she¡her. scorpio. 19. infj. minors do not interact. fuck ice and fuck donald trump !
be mindful of the content you consume.
in love with love. slytherin. rafe cameron obsessed. live for nostalgia. animal lover. hyper fixations <3. muted colors. cigarettes after sex. fall. “oel ngati kameie.” mark grayson & clark kent. i would die for rocky.
not currently posting anything— just reblogging one shots/fics that i love + random thoughts :)
summary. you've been a constant in mark's life for as long as he can remember, and he can't wait to spend the rest of it with you too. (word count. 2.2k)
⭑.ᐟ content. mark grayson x reader, fem!reader, childhood friends to lovers, established relationship, angst, hurt no comfort
⭑.ᐟ warnings. major character death, blood/gore, suggestive themes, sinister mark because that guys a freak
⭑.ᐟ author's note. yeah um.... im so sorry for the emotional damage this could cause (was listening to all i need by radio head while writing so.... prepare yourselves)
Mark has never experienced life without you.
He first met you on his fifth birthday. It’s one of his earliest memories, and he can always recall with a startling level of clarity.
Your mom and his mom were college roommates and your family had just moved back to the neighborhood, so of course you had to attend Mark’s birthday party. Your mother had swept you into the backyard like a whirlwind, chatting up Debbie with the kind of excitement that Mark could only compare to opening the Seance Dog figurine his parents had got him earlier that day. You clung to your mother like a barnacle stuck to the side of a ship. Your eyes were wide, curious but cautious as you observed him.
Debbie crouched down in front of you, tugging his hand gently to bring him closer to you.
“This is Mark, sweetheart,” she said softly. “He’s your new friend.”
You hid shyly behind your mother’s legs, peering out at him with the biggest eyes he’d ever seen. Sweet and innocent as you stared at him— remnants of chocolate cake smudged on the corner of his mouth and grass stains on his knees. Eventually your mom nudged you out from behind her, landing you right in front of him.
“Hi!” Mark chirped, offering a little wave and a gap toothed smile.
You just blinked at him owlishly.
“... Do you like chocolate cake?” Mark tried again, his head tilted to the side. After a long pause, you nodded as a soft ‘yes’ fell from your lips. He grinned, grabbed your hand, and led you to the table, handing you the last slice of his birthday cake.
You’d smiled at him so sweetly that day, both of you giggling happily with your matching chocolate covered smiles.
That was the moment — though he didn’t know it then — when something rooted itself in his little heart. Something permanent. Something that would never let go.
~
One of Mark’s favorite memories was when you’d said ‘I love you’ for the first time. Right after the moment when he finally got the nerve to ask you out, of course. That memory, too, lived in his chest, beating like a second heartbeat. He’d always remember the way your cheeks had flushed such a pretty color when the words finally tumbled out of his mouth— how you threw your arms around his neck in delight, how you’d kissed him like he was air and you were drowning.
But somehow, it still didn’t hold a candle to the other memory.
It was just like any ordinary night, nothing special about it at first glance. Officially, you’d been dating for three months, after years of friendship, years of loving you quietly. He hadn’t known this level of contentment before, like every cell in his body was sagging with comfort.
You both lay, limbs tangled in his bed sheets, your face tucked in his neck. Your breath warmed his skin with soft puffs, sending a tingling through him. He ran his hands idly through your hair, carding through gently as he released any tangles. Your body was so warm against his, soft and sleepy as you curled into his embrace.
“Did you know your brain plays seven minutes of your happiest memories when you die? It tries to comfort you because it can’t save you,” you mumble quietly, placing sweet kisses along the curve of his jaw, “fun fact.”
Mark frowned and looked down at you. “How is that… fun?”
“I think it’s very interesting, thank you very much,” you reply with a puff of your cheeks as you tilt your head back to meet his eyes. Your palm rested gently over his heart, feeling the steady rhythm against his ribs.
“You’re so weird,” Mark responds back, though all that can be detected in his voice is affection. Your eyes are warm as he stares into them, a tired giggle leaving your throat.
“Says you!” You exclaim, pretending to pout, shoving him away from you a bit. He caught you immediately, dragging you back and peppering kisses along your jawline.
“We’re both weird,” he mumbled against your skin, brushing his teeth against the spot below your ear, where your jaw hinged. “That’s why we work, baby.”
You squirmed in his hold, your arms wrapped lazily around the nape of his neck.
“You’re so cheesy, ugh. Remind me why I love you again?”
Mark froze, his lips pause as he pulls his head out of the crook of your neck. You’d said it plenty of times, but that was before you started dating. Before you spent any and all free time kissing, and holding him like he was the most precious thing you’d ever had.
“You mean that?” He asked. He barely recognized his own voice. Soft and uncertain, he just knows his face is bright red too. You just nod.
“Yeah. I love you. A lot actually. If you’d believe it.”
And then he kissed you, passionate, sweet, real. Mark mumbled ‘I love you’s’ in between kisses, pressing you into the blankets of his bed as his hands cradled your face.
That’s when he knew he’d always love you.
No matter what happens in the future.
Because you were his future, his past, and his present.
~
You had been so happy, so in love.
