whispered, “You’re not alone. You’re right here.” You tilted your head up and pressed a soft kiss to his parted lips, tasting a bit of salt from tears you weren’t able to wipe away. “With me…” Another kiss. “With us…” One more as if it was a quiet seal on the truth of your words. “We’ll figure this out together… We’re not alone…” Ryland let out a shuddering breath against your mouth, the tension in his body seemed to finally give into the exerted exhaustion that was resting in his bones. He kissed you again, this one more surely and he allowed himself to sink into the affection, into the touch you had that was connecting three lives together. When it was broken, there was no thought of drifting away from each other as he rested his forehead against yours, his heavy eyelids falling shut in surrender, not fear. “Together…” He repeated, the word tangling into a flush of sleep that he desperately needed. 

Ryland’s weight settled more heavily against you, you could feel the complete trust he’d placed in you - the kind of trust that only came when someone finally let their guard down to be vulnerable and to allow themselves to be cared for without hesitation or reservation. The word ‘together’ hangs in the air between you. It was the one variable he couldn’t calculate, the one outcome he couldn’t predict, and yet it’s become the most real and comforting truth in his life. 

And this was the reality he feared was just a dream - the very one that Ryland never allowed himself to hope for. And as the two of you laid there in the early Eridian morning, feeling the gentle rise and fall of his chest, you know that when he wakes up, you’ll be there to show him with incredible proof that this connection isn’t something he’ll ever wake up from, bot something he’ll wake up to every day from now on.

Taglist: @strigiform-titan @whats-my-hyperfixation @negativefoursanity @everythingismadeofchaos @gnomebutch @t0nystank @greenlalianime @my-cat-can-slay-dragons @gardenavenve @whore-msc @goslingcore @rivercattail @ambertiger5 @starsbelongtotheworld @emmyishere77 @wayward-avenging @rocktthehouse @unabashednightmarepizza @lowbudgetdoll @lastminutescience @anixszci @lov3lanuage @newagecassandra

@allthelittlethingsssss @sl13-ce @nicassie @emblunt46 @cemeterystardust @ckq-fics @writingforrhys @brunomarzbootylicker @icomewithpeace @theemeraldcorporalnik @kusogeki@starsbelongtotheworld @s4turn3st @astroangel-3000 @electro-elemena@poopoopeepeesupreme @bigsloppycrush @exactlyelectronicstudent @sayadinaa @lorraine-ackerman @sixtiessongs @introvertathome @petersluvbug@moon-trash1507 @romantics-and-eternity @faelvz @reredaydreams @ummilovesidneycrosby87 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @cestlavie03 @matt-murdockk

[selenitasofi]

boy fuck you and your genius brain and those big ass biceps and your pretty smile i’m irritated

[lemmesayimyourbiggestfan]

calculated trajectory error - Ryland Grace

ryland grace x reader

rivals to lovers, forced proximity

word count: 2,7k

no warnings

pls don’t mind the scientifical inaccuracies, i was kind of winging it as i went hahhah

requests are open!

You were a woman of exactitudes. As the youngest person ever to be named head of Evolutionary Biology at your university, your lab was a temple of sterility. Your hypotheses were mapped to the final decimal, your wardrobe consisted entirely of perfectly pressed silk blouses, and your ego was a meticulously constructed, utterly untouchable fortress.

Then Eva Stratt shoved you into a top-secret underground bunker, handed you a vial of sun-eating alien microbes called Astrophage, and gave you a co-lead.

Dr. Ryland Grace was a walking embodiment of entropy. He was a disgraced academic turned middle school science teacher with a defensive slouch, glasses perpetually slipping down his crooked nose, and an absolute inability to keep a workspace clean. On day one, he was surrounded by a halo of loose papers and wearing a shirt that read: I wear this t-shirt periodically.

You didn't look up from your electron microscope. "Stratt, I specifically said no assistants. I don't have time to hold anyone's hand."

"He's not an assistant," Stratt said, her tone absolute zero. "He is your co-lead. Dr. Grace, meet your new partner."

You finally looked up, annoyed - and your relentlessly analytical brain immediately betrayed you by registering a highly inconvenient data point.

Dr. Ryland Grace was infuriatingly, objectively attractive.

It was a completely unscientific reaction, but it hit you before anything else did. Beneath the terrible shirt and the defensive slouch, he possessed a jawline that looked like it had been carved from marble by a renaissance sculptor. His messy, sandy-blond hair fell perfectly into warm, intelligent blue eyes, giving him a rugged, effortlessly handsome aesthetic that absolutely did not belong in a sterile laboratory. The soft cotton of his ridiculous shirt stretched across shoulders that were surprisingly, unfairly broad.

Your heart did a strange, traitorous little flutter.

And then, a second later, recognition finally pierced through the fog of sudden physical attraction, instantly replaced by a wave of pure, aristocratic disdain.

He was the man whose sensationalist paper on non-aqueous alien life you had publicly dismantled in Nature three years ago.

"You ruined my career," he stated, the warm blue eyes hardening as he pointed an accusative, ink-stained finger at you.

The spell was broken. Your untouchable fortress slammed back into place.

"I engaged in basic scientific rigor," you countered smoothly, leaning back in your chair and violently suppressing the part of your brain that had just admired his shoulders. "It's not my fault your theories were built on a foundation of intellectual sand."

"She wrote a thirty-page hit piece on my paper!" Grace turned to Stratt, gesturing wildly. "She called my hypothesis 'a charming exercise in creative writing'! I lost my tenure track! I was a laughingstock!"

"Because you assumed water wasn't a universal solvent based on absolutely zero empirical evidence," you shot back, narrowing your eyes at his stupidly perfect jawline. "Now, please remove your... clutter from my half of the console."

Stratt silenced you both with a look that could freeze nitrogen, ordered you to figure out the alien microbes, and locked the heavy door behind her.

From that moment, you made a conscious, dedicated choice: you were going to strongly dislike him. And you were absolutely, under no circumstances, going to notice how attractive he was ever again.

For the first forty-eight hours, the laboratory was a petty, high-stakes war zone. You worked through systematic documentation; Ryland worked through chaotic trial-and-error. You used your label-maker to tag his haphazardly stacked notebooks as TRIPPING HAZARDS. He retaliated by labeling your perfectly aligned row of ergonomic pens as TOOLS OF THE OPPRESSOR.

On day two, you established a physical border.

You found a roll of thick, red biohazard tape in the supply closet. Without a word, you got on your hands and knees and pulled a perfectly straight, undeniably hostile line down the exact center of the laboratory floor.

Ryland watched you from his spinning chair, sipping from a mug that said World's Okayest Teacher. "Are you serious? You're literally drawing a line in the sand?"

"It's linoleum," you corrected, tearing the tape with a sharp snap. "And yes. Your side is a biome of unwashed coffee cups and chaotic variables. My side is for science. Do not cross the tape."

On day three, the Great Whiteboard Skirmish occurred.

The lab only had one massive, wall-to-wall dry-erase board. You were meticulously mapping out Astrophage’s suspected metabolic pathways on the left side, your handwriting a neat, uniform script. You stepped back to admire your work, only to find Ryland encroaching on the center.

He was furiously drawing a sprawling, chaotic mind map of thermal radiation absorption. He drew a wildly enthusiastic arrow that cut directly through your perfectly formatted Krebs cycle diagram.