Even after he got his powers. Even after the late nights, the bruises, the guilt he carried when he came home and you’d already fallen asleep in your shared bed waiting. You never made him feel like a failure. You never made him feel like he had to choose. Your lives together had been planned out, he knew he wanted to marry you — he had for a long time if he was honest— but he wanted to wait, make it perfect. Because you deserved perfection.
If he missed a date or a movie night, you didn’t make a fuss. You would just smile, a bit sadly, and press a kiss to his jaw, murmuring against his skin.
“You have the rest of our lives to make it up to me. Go save the world.”
Mark clung to those words, because that felt like a promise to him. A promise of forever. A promise to love him always.
And then the variants showed up.
You had been stowed away somewhere safe while Mark fought. You were supposed to be safe. Hidden.
Mark was never very lucky.
He feels like all the air has left his lungs when he looks up, his vision partially obstructed by the swelling of his left eye. Mark gasps as he props himself up from the crater of earth he’s found himself in, his vision swimming with pain as he focuses his gaze on the sight before him.
Above him, hovering with a smile on his lips, is himself. A variant of him, donning yellow and black, a cape billowing behind him just as he remembers his father’s doing. But that's not what scares him. What scares him is how, within his grasp, is you. The variant's hand grips at your face, his palm obscuring your features as you struggle against his hold, like he’s holding a toy. Mark knows that you know you can’t escape, but his heart twinges as you claw at the man who wears his face. Your legs kick, your body quivers.
He rises shakily to his feet, his goggles almost entirely shattered from his earlier encounter with a different variant. Smoke and copper sting his nose as he calls your name, a broken sound crawling from his throat. He holds his hands out in front of him, trying to find a way to get out of this situation. Mark can hear you call his name back— your voice trembles, your hands coming up to grip at the variant's forearm, trying to ease the strain on your neck.
“You’re pathetic, you know that?” The variant all but coos, cocking his head to the side, a sickening grin on his face. “You cling to humanity, cling to her.” The variant shakes you a bit in his grasp, and you can’t contain the shriek that erupts from your throat.
“Stop—,” Mark says, his voice cracks as he lurches forward, his chest tight and his heart burns in his chest. “She has nothing to do with this. You want me. Just— Just put her down.”
“She has everything to do with this,” the variant croons. “She is your weakness. You will be stronger without her. I was. She only held me back from my true potential.”
The variant hoists you higher, tightening his grip, his fingers dimple your soft flesh.
“DON’T–” Mark can’t help the scream that shreds from his throat. He dashes forward, narrowly missing a devastating blow to your captor. He stumbles, his eyes wide and his heart in his throat.
Your voice pierces through the smokey air, shaking. “Mark–!”
He can see the panic well in your eyes, the way your chest rises and falls as quickly as a frightened rabbit. You’re prey, and the predator has you in his jaws. Mark can see the way your eyes fixate on him, wide and frightened. The variant giggles, a sickening sound that makes Mark’s spine straighten.
“I’m doing you a favor,” the variant replies.
“And I’m warning you,” he rasps, blood in his mouth, blood that stains his teeth and dribbles out of the corners of his lips. “Put her down. And fucking fight me!”
The variant's fist tightens and your eyes flit around in fear. Your voice is so raw when you speak. Mark doesn’t want to listen. He doesn’t want to hear you like this. He wants to hear your laugh as he snakes his arms around your waist. He wants to hear the sweet way you say his name when you're tired. He wants to hear the way you sigh when he kisses your neck. Not this— not laced with fear and desperation.
You’re shaking. “Mark. Mark, please look at me,” you call.
Your voice is raspy and raw, it shakes in a way he’s never heard from you before. Not when his father beat him half to death. Not when he cried in your arms about how this is all too much.
“I love you. I love you so much and I always have,” you manage out. Mark tenses because this seems like a goodbye, but he can see the defeat in your face. “You’re my seven minutes, Mark. It’s all you. Every second will be you. I’m so sorry, you’re so strong. I lov—”
The variant’s hand closes and Mark freezes as a burst of blood splatters across his face. He stares as your body drops to the ground, limp, like if a kid threw a ragdoll. Discarded like you meant nothing. Mark can’t tear his eyes away from you, still amongst the flames and smoke, as the variant scoffs.
“She always says that. That's all she said when she tried to convince me not to kill her in my world.” The variant flicks a piece of your skull off his shoulder, like you’re trash. Mark isn’t listening though, because all he can think is that the person that took you away from him took your final comfort too. No seven minutes — your brain can’t comfort you as you die if it’s splattered all over.
It all happens so fast, because one second Mark has the man who wears his face pinned to the ground— blood and gore gushing as he pound his fists into his face until nothing is left but a few pearly white teeth— and then the next he’s delicately lifting the remnants of his heart in his hands. Part of your jaw still clings to your form, the necklace he got you for your four year anniversary rests against your blood stained collar bone. Mark presses his cheek to your chest, right above where your heart should still be beating. He stays like that for who knows how long, holding you in his arms until Cecil has to tear him away from you.
The days and months that follow go by in a blur.
Your funeral happens. The flowers are your favorites. The faces that come are people who don’t know you like he did.