"Excuse me," you snapped, marching over. "Your thermal loop is invading my biology."

"My thermal loop is the only thing keeping us from freezing to death in the dark," he shot back, not stopping. "Biology is just applied chemistry anyway."

You gasped in genuine, academic horror. You snatched a black marker and aggressively drew a thick boundary box around your equations. "Your structural formulas look like a toddler finger-painted a benzene ring, Grace. Keep it on your side."

He stubbornly drew his next equation mere millimeters from your boundary box. You stepped closer to block his arm. He stepped closer to angle around you. Before long, you were practically shoulder-to-shoulder, furiously scribbling equations in a silent, high-stakes battle for whiteboard real estate, breathing heavily and smelling of dry-erase ink and stubborn pride.

The frenzied scribbling inevitably took its toll on your supplies. Ryland's frantic, chaotic markers began to squeak and die one by one, forcing a temporary retreat. You marched back to your impeccably organized desk to log the newly established formulas, feeling a smug sense of victory.

But the truce was short-lived.

You were at your workstation, reaching blindly for your favorite fine-tip marker, only to grasp empty air. You looked up.

Ryland was leaning entirely over the red biohazard tape, his foot hovering dangerously above your floor, trying to discreetly snag your pen from your organizer. Today’s shirt read: Are you made of Copper and Tellurium? Because you are CuTe.

"Excuse me," you snapped, swatting at his hand. "That is a Tool of the Oppressor. Put it back."

"My pens are all out of ink," he argued, not retreating, his fingers wrapping around the marker at the exact same time yours did.

"Because you leave the caps off, you absolute barbarian."

"I am a victim of my own chaotic genius!" he declared, tugging the pen.

You tugged back. "You are a victim of poor organizational skills!"

He pulled harder, but his shoe caught on the edge of his own spinning chair. He lost his balance, stumbled directly over the red tape, and crashed spectacularly into your workspace.

You gasped, instinctively bracing your hands against his chest to steady him. He caught himself by gripping the edge of the console behind you, effectively trapping you between his arms.

Suddenly, the laboratory was very, very quiet.

He was incredibly close. You could smell dry-erase ink, stale coffee, and mints. His glasses were knocked completely askew, and there were pen marks on his cheek.

He looked down at you, blinking in surprise, his chest rising and falling quickly under your hands. The banter died in his throat. His warm blue eyes flicked from your eyes down to your lips, and the sudden, heavy shift in his gaze made your breath catch.

"Calculated trajectory error," he whispered, his voice suddenly hoarse.

"You crossed the tape, Grace," you whispered back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

For a long, suspended second, neither of you moved. The air between you felt highly combustible, charged with an undeniable, terrifying variable that had absolutely no place in your meticulously planned life.

Then, your academic survival instincts finally kicked in. The heavy doors of your untouchable fortress slammed shut.

You pushed firmly against his chest - pointedly ignoring the disappointing loss of warmth - and ducked under his arm, stepping safely back onto your side of the red linoleum divide.

"Return to your designated area, Dr. Grace," you instructed, smoothing your perfectly pressed silk blouse. You were pleased to note your voice only shook by a fraction of a decibel. "And use your own markers."

Ryland blinked, the dazed expression lingering on his face for a moment before he slowly cleared his throat and stepped back. "Right. Uh. Sorry. For the... gravity."

You didn't look up as you uncapped your reclaimed pen, turned your back on him, and aggressively returned to your metabolic pathways on the whiteboard. You stared at the neat lines of your Krebs cycle, strictly willing your heart rate to return to a statistical norm.

Squeak. Roll. You heard him slowly retreat to his messy desk. But as you gripped your fine-tip marker, your relentlessly analytical brain logged a terrifying, undeniable conclusion.

The physical boundary of the red tape was still intact. But as you stood there, pretending to calculate energy yields while trying to ignore the lingering scent of him, you knew the truth. The structural integrity of your resistance was fundamentally compromised, and it was only a matter of time before the whole fortress came crashing down.

By day four, the sleep deprivation began to blur the sharp lines of your hostility into something infinitely more dangerous.

It was 3:00 AM. You were waiting on a centrifuge, rubbing your temples to ward off a headache. You glanced over at Ryland’s side of the room. He had fallen asleep at his desk. His cheek was squished against a stack of unfiled papers, his glasses were pushed up onto his forehead, and he was quietly, rhythmically snoring.

You stood up, intending to wake him up and demand he document his last batch of samples. You marched up to the red tape. You crossed it.

You walked right up to his chair, took a breath to snap at him... and stopped.

Without the frantic, defensive energy animating his face, he looked younger. Exhausted. The harsh fluorescent lighting caught the surprisingly long sweep of his eyelashes against his cheek. His current shirt read: I had potential. A strange, tight feeling seized your chest. It was an urge - a horrifying, irrational urge - to brush a stray lock of his messy blond hair out of his eyes.

Your hand actually twitched upward before your brain slammed on the brakes. What are you doing? you screamed at yourself. You violently snatched your hand back, spun around, and practically fled back to your side of the tape, your heart pounding as if you'd just avoided stepping off a cliff.

The cracks in your professional composure came on day five. The mass spectrometer beeped, and Ryland practically rolled his chair over his own foot to get to the monitor.

He froze. The color drained from his face.

"What?" you asked, leaning over his shoulder. Your eyes scanned the data.

A slow, wicked smile spread across your face. A laugh bubbled up in your chest, echoing loudly in the sterile lab. "Shut up," Ryland muttered, burying his face in his hands.

"Oh my god," you gasped. "It’s water. The terrifying alien lifeform eating our sun is a heat-resistant water balloon."

"It’s highly pressurized intracellular fluid-"

"You lost your tenure!" you interrupted mercilessly, tapping a manicured fingernail against the center of his chest - right on the 'O' of his H2O: The Original Energy Drink shirt. "You threw a colossal fit at the entire scientific community insisting alien life wouldn't be aqueous. And the very first extraterrestrial entity we discover is hydrated."

"I'm going to figure out how this thing breeds," he whispered fiercely, stepping into your space instead of backing away. "And when I do, I'm going to make you eat that smirk."

"I look forward to it," you whispered back. The air in the bunker felt dangerously thin.

Then he pivoted on his heel to make a dramatic, brooding exit, completely missed the doorway, and marched headfirst into the heavy steel frame of the storage closet.

CLANG.

"I'm fine!" he yelped, rubbing his forehead and scattering dry-erase markers everywhere. "Calculated trajectory error! Gravity is heavier over here!"

A few days later, the tension was a physical weight. You were losing your mind. You hadn't seen sunlight in a week, and you were developing a mortifying, all-consuming crush on a man currently wearing a shirt that said: Never trust an atom, they make up everything.

You hated how much you liked those shirts. They were a crime against fashion, yet you found yourself subconsciously waiting for his morning "reveal." Schrödinger’s cat is dead/alive. I’m reading a book on anti-gravity, I can’t put it down. You wanted to glare at his face, but your eyes kept traitorously dropping to his chest to read the puns, which meant you couldn't help but notice how the soft cotton stretched across shoulders that were unfairly broad.

"They aren't breeding," Ryland groaned, slumped over his messy desk, which was currently covered in crumbs and coffee rings. "I’ve given them heat, I’ve given them trace elements. They’re just... sitting there. Storing energy like little gold bars."

He stopped, his eyes falling on an unsecured CO₂ canister he’d left near the incubator - a clear violation of your "Safety First" rule. He bit his lip. "Wait. What does Venus have that we’ve been filtering out to protect our sensors?"

"Carbon dioxide," you said, standing up. "But the pressure required to mimic that environment-"

"They don't just want heat, they want home!" He lunged across the red tape you'd used to divide the room, grabbing your hands. "They need carbon to build the shells for the next generation. We’ve been starving the babies!"

He rushed to the controls, bypassing your safety margins with a frantic, messy brilliance. He flooded the chamber with CO₂ while cranking the IR lasers. The warning lights screamed in a rhythmic, pulsing red.

"Ryland, you’ll blow the seals!" you yelled.

"Trust the chaos!" he yelled back, grinning.

You both leaned into the microscope feed. The black specks didn't just divide; they multiplied in a frantic, beautiful geometric explosion, converting the CO₂ and light into a thriving colony.

"We did it," he breathed. He let out a giddy, hysterical laugh and suddenly scooped you up by the waist, spinning you around in a dizzying circle.

"Grace! Put me down! This is highly unprofessional-"

"We saved the world, Doc!" He set you down, but he didn't let go. His hands stayed on your waist, and your hands were instinctively braced against his shoulders. You were both breathless, flushed with adrenaline and the scent of ozone.

His glasses were lopsided. His hair was a disaster. He looked like a man who had just won the lottery and a science fair at the same time.

"You have a smudge of graphite on your nose," he whispered, his eyes dropping to your lips.

"And you have a complete lack of regard for lab safety," you whispered back, your heart hammering a frantic rhythm against your ribs.

He started to lean in, then hesitated, his inner middle-school teacher taking over. "Is this... is this okay? I don't want to get a 'Non-Consensual Interaction' label stuck to my forehead."

You huffed a laugh, reached up, and pulled his glasses off his face, setting them on the counter. "The data suggests," you murmured, pulling him down by his collar, "that the reaction is inevitable."

The kiss wasn't a sophisticated, cinematic moment. It was wonderfully, perfectly clumsy. He bumped your nose, you accidentally stepped on his foot, and he made a soft, surprised sound against your mouth before melting into it. He tasted like mints and triumph. His hands, usually so shaky with glass vials, were steady as they pulled you flush against his pun-covered chest.

When you finally pulled back, Ryland looked dazed and delighted. He glanced down at his shirt, then back at you.

"So," he rasped, a lopsided, dorky grin spreading across his face. "On a scale of one to ten, how's my 'Basic Scientific Rigor' now?"

You rolled your eyes, smoothing your messy hair and trying to regain some semblance of the Head of Department. "It’s a statistical outlier, Grace. We’ll need more samples to confirm the results."

"Oh," he beamed, closing the distance again and pulling you back into his chaotic space. "I'm a big fan of repetitive testing."

[pagesfromthevoid]

Nobody’s Solider | r. g. | 3

Ryland Grace x fem!reader

Word Count: 6.1k

Warnings: talks of death. Canon compliant(ish). Space smut baby. PinV penetration. Slightly subby Ryland. The glasses STAY ON.

Authors Note: gif from @projecthailmarys

Series Masterlist | Talk to Me!

The clock is ticking down, and Ryland still hasn't agreed to go to space.

He doesn't want to. He really, really, really does not want to.

Ryland Grace is not a brave man. He knows this. He's accepted this about himself. He's selfish, and cowardly, and not meant to be more than a middle school science teacher.

He has an hour to figure out how to tell Stratt this.

"Knock, knock."

He looks up from his spiral to the doorway of him room, and she's standing there in her uniform. An orange suit, unzipped about halfway with a Hail Mary shirt peeking through. Her name is embroidered on a patch, and this is the first time he's seeing her not as a doctor, or a psychologist, or even his…not girlfriend. She's an astronaut, trained for this mission.

Trained to die in space.

"Who's there?" He asks meekly.

Instead of answering, she steps into his room and shuts the door. The space is cramped, and he realizes she's never been in here with him before. Usually it's the lab, or the bar, or literally anywhere else. Ryland sits up a little straighter without really meaning to, like he's being observed again —evaluated —even though there's nothing clinical about the way she's looking at him now. If anything, it's the opposite. There's no distance in her eyes, no careful professionalism like she's trying to make this easier on the both of them.

No, she's looking at him like he matters, even when they're doomed to lose.

"Hey," he says, because it feels like it should say something.

"Hey," she echoes, softer.

For a second, neither of them move. The air between them feels…different. He can't quite name it, but he knows what it is. He knows.

She takes a step closer, then a nother. And suddenly she's standing right in front of him, between his legs, and her hands are resting on his shoulders. This close and he can see the exhaustion under her eyes, and the tension she's carrying in her shoulders despite how composed she looks. Close enough that the reality of what she's about to do —what she's chosen to do —hits him all over again.

"You're not going," she says but it's not a question. It's a confirmation, and it sounds relieved.

Ryland exhales, some of the tension leaving him just from hearing her say it out loud. "No," he admits. "I'm…working up to telling Stratt in a way that doesn't immediately get me —," he gestures vaguely. "I don't know. Fired or arrested or…God forbid, launched into space against my will."

The last part is meant to be a joke, but it doesn't seem to land.

Her mouth presses into a thin line, like she's considering what he just said. Like she's worried about that exact possibility.

He frowns slightly. "Hey —,"

"I'm glad," she cuts in, and the words come out quicker than he thinks she means for them to. "That you're not going, I mean."

"Oh." He's a little thrown by the admission, but he doens't know why. She made it clear she didn't want him to make this choice for himself. "I —okay. That's…I mean, that's good. I guess I was expecting a lecture about duty or something —,"

"Why?" She asks, looking down at him as she touches his jaw gently. "You heard me earlier. I don't want you to do this."

There's something firm in her voice that makes him go quietly immediately. She shifts her weight slightly, like she's grounding herself. Then she looks at him again —really looks at him —and whatever she's thinking, she must confirm it fully.

"I'm about to go into quarantine," she says.

The words hit harder than they should, even though he knew it was coming.

"Right," he says quietly, looking up at her over his glasses. "Yeah…that makes sense."

It doesn't actually make sense, but it's what you say when someone tells you they're preparing to leave Earth forever. And she nods once, like she expected that response.

"I won't be able to see you after this," she continues, and her grip on his shoulders tightens. "Not…in person, at least."

There's a finality to it that makes something twist in his chest. Ryland swallows. "Yeah," he repeats because apparently that all he can manages.

A beat passes. Then another. Then, she drops her hand from his jaw to take his hand in hers, fingers curling around his like she's done it a hundred times. But even if they've kissed and hugged and held each other —the way she's holding his hand feels so different. So intentional, it makes his breath catch.

"I said something earlier, in the meeting," she starts off, her voice quieter now but no less steady. "About not being selfish."

He remembers it very clearly. He's replayed in his head so many times, because it's the first time in years that someone has fought so hard for him.

"That you're not biased, so you're not selfish," he echoes her words from earlier as he stares into her eyes.

Her lips press together for a second, free hand reaching up to hold his chin in her palm. Keeping his gaze on her.

"I lied," she admits.

Ryland blinks in surprise. "What?"

"I am actually very selfish," she clarifies, though she doesn't hestiate. There's no deflection or denial. Just plain honesty, stripped down to its core. "I just…I know that being selfish isn't fair, so I lied about not wanting you there."