You haunt him. He sees you everywhere. The bed in your apartment— Mark can’t bring himself to wash the pillow you used, because it still faintly smells like you after all this time. His hero suit— the one he couldn’t save you in. His childhood home— he swears he can still hear your laughter echoing down the halls. The giggle of children— a reminder of the ones he’ll never be able to have with you.
Mark knows he’ll live a long life, a life riddled by loss. He can’t bring himself to move any of your things, because you were a part of him, sewn into the very fabric of his being. You were the largest part of his heart, so intertwined into his life that he can’t do anything without seeing your face, thinking about your sweet touches.
Mark prays you were right. That when his time comes, his final seven minutes will be filled with you.
So he can finally see you again. Just one last time.
here are some mark grayson stories i’ve read, loved, and reblogged. all the admiration for the writers who share their talent so generously. please be sure to read the warnings on each fic. and if you enjoy them, let the author know by a comment, reblog, or both! ♡
Of course he would come to see you. You’re the reason he’s here, after all.
✶ second chance at love pt2 pt3 pt4 I @tokoyamisstuff
...in which another version of Mark invaded your world to claim something he once lost.
✶ payback I @/tokoyamisstuff
In his timeline, Mohawk killed you for rejecting him - and now he seeks you out to do it again.
✶ variant!invincible I @slutoru1207
Multiple versions of Mark Grayson from different dimensions find the reader, each desperate to keep her because they lost their version of her. Now, they refuse to let her go.
✶ invincible!mark x reader x variants I @/slutoru1207
✶ mistaken devotion I @/slutoru1207
✶ i love you, but i need boundaries I @/slutoru1207
✶ i can feel it in my bones I @couldeatthatgirlforlunch
Being Invincible’s pet is cruel, but you manage to find comfort in it.
✶ fail safe I @invoncible
✶ bluff I @/invoncible
when mohawk mark doesn't find debbie at his childhood home, he goes after the next best thing: you. he thinks you're together in this world too, and when he realizes you're not... well, how could he possibly give up such a perfect opportunity?
✶ smut I @/invoncible
✶ running into invincible variants I @/invoncible
✶ keep away w/ invincible variants I @/invoncible
✶ mohawk!mark I @/invoncible
✶ viltrumite!mark I @/invoncible
✶ the only exception I @jks1uv
in every universe, mark grayson turns into his father and seals his destiny as a true viltrumite. what if things are different this time?
✶ u love me and i love you I @controld3vil
Mark accomplished what his father couldn’t – he conquered Earth. Accepting that wasn’t the hardest part; living with it wears you down.
✶ drabble I @halcyon-writings
✶ scenarios / bestfriend!reader I @radlovesfics
✶ third wheel trouble I @cherryyluvs
✶ starfire!reader I @/cherryyluvs
✶ streamer!reader pt2 I @/cherryyluvs
✶ don’t wake up my parents I @/cherryyluvs
✶ you’re all i think about I @/cherryyluvs
Mark becomes obsessed with you, stalking your social media, learning your routines and slowly inserting himself in your life.
✶ mark loves his best friend pt2 I @starzyangel
✶ a different kind of star I @acenanxious
✶ right there pt2 pt3 pt4 pt5 I @/acenanxious
neighbor!reader x invincible variants
✶ shattered affections I @wordsofwhimsy
All surviving Variants have been brought to the Main Universe as a means to help defend and protect Earth.
✶ cut deep, kiss hard I @/wordsofwhimsy
Your dangerously unhinged not-boyfriend threatens to “take care” of the friends of yours that keep trying to pull you away from him, and you are having none of it. literally a crazy stand-off
✶ if i was your girlfriend... I @/wordsofwhimsy
Mark just needs to be close to you dammit and he can’t stand that you’ll be that way with your girl friends but not him
✶ takeout mishap I @0bticeo
mark stumbles in, looking wrecked—bruised, bloody, barely holding himself up—but guess what? he still has a takeout bag. the paper’s stained red, but he just grins like an idiot and goes: "still hot." priorities.
✶ and they called it puppy love I @sqgeism
✶ a man’s greed I @/sqgeism
✶ snip it/sneak peak I @ay0nha
✶ one-shot I @swightops
"in every dimension, Mark Grayson falls for you, but not this one."
✶ superhero drabble I @rainydaygotham
✶ mark being down bad I @tiramissyoucake
✶ mohawk!mark I @/tiramissyoucake
✶ different roles!reader I @/tiramissyoucake
✶ reader!doesn’t know I @/tiramissyoucake
✶ omnimark I @/tiramissyoucake
✶ drabble I @gojoidyll
✶ a girls first love and heartbreak (sister/daughter!reader) I @tamayakii
✶ mark grayson dating hcs I @angelltheninth
✶ wonder boy I @serensho
au in which mark is hercules in ancient greece! and he saves a sassy damsel who changes everything.
✶ invincible variants pt2 I @mirai-lunar
✶ healer!reader I @thegr33nc0met
✶ touch I @grimmsbride
mark grayson doesn’t give a damn what you can do, or how fear hurting him; he would touch you again and again no matter the consequences.