His brian struggles to catch up. "I don't —,"

"I'm going to die, Ryland," she says, and its not dramatic. Not emotional. Just a fact that she's already made peace with. "I've known that a long time. And I have accepted it." His chest tightens at the admission. "But that doesn't mean I stopped wanting things. It doesn't mean I don't have…feelings."

Ryland doesn't breathe as she continues. "And I don't want to go up there without telling you the truth. Because I know I will regret it what whatever time I have left."

His heart is racing, and he wonders if she can feel his pulse from where she's standing in front of him.

"I —,"

She closes the last bit of distance, both hands on his jaw now as his hands move to her hips to keep her steady. It's instinctive, and natural. Like he's always meant to do this.

"I love you," she admits, and there's tears in her eyes now. "More than I planned to. More than probably makes sense, given the circumstances." A faint, almost self-aware smile touches her lips. "Which…I know isn't great for you."

That almost makes him laugh. Almost.

"I didn't want to be selfish about you," she adds, her voice dipping softer. "I didn't want to make it harder for you to stay. But I am a selfish person because I am human," she repeats, quieter now. "Because I need you to know that if things were different —if this mission dind't exist, if I wasn't —," she lets out a shakey breath, her resolve slowly breaking down. "I would have chosen you. Without hesitation."

Ryland's throat feels tight as tears prick the corner of his eyes again. He's so tired of crying. His brain, usually so good at filling silence with rambling explanations, has essentially shut down.

"I do choose you," she corrects herself. "I just…don't get to stay."

Whatever fragile control he has breaks —not dramatically but in a way that causes his hands to tighten on her hips, the way he leans forward like he's being pulled in by her gravity.

"That's not fair," he tells her, voice hoarse from holding back tears.

"I know."

"You don't get to just…just drop that on me and then leave," he says, but there's no anger in it. Just something raw and aching and real.

"I know," she repeats.

He lets out a shaky breath, running a hand through his hair as he pulls back from her some. "I'm trying really hard to do the right thing," he admits. "And I don't even know what that is anymore."

Her expression softens. "You don't owe anyone your life, Ryland. Not even me."

The way she says his name, it settles something in him and breaks something else at the same time. This is all they get. An hour before she disappears behind quarantine protocols and into space and he…stays.

"I don't want you to go," he says, the words slipping out before he can stop them.

Something painful flickers behind her eyes. "I know."

There’s a beat where neither of them moves. Then Ryland does the least logical thing he’s ever done in his life.

He closes the distance.

It’s not hesitant this time. Not unsure. His hand comes up to her face, like he needs to make sure she’s real, and then he kisses her. It’s not perfect and it’s not practiced. But it’s real in a way that nothing else has been.

For a moment, she stills in surprise —and then she’s there, fully there, her hand sliding up into his hair, pulling him closer like she’s been waiting for this just as much as he has. There’s urgency in it, but not panic. Just…certainty. Like they both understand exactly how little time they have and are choosing not to waste a second of it.

When they finally pull back, it’s not far.

He rests his forehead against hers, breath uneven.

“This is a terrible idea,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” she agrees softly.

Neither of them moves away, though. Not when this is all they have.

*****

The ship is quiet in a way that doesn't feel natural. It's not silent —it never is —but it's…softened. Like exhaustion is slowly creeping its way through the edges of his mind, trying to dull the ache that he feels in his chest.

The heat lamp they made for Rocky hums softly, a steady, artificial warmth cast over Rocky's still form. Every few seconds, Ryland's eyes flick back to him without permission, like something in him refuses to fully disengage. Rocky needs someone to watch him sleep —so Ryland watches him sleep.

But nothing changes. It hasn't for hours, and he knows it won't because Rocky has explained before that Eridian sleep cycles are upwards of eighty-six hours.

It's barely been ten.

Ryland adjusts the lamp anyway, like maybe if it's just a little bit warmer, maybe Rocky will at least stir.

It doesn't need to be adjusted though. He knows that. But his hands linger there longer than necessaary anyway, like if he keeps touching something, he won't feel the rest of the pain quite as sharply.

"There's got to be something —," he starts to mumble to himself.

But she cuts him off with just a soft, "Ry."

And he stops. Not…abruptly. But he just stills as the motion fades out of him instead of cutting off. He exhales slowly, shoulders loosening a fraction as her voice settles into him, grounding him in a way logic hasn't managed to.

He knows there's nothing else he can do. He knows. And he hates that he knows.

He stands there a second longer than necessary, caught in that empty space where action used to be. Then, like something in him finally gives up pretending he can fix everything, he steps away. Almost immediately, he steps towards her.

There's no hesitation in him when he reaches her. Not anymore; not after everything they've been through. His hands find her like they already know where they belong; one at her waist, careful of the sling that holds her fractured arm, and the other sliding up along her back. Then he's pulling her against him, like he's using his own gravitational pull to keep her close.

It's not rushed, or frantic. Not anymore. But it's firm —like he's trying to make sure she's actually there. And the moment he touches her, he feels her exhale in relief against his skin. Her good arm comes up around him immediately, slipping between them for a second before wrapping around his middle. Her finngers curl into the fabric of his shirt like she's using it to anchor herself just as much as he is.

He doesn't realize how tightly he's holding her until he feels her shift slightly, adjusting against him instead of pulling away. Just barely, he loosens his hold but her grip on his shirt tightens further. Like she's afraid he's going to let go. Ryland closes his eyes, his forehead dipping down to brush his lips against her temple. The contact is small, but it sends something warm and steady through him.

They stay like this for a long time, simply holding onto each other. Her presence fills the space around him in a way that nothing else has since…since everything went wrong. He breathes in slowly.

She smells faintly like recycled air and metal and the same faint trace of antiseptic from the med bay she never quite rid of. It shouldn't be as comforting as it is.

His grip tightens for half a second again —just enough to feel the shape of her through the fabric of her shirt, just enough to confirm again that she's solid and real and not something he's imagining.

She shifts again too, adjusting closer. Her hand presses more firmly into his back, fingers splaying there like she's decided that if he's going to hold on, she's going to hold on just as hard.

He realizes, distanty, that his thoughts are quieter when he's close to her like this. When they're focused on each other and not the chaos around them.

"It's going to be okay," she promises, but her voice is muffled by her cheek pressed against his chest. "It…it has to be."

It doesn't have to be, but he doesn't say that. None of this has been okay, but he doesn't say that either. Because it's not her fault any of this happened; it's none of their faults.

Well, maybe it's Stratt's fault.

But who knows if Stratt is even alive at this point? With how long they've been gone, the Earth might be dead as far as they're aware.

How can he blame anyone for this, when the truth is that they've gotten the solution to the problem they were sent here for? They collected the samples. They can…save the sun, and the Earth and Erid.

They can make sure that Rocky —whether he wakes up or not —didn't make his sacrifice in vain.

"You need to get some sleep," she prompts, and she's pulling back from him just enough to look up at him.

"No," he argues, but his grip on her is tight still. "Someone —I need to be there when he wakes up —,"

"Ryland," she corrects, and she's shifted into doctor mode. "You've suffered both physical and emotional trauma. Your body is going to give out if you don't rest. I'll stay with him —,"

"No," he quickly interjects, looking between her and Rocky now. "I don't —if you're going to make me sleep, I don't want…," but he trails off, and he can feel tears prickling in the corners of his eyes.

As quick as her professional side turned on, it turns off and she takes his face in her hands. Gently, she guides his gaze back to hers.

"I'll watch you sleep," she promises, wiping the stray tears from his eyes. "I want to show you something I found anyway."

Curiosity piqued, he caves and follows her back to the mental health room of the ship.

This is where they've set up their bedroom —the one they share now that Rocky has claimed hers. They took the mats from their respective bunks and combined them in here, where blankets and pillows have gone untouched for a few days. But it's their space, and it's the one space Rocky isn't allowed (not that it stops him, though).

"Mary," she says as they settled down onto their makeshift bed. Ryland all but collapses beside her, the immediate comfort of a bed and laying down hitting him like a train. "Play HV —GCMS2016."

Ryland rolls onto his back and looks up at the screen around him. It flickers, and it looks like a phone video that lights up the room.

The camera steadies with a small jolt, then frames a brighter, noisier classroom —tables pushed together, half-finished projects scattered everywhere, and a cluster of middle schoolers who look like they’re trying very hard to act casual while clearly being excited. Ryland-now sits up slowly as he stares at the video playing around them.

"Okay, okay, it's recording," a voice says off camera, a voice a little too loud with pride.

Ryland-then looks up from a stack of papers he’s grading at the front table. He’s got a marker in one hand, a coffee mug dangerously close to the edge of the desk, and that tired-but-patient expression that belongs only to teachers who have accepted chaos as a permanent state of existence.

"You know I can hear you announcing it like you're launching a space mission," Ryland-then says. A couple of students laugh.

The student in control of the video swings the camera toward him properly. "We are launching a space mission, Dr. Grace. It's STEM club."

Ryland-then leans back slightly in his chair, studying the group over the top of his papers. "If this is a space mission, we need to formally request better funding so there's less glitter all over my classroom."

This comment earns a bigger laugh from the club —especially from the group in the back corner where someone is absolutely using glitter for something they shouldn't be.

He stands, stretching a little, and walks over to one of the tables. The camera follows instinctively.

On the table is a messy but earnest collection of materials —cardboard, tape, string, a couple of plastic bottles, and what looks like an extremely questionable prototype of a model rover.

Ryland-then picks it up carefully, turning it in his hands like he’s trying not to break something that is already barely holding itself together.

“This is either going to survive Mars,” he says slowly, “or it is going to immediately disassemble itself out of embarrassment.”

Ryland-now stands up and walks towards the edge of the platform, tears in his eyes as he slowly remembers this moment.

“That’s our rover,” someone —Abby, that's her name —protests.

“I know,” he says, deadpan. “And I’m very emotionally invested in its survival.”

That gets a few more laughs, and one student —small, tucked slightly behind the others —steps forward and points. Ryland-now remembers him too: Raiden.

“It actually rolls better if you don’t push it from the top.”

Ryland-then pauses, and looks at him properly. Not through him, not over him —actually at him.

“Good engineering instinct,” he says after a beat. “What happens if we change the wheel spacing?”

Raiden blinks, surprised to be asked back. The camera-kid —Ryland-now thinks the student's name is Nathan? But without a face, he's not sure —shifts the camera closer, like he senses something important is happening but doesn’t know why yet.

Raiden shrugs. “It might stop wobbling.”

Ryland-then nods, immediately crouching down beside the table like he’s on their level without even thinking about it. “Okay. Show me.”

There’s a small moment of hesitation —then Raiden reaches in, adjusts something clumsily, and the whole group leans in as the rover rolls again.

It moves smoother this time. A few kids actually gasp like it’s magic.

Ryland-then lets out a soft breath through his nose —something halfway between a laugh and approval.

“There it is,” he says quietly. “That’s it. You just did engineering.”

Raiden looks up at him like he's just been handed something much bigger than a compliment. The camera just holds the scene —kids crowded around a messy table, a teacher crouched with them instead of standing above them, all of it loud and ordinary and somehow important.

The video fades into black and a new scene starts playing —just the beach, just the normal one he usually has on in the background. But Ryland is standing there with trembling hands and tears in his eyes.

"Where did you…how did you find this?"

She hasn't moved from her spot on their bed, instead letting him process what he's seen. "Stratt made us choose home videos to upload," she explains softly, looking down at her hands. There's an edge of guilt in her voice as Ryland finally returns to his seat beside her. "I remembered the other day, when I was reading through the mission manual again. I was curious if she even tried to find something for you, since…you couldn't choose yours."

Stratt uploaded this for me? Ryland, for a moment, doesn't believe it. But he thinks he does, actually. As hard to believe as it might be at first.

"There's only the one," she continues, and there's still a hint of guilt in her voice. He takes her hand, bringing it to his lips carefully, as if to tell her it's okay. "But I thought…well, I thought you'd like to see how loved you were by your students."

He looks up at the screen again —at the beach, and the sky and the Golden Gate Bridge —then back at her with a watery smile. "Thank you," he manages to say, but he looks down for a second as he composes himself. "I…I needed this, more than I realized, I think."

"We all need a reminder sometimes," she agrees, then she slowly lays down on her back, looking up at the simulated sky above them. Ryland joins her without hesitation, taking her hand again and laying it over his heart.

"You're a natural."

"At what?"

"Teaching," she explains, looking over at him. "I didn't think I could fall any more in love with you, but then I watched that video of you…"

The words trail off, and his breath catches. Then he shifts, the movement slow —careful not to overwhelm her or hurt her arm. One arm braces on either side of her head as he looks down at her, hovering over her without fully pressing down, like he's forgotten how to be anywhere else but close to her. He's searching her eyes like he's trying to make sure she's telling him the truth. But he knows she is.

Her free hand slides up his arm like it belongs there, like she's been waiting this entire time for him to stop overthinking everything and just be here with her. He exhales shakily, forehead dropping closer for a second before he catches himself. Too close to think clearly, but not close enough to stop wanting more of her touch anyway.

"That's not fair," he murmurs, voice quiet.

A faint, tired sort of smile touches her lips. "What isn't?"

"You can't say things like that," he says, but there's no real accusation in it —just awe, tangled up with something vulnerable and in love. "And then look at me like this."

Her thumb brushes once over his sleeve.

"I've been looking at you like this since the day we met, Ryland."

Something in his chest tightens so hard that it steals the rest of his breath —overwhelming in the way that too many feelings can be when there's nowhere for them to go. Like it's been building since…since the day they met, since the day he woke up on this ship, and only now has somewhere to settle.

He lowers himself a little more, until his forehead finally rests against hers. This time, he's not hovering. He's staying.

"I love you," he breathes out, and he knows his tears are falling onto her cheeks. "I love you, and I know I don't remember everything from before but I swear, I'll make up for it tenfold —I just —I —,"

"Dr. Ryland Grace," she interrupts, and he swallows hard at the inflection and the use of his title. "I loved you then, and I love you even more now. But if you don't shut up and kiss me, I'm going to lose my mind."

Whatver thin thread of restraint, or anxiety, or whatever he's been holding onto snaps so cleanly he doesn't even feel it go. He lets out a breath that almost sounds like a laugh —half disbelief, half relief —and then he closes the distance between their lips finally.

This time, he doesn't hesitate.

The kiss isn't careful like the others that came before. It's not tentative, or testing, or something he's second-guessing because he's worried he doesn't deserve it. It's immediate and it's certain and it's needed. As if all his feelings are finally finding their way out from under his skin.