✶ invincible variants x reader I @mocharyc
✶ cockwarming I @asaarii
✶ lucky! lucky! lucky! I @/asaarii
hey siri is it gay to want to crack the female version of my dead best friend
✶ doomsday arrives I @certifiedlovergirlsstuff
✶ retro invincible/ goggles invincible I @stareiiez
✶ you’re dead everywhere but here pt2 pt3 I @bonsubear
✶ “a” 4 effort I @slutla
mark, smart, awkward, and far too soft-hearted, made the mistake of doing one too many assignments for you. a bully in heels, unhinged and relentless, you’ve taken a liking to him in the worst way possible.
✶ batboys but they witness a stranger pull f!reader into a hug and claim to be her boyfriend pt2 pt3 I @damselneedssaving
✶ for you I @lumineya I A
while you are protecting the world during the Invincible War you come across one of the Invincible Variants
“You look nice,” Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”
“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.
“What’s weird?” Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.
“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.
Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”
He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.
He’s in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.
‘Mr Grace’ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.
“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. “You aren’t, are you?”
“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.
“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”
“You were invited?” He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. “I already said I’d go too.”
“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.
“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek.
“Bullshit.” Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.
“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”
Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”
“Sorority girl. Daisy.” That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom.
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.
“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”
“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”
“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish.
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”
“Hot?” Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!”
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like he’d been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”
“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”
It would sting more if it wasn’t so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.
“I mean, how good is his jawline?” Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. “Are we aiming high?”
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. It’s the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend who’d never found ‘it’, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. “You can do better.”
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. “This is the hair that had you all…”
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. “He does have a good jawline...”
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays.
It’s not something you’re likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way you’re able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all.
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.
“I’ll go with you.”
He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.
“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.
“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.
His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It isn’t a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too.
You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.
“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.
“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.
He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.
So navy it was.
You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though.
Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.
“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”
“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.
“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.
Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.
He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.
It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.
Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.
“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.
You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.
It’s cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. “Is that velvet?”
“It’s fake satin. I think.”
“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.”
“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything.
“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.
“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.
“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.
“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”
“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”
“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think he’s cool.
Over the years you’ve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo you’d googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; he’d come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber.
There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.
“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”
“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly.
It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.
He’s got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.
“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”
“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.
Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.
With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.
“Enjoyed it, probably.”
“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in.
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.
“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”
“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.
“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.
Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment.
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.
“You look good.” You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. “How long have you had this?”
“Ages. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval.
“I’ll say.” You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”
“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up.
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. “Sorry, cold fingers.”
You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”
“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.
“Bit tighter.” You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than you’d expected.
“There?” He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.
“Yeah, perfect.” It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.
Ryland’s hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be.
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”
“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option.
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.
It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
“You can just let us out here.” Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”
He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”
It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer.
“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now.
Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family.
“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.
“What?”
“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”
“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”
“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”
You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”
It’s cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”
“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?”
“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”
“If it’s with you.” He amends.
“And slow kissing? You like that too?”
“Yeah I do.” He’s not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. “Good. Really good.”
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head.
“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.
“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.
“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.
There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it.
“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”
“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamie’s name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.
“So Ryland,” Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. “How’d you two meet?”
“We teach at the same school,” He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”
“Science, opposites attract I guess.”
“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons.
Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”
“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.
“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you can’t help but giggle a little.
“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.”
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”
“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?”
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”
You scoff. “A little?”
“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”
“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking.
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself.
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.
It’s beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of.
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. It’s a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. There’s a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful.
It’s heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.
It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”
Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”
“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords he’d tied up so perfectly for you.
For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.
“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips.
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”
“Think I can manage it,” You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.
He grins like he’s won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroid’s back.
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Macey’s left.
Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.
The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if he’s been waiting to do it all night.
You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination.
“Presumptious.” You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”
“You don’t have a car.” You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.
“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”
“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”
“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”
“That you like-like me.” He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.
But you don’t want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”
“That’s very forwards of you.” He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”
“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”
“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”
He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. You’re still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before it’s too late.
Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.
“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous.
“So?” You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon.
“It’s been four minutes.” He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one he’d picked out just for you.
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
“It has.” You lick your lips.
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.
It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. “Ryland,”
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.
“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”
“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for.
“Just me?”
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems it’s been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.
His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.
There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”
“Yeah?” You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. “Since you laced it up?”
“Since you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.
The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.
You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.
“Okay,” You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Need to remember this bit.” He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.
“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly.
“You mean it?” He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. “I.. I get a next time?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didn’t know you understood so well until tonight.
“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.
His hair’s spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. He’s gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.
It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.
It’s a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and it’s highly plausible that he’s leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. “You said I could fuck you, right?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”
With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.
Ryland’s above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. “Like this?”
“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.
You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear.
“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.
Ryland’s head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.
Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.
“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.”
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”
He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.
“You were also going to fuck me.” You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.
“Not fair.” He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.”
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.
It’s a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”
“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.
“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”
“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.
“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.
“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.”
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know.
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”
“I think our next date should be trivia.” You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. “So we can get it right this time.”
“Deal.”
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
ft: mainstream!mark and variants (mohawk, viltrum, omni, sheisty, sinister) (invincible)
reader: fem
wc: 2604
summary: hey siri is it gay to want to crack the female version of my dead best friend?
cw: canon typical violence, foul language, and the variants are kinda sorta freaky in this
requested by: @sophsthebest
this was so fun to write lowk and I would've been done faster if not for the blood moon event in dbd so err yeah I'm going to go die in a hole now
edit: so i quit writing invincible but here's a partial part two
Life is strange, really.
One moment, you’re helping refold shirts because some people don’t even have the decency to put stuff back to where they found it, and the next, an international warning tells you to stay inside because there are evil variants of your boyfriend now roaming the Earth with unclear intentions.
You share a look with your coworker, who looks just as off-put by the information, her fingers curling around her phone as her brow dips. Just as her lips part to speak, the first building falls. It’s only a few blocks away, and the ground beneath your feet trembles at its sudden collapse.
You hear the screams of those out on the street, internally debating whether or not to follow suit until a notification from Mark lights up your screen, the ridiculous nickname you’d set when you were twelve a small comfort to your racing heart.
MarkyWarky: please tell me you’re okay
You: i’m fine
You: i’m just scared mark
You: why are there so many versions of you anyway…
MarkyWarky: i wish i could tell you
MarkyWarky: just stay put alright im otw
The message does little to soothe, and you can’t help but stare at your screen with nothing but apprehension. Your coworker is quick to seize you by the arm when the sound of collapsing buildings and wailing cars draws closer, ushering you into the break room with the floor manager as though the small, unwindowed room would protect you from the raw strength of a Viltrumite.
“Holy shit, we’re gonna die…We’re actually going to die…” The floor manager, Kasandra, curls into herself with tears already welled in her eyes as she chokes back a sob. No one says anything, unable to face the grim reality at steak when debris begins to crumble around you. You all huddle into the furthest corner as your hope in Mark begins to wane.
Small pieces of rubble hit your head as you tuck your head tightly into Kasandra’s shaking shoulder, the lights overhead flickering violently when the ceiling begins to cave in on itself. There’s no use holding back the tears now and you can’t hide your anguished cries, unheard over the collapsing infrastructure.
This is it, you think, mentally saying your goodbyes to everyone you’ve grown to love. Amber. Eve. William. Mark—oh, Mark. The annoying boy next door who grew to be your first love.
Sparks flare as the light above you finally collapses, but you don’t feel a throbbing pain in your head or death’s cold embrace, instead, you find yourself wrapped in a familiar pair of arms, still clinging to an almost catatonic Kasandra while your coworker grips the forearm wrapped around the three of you.
“I’ve got you,” a voice in your ear says, and you can feel the tears begin to well once more, though, this time out of relief. Mark is quick to shoot from the rubble, hold unwavering before he sets the three of you down and urges you to run to safety.
Your two coworkers are quick to flee, but you stupidly linger, worry etched onto your features at the sight of Mark’s beaten face and tattered suit. In the distance, you can see Eve facing valiantly against a variant, the odd cloth mask adorned on his face his most defining trait. She pants, her palms facing outward to just barely raise a shield against his erratic punches.
Mark pulls your attention back to him, face pinched as his thumb traces your lower lip in an attempt to ground both you and himself. His lips are soft against your forehead for a brief moment before he pulls back, staring at you through his cracked goggles with an emotion you can’t quite place.
“I love you,” you whisper, stroking his bruised cheek softly.
“I love you too. But, you need to go. Now. I’ll check on you soon, promise.”
So, you run as fast as your legs can carry you, doing your best to ignore the ruins and corpses that seem to block every turn.
You don’t get far.
A shadow overhead blocks the sun—its presence so oppressive and commandeering that it freezes you in place.
“Another survivor?”
You can’t bring yourself to turn despite the way your heart lurches at the familiarity of the voice. Your breath hitches when the shadow lowers—whatever twisted version of Mark this is drawing ever closer like a lion to its prey.
“I thought those other two were the last of them, but what’s one more?” The voice is cold, almost clinical, very unlike the warmth that radiated off of your Mark. A glove is quick to find purchase on your throat, and you glance down to see the red rubber shining beneath the sun.
Blood coats the hand, tinting the glove an even darker shade of red than what you’d first surmised. You try not to think about the warmth of it as his grip grows tighter, making it harder to breathe, but not enough to kill, like he’s messing with you in some cruel, twisted way.
“You’re this dimension’s girlfriend, aren’t you?” His lips press against the shell of your ear, jerking your body to face the fight between Mark and the clothed one from before alongside Eve, who reaches out to you weakly before eventually crashing against the side of one of the buildings. Your Mark wheezes, clutching at his chest when the cloth-masked variant throws him into a nearby building by the hair. “Pathetic.”
The sound barrier tears as another Mark enters the fray, his mohawk wild and unkempt in the wind as he grins at the sight of battle, though there’s no amusement behind his smile. “Who the hell do you think you are running off like that?” For a moment, his wild eyes slip to where you and your captor reside, a flicker of…something flashing through his before it fizzles away. “Keeping hostages alive? Didn’t peg you for the cruel type.”