His hand comes up to her face without thinking, fingers sliding along her jaw as he kisses her, grounding himself in the feel of teeth nipping at his bottom lip. The sting of the bite doesn't hurt, but he makes a sound that he can only describe as whimpering.

The sound clearly does something for her, because her fingers are in his hair suddenly, tugging at the roots as she parts his lips with her tongue. Ryland makes the sound again —involuntarily, really but he's certain she doesn't care —as she licks into his mouth.

She shifts under him, parting her legs in a way that's definitely an invitation. So carefully, he angles himself so he doesn't put weight on her injured arm. One knee presses into the mat beside her while the other slips between her parted legs.

His hand drifts from her jaw to the hem of her shirt, fingers grazing her skin in a way that sends a tremor through her. Ryland's hands are shaking just enough for him to realize he's nervous.

"I…," he starts, having pulled back just enough. "It's been a while —,"

"It's been a while for me too," she reassures him, and she wiggles out of the sling and tosses it to the side.

"You really shouldn't take that off —,"

"Do you want me to take my shirt off or not, Ry?"

He pauses —brain sort of short-circuting for a moment. When she lifts her arms, wordlessly inviting him, he exhales a quiet, strained breath and pulls the fabric upward. The shirt slides over her head, leaving her beneath him in soft, simulated sunlight.

All coherent thoughts have escaped him as he stares down at her. He can't believe she's real, he thinks. That she's real, and letting him touch her like this. That she's his, after everything they've been through.

"I love you," he repeats, voice rough, as the words slip out like he's telling her a secret.

"I love you," she confirms, reaching for his shirt next.

Swallowing hard, he pulls the shirt over his head and tosses it to the side. When he reaches to take his glasses off, though, she stops him. When he meets her gaze, it's hooded and hazy. It's a silent command, and Ryland thinks he's not going to last long if that's how she's going to look at him.

But he drops his hand from his glasses, sitting up a little bit more as they both take in each other's bare skin. Her hands brush against his skin as she runs a hand over his chest and down his arm, and he shivers before lowering himself again to kiss her deeply once more.

His palm skims her bare shoulder, then her ribs, then the line of her waist, his touch unhurried and exploratory, memorizing every inch of her skin so he never forgets. He leans down, lips brushing space beneath her ear, and she arches into him with a soft, involuntary sound.

His breath catches —raw, unguarded —and he kisses her again, lowering her gently against the pillows as he does. His hands move with deliberate care, easing what remains between them away piece by piece, giving her time to stop him, to rethink it, to change her mind. But she never does.

With each layer he removes, his touch grows steadierr; there's a confidence building in him that he hasn't had in a long time. She pulls him close, skin against skin, the world narrowing to her hands and his mouth, then her soft murmurs against his skin as he finally, finally settles over her completely.

And just before the moment shifts to something that neither of them can take back, Ryland pauses, his forehead presses against hers, his voice barely a whisper.

"I want to be brave for you," he tells her, hand resting along her jaw to keep her eyes on him. His glasses are slipping down his nose, and he wants to fix them, but he can't let go of her. "And I will be."

"You are the bravest man I've ever met," she promises him. Ryland is about to say something back, but suddenly she's pushing him onto his back. Then she's straddling his hips, hands on his chest as she looks down at him, very seriously. "You're a hero, Ryland —Earth's, and Erid's, and mine."

His breath catches in his throat as she leans down and catches his mouth with hers again. His cock is pressed against her, and it's throbbing as she purposely presses down onto him. His hands immediately shoot up to her thighs, finding purchase there as he gasps.

Ryland sits up, wrapping his arm around her waist and pulling her into him, trying to get as close to her as possible. Her hips roll against him as she pulls him in once again, kissing him like her life depends on it. His hands are guiding her hips, dragging her against his cock instinctively.

When the head of his cock catches at her entrance, they gasp at the same time. She grins into the kiss, and Ryland can feel it against his lips, as he looks up at her over his glasses. He has seen literal galaxies and stars and planets up close —but seeing her above him like this, pressed against him with her hair mused and half-lidded eyes is the most beatiful sight he's ever seen.

"Please," he manages to plead. Something sultry shifts in her gaze as her hand slides between their bodies now to grasp his hard cock in her hand. Ryland sucks in a breath, throwing his hand back.

She rises uponto her knees above him as Ryland's gaze drops to her hand around him, where she’s guiding his cock into her soaked core. As she slowly eases him into her, one of her hands shoots up to grip his arm, digging her nails into the skin to distract from the stretch. His head falls back again as she sinks down on him, his hands finally dropping to her backside to guide her all the way onto him.

Her grip on his arm tightens as their hips meet, sinking him entirely inside her. Ryland groans as her walls clench around him, and his hips involuntarily buck up –causing her to cry out in surprise and lurch forward, her hands gripping his shoulders tight.

"I —Sorry —,"

"Don't you…dare apologize," she scolds him —though there's no bite in the words.

She trails her fingers down his spine before wrapping them back around his neck, holding him tight against her as she lifts up then brings herself back down on him. Not expecting it, a surprised cry leaves his lips as she catches his mouth with hers again. She takes his hands and presses them to her hips, and he gets the hint as she rises to meet his thrusts, bouncing on his cock to bring herself closer and closer to the edge.

Getting more confident —but getting too close to the end —he meets her next motion with a hard thrust up that has the tip of his cock grazing a spot so deep inside her that she drops her face into his neck and cries out his name. "Fuck, Ryland —,"

Something almost primal strikes deep inside him when she says his name like that, and he pulls her down maybe a little too hard, pressing her hips into his. She meets this with a slow, hard grind as she chokes out his name in a sob, clenching so tightly around him that he sees stars.

She moans again, and Ryland whimpers again —he needs to stop doing that —as she trails her tongue up his neck and over his jaw. Then her mouth is on his again, and she's tightening around him. The sound of their skin slapping against skin only urges him on, each thrust becoming messier and harder. It's almost too much for him.

"Ry," she cries, tongue licking into his mouth as he feels his stomach tighten. "I'm gonna cum —,"

"Please," he begs again, kissing her harder. It's teeth, and tongues, and something passionate he hasn't experienced in years. But he doesn't focus on that, glasses falling down his nose again as he speeds up his thrusts in time with her fingers that have reached for her clit.

She bites his lip —hard enough to draw blood, but it's not painful —and he closes his eyes as her body tenses up against him, spasming around him as she comes undone. The only sounds he hears from her are airy gasps of his name, begging him to keep going. Ryland isn't far behind as he thrusts up into her a few more times, just as his hips begin to stutter

There's not a chance for him to pull out, he realizes too late as he spills inside her. His brain is too muddled, too foggy, too horny to even care about that right now. He rolls his hips once, twice —then she's grinding against him again, riding out both their orgasms.

When she drops against him —when he manages to collapse back into the mats on the floor and she drapes herself over him —Ryland finally takes off his glasses and tosses them to the side. Her forehead presses against his neck, tucked just under his chin as they both catch their breaths.

They lay like this for a long time. He's not sure how long; long enough for her to have dozed off. But he's still awake.

Time feels…irrelevent in the aftermath of what they just shared. Everything feel slower; heavier in a good way. Like gravity has shfited just enough to keep him grounded instead of pulling him under.