You barely register the click of the Invincible’s tongue over the roaring beat of your heart, his thumb remaining stationary over your pulse point; a warning. He could snap your neck at any given moment, and you don’t know what’s stopping him, but you’re grateful for whatever’s causing him to hesitate.
“Come on, just put her out of her misery already,” the mohawked Mark goads with a small shrug as he pulls his fist back to punch your Mark into the concrete when the cloth-masked variant throws him in his direction. Cracks split beneath your feet at the sheer force, the ground almost giving way, but all you can do is watch as your Mark slowly gets up from the crater his body had formed.
He locks eyes with you, something snapping inside of him at the sight of the variant clad in a suit nearly identical to Omni-Man’s wrapping his hand around your throat.
“[Name]!” He calls out, bursting free from the grasp of the two other Marks with a renewed sense of vigor.
Time seems to freeze the moment your name leaves his bloodied lips, the Mark holding you hostage too stunned to react when your Mark’s fist collides with his jaw hard enough to send him three blocks away. It isn’t long until you’re swept into Mark’s arms, the hold both protective and possessive as he glares at the other two, his chest heaving with each labored breath he struggles to take.
“No fuckin’ way.” The mohawked variant blinks slowly, his lips pulling into a mix of a grimace and a smirk. “That’s unfair on so many levels.” He turns to the Mark in a cloth mask who seems to share the same sentiment, mumbling under his breath about how unfair it is that this version of him gets the hot babe.
Omni-Man Mark merely scoffs when he floats back, his suit still pristine as though he’d never been thrown at all while he crosses his arms over his chest, scrutinizing the way you tremble in this version of him’s hold. You aren’t the best friend he’d killed mercilessly back in his dimension. Here, you were a woman—his woman. And he’d be damned if he couldn’t kill two birds with one stone.
A best friend and a wife. Who would’ve thought?
While he’d never seen the other, male, version of you in a romantic light, his heart stirs at the thought of taking this version of you for himself. It’s not like it’ll take much to kill this Mark; he’s already as good as dead anyway—
“Is everything alright here?” Clad in white and silver, yet another version of Mark descends from the sky like some sort of disgraced angel.
“Ugh, why are you here?” Mohawk Mark rolls his eyes obnoxiously, his gaze only briefly flickering to the new variant.
“Angstrom sent me to see if you all were sticking to the plan, which clearly you aren’t.”
“Aww, the lil’Viltrum baby can’t do anything without a mission? How sad!” He bats his lashes dramatically before sneering. “What are you gonna do next, bark? Who gives a shit about the plan? You’re acting as if you weren’t gonna kill him after anyway!”
The Mark in the Viltrum uniform chooses not to dignify him with a response.
Unbothered by his counterpart’s nonchalance, the mohawked Mark sets his sights back on you, spreading his arms wide as if to welcome you in with a hug. “Hey, [Name], it’s just me. Just Mark. Your best friend, remember? We used to play CoD and shit when your parents were out.”
Viltrum Mark’s brows furrow at the familiar name, steady gaze finally paying you mind as you try to sink further into the Mark of this dimension’s arms. You’re a lot…softer than he recalls you being, your form far less filled out; almost feminine. But, that couldn’t be right, right? How cruel would it be for this version of him to have the perfect mate whilst he, while grateful for your prior companionship, was stuck with nothing more than a best friend? One that he’d ultimately killed for resisting.
Surely, his brain is playing tricks on him.
Then he hears it—they all hear it.
The small terrified whimper you let out, the sound almost heavenly as you try to curl into Mark like your life depends on it. Which you suppose it does at this very moment.
A collective groan settles across all the present variations of Mark, all differing levels of arousal. They can practically taste the fear emanating off of you, stalking closer like a pack of deranged wolves.
Disgust pulls at Mark’s lips at the look in their eyes, his arms trembling around you as the last line of defense between you and these monstrous versions of him. “What the hell are you guys on about?” He seethes, only to be met by a suffocating silence.
Viltrum Mark appears in front of you before you and Mark can process his presence, tearing you out of your boyfriend’s arms despite your screaming protests. His grip is firm, but it’s the underlying softness in it that has you trembling with both fear and confusion. One of his hands finds your chin, stroking the contour of your jaw while his thumb gently presses down on your lower lip in a similar fashion that your Mark had done earlier.
“You’re [Name].” His face twists with perplexion as he speaks. “But, you’re so soft.” You feel his other hand fall from your arm, settling on your hip as if to prove a point. He squeezes and prods the fat, slipping beneath the fabric of your shirt to feel the soft skin underneath, his fingers splaying against your stomach while his nose buries itself in your neck. “You’d be a great mother.”
No.
No.
No.
This can’t be happening—
You’re pulled into another set of arms. These ones leaner yet more possessive than the Viltrum Mark’s. But not yours.
“Jesus what the fuck is wrong with you.” Mohawk Mark’s voice rasps mockingly above you, his arm curling around you and dangerously close to your breasts. You know he feels your heart stop, snorting cruelly as he pulls you flush against him. His gloved hand tilts your chin up to him cruelly, relishing in the way tears well in your eyes.
“P-Please…” You weakly claw at his wrist despite knowing how useless it is in comparison to his innate strength.
Holy fuck, he could get used to the sound of that.
Man, why couldn’t you be a girl in his world too? Oh, the things he would do to you. How he would ruin you. He wonders if you’re similar to his [Name], the [Name] who trusted him to do the right thing only to die trying to stop what’s already been done. Do you play the same sport as your male counterpart? Enjoy the same food? Ah, whatever, you’re still his, no matter his relation to you. Best friend or otherwise.
“Get away from her you fucking freak!” Your Mark’s garbled voice reaches your ears, his fist colliding with the side of the mohawked variant’s head, sending him careening into the white-clad Viltrumite. Mark doesn’t even get the chance to look over you before he shoots into the air with you in his hold, tucking your head into his shoulder as he whispers calming words into the crown of your head. “I’ve got you, baby,” he echoes his prior sentiment, flying as fast as he can with the cloth-mask and Omni-Man wannabe hot on his tail.
A familiar red glove catches Mark’s leg, snapping it easily. Mark screams, his teeth grinding as he pivots his other leg directly into the variant’s face, no doubt breaking his nose before he crashes into the cloth-masked Mark, who yells obscenities as the two of them crash into the city below.
Finally, silence settles between the two of you. Heavy with confusion. Heavy with fear.
“What the hell was that…” You cling to him, trembling like a newborn fawn in his hold.
“I—I don’t know.” He buries his nose in your neck as he lowers into a desolate field miles away from any civilization, breathing in your comforting scent beneath the smell of iron and ash that seem to cling to your skin while he settles against a tree. The field is peaceful; untouched by the destruction that plagues the rest of the world.
“...What about Eve and the others?” You hesitate, palms hovering over his broken leg to do your best to put the limb back together. The bone melds back together grotesquely, it's disgusting snap a sound you think you’ll never get used to.
“Eve slipped away before things got ugly. I’m not too sure about the others…” He lets out a low hiss, his fingers digging into the ground when his skin gets pulled tautly back into place. “I’m just glad you’re okay. I won’t let them get to you, not as long as I’m still breathing, alright?”
“Okay,” you breathe out, collapsing into his chest as you try not to think about everything you’ve lost in such a short amount of time. He kisses your forehead gently, leaning back against the tree for only a moment of respite.
“Aww, what a cute sight.” A patronizing voice overhead has both of you snapping your heads to the sound. Clad in yellow and black with a billowing cape behind him, this version of Mark sneers, his gaze looking between you and Mark. His brows raise beneath his mask, lips forming something akin to a sadistic grin. “Well, well, well. You’re looking a bit different here, aren’t you, [Name]?”
in which, MARK GRAYSON gets hit with an aphrodisiac and runs to the only person on his mind; you.
‧₊˚✩彡
includes: mark grayson x bestfriend!reader, fem!reader, mature content (17+), tension, lowkey situationship w/ best friend labels, pwp, piv, dry humping, premature ejaculation, cumming in boxers (markus u loser lmfao), unprotected sex, dirty-talk, obsessive behavior, breeding kink, aphrodisiac, cream-pie, 4.7k words.
‧₊˚✩彡
kinktober masterlist.
YOUR PHONE was vibrating; again. harsh, singular notes echoing and buzzing through your room, stealing you from the comfort and ignorance provided by sleep. worming its way through your thick comforters, the ring-tone frayed dangerously on your last strings of patience-- finally defeating you as you sighed, deeply, reaching for your cell-phone. the only person contacting you at such an ungodly hour would be your best friend; his texts scurrying off against the digital fibres of your screen frantically, as if he was word vomiting with his finger-tips.
blinking regretfully at your screen, the harsh lighting from your phone was blinding in contrast to the familiar darkness of your room; mark's name dashed across your screen and you think vaguely, i should have never let this man's notifications by-pass do not disturb.
a series of texts, spanning just under an hour, glow tauntingly against the shadows of your face.
---
'hi i am coming back rn' - 12:56 am
'dude i hate space some weird alien thing like... spat in my face bro' - 12:58 am
'i tjink it thought i was being rude when i looked disgusted but tbf who DOES THAT?? who spits in a strangers face' - 12:58 am
'cs that dude did it AGAIN like sorry i am not familair w ur customs ya dick' - 12:59 am
'anyways i thinkn im fine im grossed out sure but i feel fine so wtv' - 1:01 am
'my finger tips r tingly......... like weirdly tingly..................' - 1:27 am
'ok so a little bit more of me is tingly now. not a fan, would not recommend.' - 1:36 am
'i feel so weird can i come over ik ur prolly asleep bu t ur bed is better than mine n i think i js need to sleep this off' - 1:40 am
'u can say no tho duh' - 1:40 am
'i take that back, sorry. you cant say no.' - 1:42 am
'im coming.' - 1:44 am
'fuck' - 1:45 am
---
another sigh ripped itself from your lungs, and your phone met the plush of a pillow as you discarded it haphazardly from your grip. mark could be a stubborn boy sometimes, eager in his actions-- often doing before thinking. rolling onto your side to get what little rest you'd acquire for the rest of the night (you and mark had never truly been able to sleep whenever someone hosted a sleep-over; giggling wildly into the lazy hours of the night, time slipped through your fingers like sand with him. easily, and as natural as remembering to breathe); a thought wiggled its way into the depths of your mind, and you smiled ever so slightly as your eyelids grew heavy.
you were sure this was just another time where mark was acting before thinking.