She's still curled against him, her head tucked just beneath his chin, her good arm draped across his chest like it belongs there. It does, he thinks. It…really, really does. The blankets are half-tangled around them, one kicked down toward their legs and the other barely covering their shoulders. He doesn't fix it; doesn't want to move enough to disturb anything in the moment.

His fingers trace absent patterns along her arm —light, almost subconscious —like he's reassuring himself that she's still there. Every so often, his hand stills for a moment, like he's half expecting her to disappear if he's not paying attention. But she doesn't. She won't.

Her breathing is slow and even against him, but he knows she's not fully asleep. Not yet. There's a small awareness in the way her fingers shift against his stomach, curling and uncurling like she's just as unwilling to let go of this moment as he is.

Ryland swallows, his throat tight for so many reasons.

It's too much. Not in a bad way —not overwhelming like panic or fear. Just…full. His chest feels full in a way that almost hurts, like something inside himfinally has space to exist and doesn't really know how to handle it.

He spent so long alone.

Before this —before the mission, before the carrier, before her —it was years of quiet routines, of classrooms and empty apartments. That he was content being alone, because he was happy with his life. Only for someone to uproot everything and change it all in one afternoon…

Only now, he's not alone.

Now, he has her. And he has Rocky, when he wakes up —because he will.

But he has her.

His hand tightens slightly where it rests against her arm, and he presses a little deeper into her hair without thinking about it. She smells like the sterile soap from the med bay and…well, sex. And something that's just…her. Something real.

"I'm still here," she murmurs into his skin, and his hold tightens again.

"I know."

------

Tagged: @boswandottir

[vulcanette-deactivated20260506]

[sourdough-seal]

“what are you doing this weekend” i am going to fantasy land. i am hiding under the covers in bed. i am making things up. i am contemplating events that didnt happen. i am talking to fake people. i am listening to my tunes. i am envisioning scenarios

[ryland-and-rocky]

𝘀𝗽𝗶𝗻 𝗺𝗲 𝘁𝗵𝗿𝗼𝘂𝗴𝗵 𝘁𝗵𝗲 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗿𝗱𝘂𝘀𝘁, 𝗰𝗮𝘂𝘀𝗲’ 𝗶𝗺 𝗰𝗮𝘂𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗶𝗻 𝘆𝗼𝘂𝗿 𝗼𝗿𝗯𝗶𝘁☆

(𝗿𝘆𝗹𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝗴𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝘅 𝗿𝗲𝗮𝗱𝗲𝗿 𝗼𝗻𝗲 𝘀𝗵𝗼𝘁)

𝗦𝘂𝗺𝗺𝗲𝗿𝘆: entertainment in the Hail Mary is hard to find, but one thing is music. Dancing can lead to fun things😆

𝗧𝗮𝗴𝘀: @localpanicattack (idk if you wanna be tagged for the one shots but I did just in case)

𝗪𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝗰𝗼𝘂𝗻𝘁: 2.1k

𝗪𝗮𝗿𝗻𝗶𝗻𝗴𝘀: like one swear word. It’s fluff central

𝗡𝗼𝘁𝗲: none!

︼︼︼︼︼︼︼︼︼︼︼︼︼︼︼︼︼

You shouldn’t be this happy. No, you shouldn’t. 

Nothing about your situation was “happy”. Stuck in space. A one way trip. No one but you, an alien, and Ryland Grace. 

There wouldn’t be a way to get home. Not that you knew yet. You’d been sent to save the world. A Hail Mary. Then one day you’d have to end it. Never get home.

So why were you smiling? Why were you laughing? Why were you spinning and dancing along to Billy Joel, having the time of your life? 

You were weightless. Dancing among the air of zero gravity, among the cosmos and the cluttered ship that was The Hail Mary. 

And you weren’t the only one.

Ryland Grace, genius science teacher and your co-missionary partner, was currently singing “Uptown girl” and doing unneeded dramatic spins. 

Along with Grace, Rocky. The alien in this same damned predicament as you guys, spinning through the zero G in his glass ball compartment. Singing along, though it sounded more flat and talking oil than singing. But he was having fun.

“𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝗸𝗻𝗼𝘄 𝗜 𝗰𝗮𝗻’𝘁 𝗮𝗳𝗳𝗼𝗿𝗱 𝘁𝗼 𝗯𝘂𝘆 𝗵𝗲𝗿 𝗽𝗲𝗮𝗿𝗹𝘀, 𝗯𝘂𝘁 𝗺𝗮𝘆𝗯𝗲 𝘀𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗱𝗮𝘆 𝘄𝗵𝗲𝗻 𝗺𝘆 𝘀𝗵𝗶𝗽 𝗰𝗼𝗺𝗲𝘀 𝗶𝗻, 𝘀𝗵𝗲’𝗹𝗹 𝘂𝗻𝗱𝗲𝗿𝘀𝘁𝗮𝗻𝗱 𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗸𝗶𝗻𝗱 𝗼𝗳 𝗴𝘂𝘆 𝗶𝘃𝗲 𝗯𝗲𝗲𝗻!♩♫” all three of you sing along. 

Grace takes your hand, sending jolts of something unnamed through your body. He spins you, sending you through a seemingly endless rotation without gravity. You laugh, 

  “Grace! Help me stop!” You say through stifles laughs. 

He laughs too.

  “And what if I don’t?” His voice carry’s a smugness over the music playing through his computer in the corner.

  You were getting dizzy now, flailing and still spinning, trying to grab onto something.

  “Ryland Grace, if you don’t help me stop-!” You can’t even finish your half hearted laughing threat. 

Ryland pushes off the metal wall of the Hail Mary with his feet, launching towards you. You feel the warm and gentle impact of him. His hands on your waist, sending yet another spark through you. 

You’re both spinning now, propelling gently. You’re still laughing, forehead to his chest. He’s warm, and taller than you. Your hands are at the back of his neck, where his hairline starts. Your fingers just barely splaying into his soft blonde hair. You could feel the soft but firm lines of his torso against yours. His carved and fit body, is always gentle with you.

You guys fall into quiet smiles. Slowly spinning in silence. Rocky is still chirping and humming, bouncing around. You yet again huff a laugh to yourself. 

  “He’s having a great time,” you murmur. 

Grace snorts,

  “No kidding.”

Suddenly, the music fades into the languid rhythm of “Vienna”. The momentum of Rylands earlier push had sent us in a continues way towards the way. We bump into it gently and it stops our spins. 

  “Y’know,” he says suddenly, “any good gentleman would ask you to waltz.”

He says it with an air of confidence, but there’s unmistakably a blush that’s dusts his neck and the tips of his ears. 

You grin.

  “Ryland, are you asking me to slow dance with you in zero gravity?” 

His eyes crinkle as he grins more bashfully.

  “I mean- yeah. Only if you want to. Might be fun. Y’know, zero gravity romance. Guarantee of me not stepping on your feet.” 

You hum,

  “Yeah. Very romantic.” You say sarcastically.

  “We don’t have to if you don’t want to-“

  “No, no- sorry I do!” You laugh. “I do.”

His eyes momentarily widen. Then he relaxes and nods. 

Rocky chirps from his corner.

  “𝘄𝗵𝗮𝘁 𝗶𝘀 𝘄𝗮𝗹𝘁𝘇, 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻?“

Grace shrugs and looks at him. 

  “It’s like dancing bud. But slower. Between two people.”

“𝗮𝗵. 𝗢𝗻 𝘄𝗲 𝗰𝗮𝗹𝗹 𝘁𝗵𝗶𝘀 ♫♪♩♩”

The scientists quickly bounds over with a small push to his computer, the one that contains translations to Rocky. He quickly types in “waltz”. He pushes back off to you again. 

  “Well my lady,” he says with faux seriousness, “shall you give me this dance?”

You give him a mock bow, 

“I shall, my good sir.”

He takes your hand gently, like he’s being careful. He tugs you to him softly. Your bodies bump before rebounding to a small distance. His hand hovers beside your waist, and he’s suddenly quiet, pink cheeks again.

You guide his hand with yours to your waist, and you wrap your arms around his neck. You don’t look at him, instead you keep your head down. You don’t think you’d be able to stop yourself from just kissing him if you looked at him and were that close. He has enough height on you that you can rest your temple to the space on his collarbone.

You and him have danced around something for weeks. You both know it. Though none have said anything. But you knew.

You knew how his eyes lingered on you for a moment to long in passing. You knew how you couldn’t ever stop yourself from standing closer to him than necessary.  

He was attractive, sure, but it wasn’t only that. He was attentive. He was smart. He knew how to make you smile on days that were really hard from homesickness. 

And now, floating around in the slowest rotation, everything unspoken bound around you, and you think you’d could swim in it. 

Ryland chuckles suddenly,

  “I don’t think this qualifies as dancing.”

It doesn’t. You two are just floating around. Any sway you would do during a dance is useless in zero G. But it somehow feels right. Like just the small distance and closeness of your bodies was enough.

You hum, 

  “Nah. But I still like it.”

He rests his chin on your head, shifting his arms so there around your neck, his biceps sit on your shoulders. You shift as well, until your arms are fully around his torso, hands resting on his back.  You’re basically just hugging at this point. Rocky has gone silent in his area. He’s watching. You don’t care.

You’re aware of everything. 

How your body molds to fit against his perfectly, how he smells faintly of pinewood and something sweet, how the soft stubble that stretches from his jaw to slightly onto his neck brushes against your head. Your heart is ponding in a thrilling way, and there’s the slight fear in the back of your mind that he could hear it.

Vienna drones on,

“𝚜𝚕𝚘𝚠 𝚍𝚘𝚠𝚗, 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚌𝚛𝚊𝚣𝚢 𝚌𝚑𝚒𝚕𝚍, 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚖𝚋𝚒𝚝𝚒𝚘𝚞𝚜 𝚏𝚘𝚛 𝚊 𝚓𝚞𝚟𝚎𝚗𝚒𝚕𝚎, 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗, 𝚒𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞’𝚛𝚎 𝚜𝚘 𝚜𝚖𝚊𝚛𝚝,𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚗 𝚝𝚎𝚕𝚕 𝚖𝚎 𝚠𝚑𝚢 𝚊𝚛𝚎 𝚢𝚘𝚞 𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚕𝚕 𝚜𝚘 𝚊𝚏𝚛𝚊𝚒𝚍, 𝚑𝚖?“

You could stay there forever, you thought. Just Ryland and you and Rocky. Swaying among the stars. 

And a thought comes to you suddenly. A scary, but honest thought.

This is my home.

But it wasn’t. You knew that. Home was earth. Home was oceans and blue sky and concerts. Home was late night parties… parties where you stayed to the side. Parties where you e never danced. Parties where you had no friends to get drunk with.

So yeah…. Maybe home wasn’t the best… and this, albeit, weird situation was crazy… but it felt more like you belonged.

Vienna finally fades out. The end of Rylands playlist fills the silence. All that’s left is the soft drum of breathing. Neither of you move away.

  “𝗚𝗿𝗮𝗰𝗲 𝗳𝗶𝗻𝗮𝗹𝗹𝘆 𝗵𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗮𝘁𝗲 𝗻𝗼𝘄, 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻?“ Rocky interrupts. 

A laugh bubbles out of you as you see Rylands face turn crimson. 

  “Bud! We were having a moment!”

  “𝗼𝗵𝗵. 𝗠𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁. 𝗬𝗲𝘀. 𝗥𝗼𝗰𝗸𝘆 𝘀𝗼𝗿𝗿𝘆. 𝗛𝗮𝘃𝗲 𝗺𝗼𝗺𝗲𝗻𝘁. 𝗥𝗼𝗰𝗸𝘆 𝘄𝗮𝘁𝗰𝗵, 𝗿𝗼𝗰𝗸𝘆 𝘀𝘁𝗮𝘆 𝗾𝘂𝗶𝗲𝘁.“

Grace groans. You bump his shoulder gently. 

  “Hey, look at me,” you say gently.

He turns his head to look at you. And for a moment you’re close. Before you can chicken out, you gently tug his collar. You pull him down, and plant a kiss to his cheek. Gentle and lasting. 

When you move away he’s frozen, a smile playing at his lips, and a mark on his cheek. Your tinted lip gloss. the perfect print of your lips.

You laugh softly,

  “Hold still, you doofus.”

You reach up and wipe the mark off his cheek. He catches your hands suddenly. Keeping it on his cheek. 

There’s a long silence where you just… look at each other. His pretty blue eyes, your (color) eyes.  Time slows down… for you at least. 

You’d unconsciously drifted closer again. So close that your nose brushed. And it would only take a small effort to lean forward and-

  “Wow. You’re pretty,” he says with an awed expression. Like it’s the first time he’s seen your face. His voice cracked on the word pretty like it was physically hard to admit it.

You smile softly. Heat rushing to your cheeks.

  “You just saying that?” You whisper quietly. 

He shakes his head. 

“You think I’de lie about that?” He murmurs, forehead brushing yours.

You swallow, leaning the smallest fraction forward.

He gets the hint, and meets you halfway. 

The kiss is almost nothing. Just the brush of his against yours. When you don’t pull away, he presses his to yours more firmly. 

Your hands slip to the back of his head, tangling with the locks of his hair. He hums quietly, a sound that sends a shiver up your spine, and his hands find your waist. 

The kiss is so slow. So languid that it kills you. Like the holding back. 

When you part for a moment, he chases your lips, diving right back in. You press into him more and you ca feel him loosen. You can feel him finally just fall into the kiss. You tilt your head until your mouths slot together. 

The moment is perfect. The warmth of him. The he taste. The brush of his tongue to your lower lip. Everything is perfect-

“𝗶𝘀 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘀𝘀“ 

Rocky. Of course.

You break apart with a laugh.

  “𝘄𝗵𝘆 𝗮𝗿𝗲 𝘆𝗼𝘂 𝘁𝘄𝗼 𝘁𝗼𝘂𝗰𝗵𝗶𝗻𝗴 𝗳𝗼𝗼𝗱 𝗵𝗼𝗹𝗲𝘀, 𝗾𝘂𝗲𝘀𝘁𝗶𝗼𝗻?“

“It’s called a kiss.”

“𝗶𝘀 𝗴𝗿𝗼𝘀𝘀“

You both laugh, and you couldn’t think of any other place you’d rather be. 

𖤓✦☆☾❞

[starg0ld]

[aroace-ryland-grace]

Giggling over the exclamation marks after "good at math"

[pagesfromthevoid]

I, too, have written “good at math!!!” recently and that’s so funny to me

[wickedslashdivine]

“Always muscles???” Tickles me so bad🤣🤣