✩✩✩
the act of subtlety had never been mark's strong suit-- a fact you were sorely reminded of as the sound of your window being slid open screeched throughout your bedroom. the noise was jarring, loud; as if the inanimate object itself was yelling, mark is here!
gripping your window-sill with an odd sort of clumsiness and disorganization, mark crawled through your window heavily. it creaked underneath your best friend's weight, wood splintering softly in his wake-- as if this was some sort of unpracticed affair; the bulkiness of it all caused one of your eyebrows to quirk upwards as you sat up in your bed. "mark?" you questioned, rubbing your fist to your sleep-rimmed eyes in an attempt to shoo away exhaustion.
mark swallowed; he stood silently for a moment, his labored breathing the only sound reverberating through your bedroom, before he ran a hand through his hair.
(a nervous tick he had adopted from his father; odd.)
"hey," he said hoarsely, your name following the greeting lightly. the way he sounded, the way he recited your name-- it was almost as if he wanted to say more. like there was more on his mind he was unable to utter; because his mouth clamped shut into a thin line.
"are.. you hurt?" you asked eventually, because good lord, why was mark acting so odd? "you said your finger-tips were ... uh, tingly. and then you followed with the rest of you was feeling tingly too..." your voice trailed off, your unnecessary rambling a cheap effort at lightening the mood.
the boy shook his head, before peeling off his costume's cowl. "no--! no, not hurt," he reassured, faint traces of the mark you knew bleeding through the intense air of the room. "sorry." mark apologized meekly. his dimples popped ever so slightly as you watched him chew on his bottom lip-- the fat going practically raw and bloody underneath the inhumanely sharp canines mark housed.
one of your arms reached side-ways to flick on your bed-side lamp, soft yellows and oranges illuminating your bedroom. when the light reached your best friend, your eyebrows furrowed. mark's cheeks were flushed a romantic shade of red, and his brow-bone glistened underneath a sheen layer of sweat; black locks clung to his forehead, and, had you have been able to see it-- his pupils would have been blown unnaturally large. "mark," you rasped out, motioning for him to come closer, "what's wrong?"
the tips of mark's ears now started to burn the same shade as the rest of his face, his pulse spiking as he slowly approached you. your carpet crunched softly underneath the weight of his boots, and mark took post near the end of your bed. sitting, he rested his elbows on his knees, and held his pretty little head in his hands. "i.. uh, i don't know-- nothing's wrong."
"you don't look like nothing is wrong." you commented, your patience for the boy running thin as he dodged your question again.
there was silence in your room for what felt like an eternity; you stared expectantly at your best friend, and he bore holes into your wall as he stared straight ahead-- still, avoiding your question.
he sighed, suddenly, before mark's hands met the neck-line of his hero costume. using little to no strength, you watched him rip the fabric, tearing it down the center of his abdomen. the tear stopped right at his belly-button, and he began to shrug off the uniform hastily. between the ruffling of your bedsheets at his movement and the sound of fabric being torn from his body (mark was so dramatic), you had almost missed the words that fell so plainly from his lips.
almost.
"it hurts." mark had mumbled simply.
your head tilted, eyes squinting. despite having heard him perfectly fine the first time, you still questioned the meaning behind his words. "what?" you gaped, your irises tracing the faint flex of his biceps as he peeled his arms from the sleeves of his hero costume. "what hurts? i thought you said you weren't injured--"
mark cut you off, his voice uncharacteristically rasp. desperation. "i'm not injured," he countered, as if that explained everything-- why he had been so eager all of a sudden to show up to your house.
"you're really fuckin' confusing me right now, mark," you sighed, dragging your hands up and down your face. "how can--"
mark cut you off again; except, this time, it was not with words. he stood from your bed, turning to face you. taking barely two strides had left him only a few feet away from your figure; he exhaled shakily, before gesturing downwards, "it hurts."
eyes following his motion, you felt suddenly stupid for not spotting the terribly large boner mark was sporting. in his defense-- even from overtop the sturdy fabric of his costume, it looked painful. resting along his lower stomach, you watched it pulse and jump, seemingly defiant of mark. "oh." you squeaked out, feeling something bloom desperately within your core.
"i-i can go," mark offered, stuttering nervously. "i just-- it went from like, zero to a hundred so fast--! one second i was fine, the next i was tingly, and then..." his voice trailed off, and hot burning shame crawled up the back of mark's neck. "i didn't know what to do. you- you were the only thing on my mind, suddenly and--" mark cut himself off, shutting his mouth into a thin line. the next time he spoke, it barely came out as a whisper. "i don't mean to make you uncomfortable, i know we're just friends," he mumbled sweetly, "but... if you aren't completely and utterly repulsed by me at this point, then i'd really.. uh, appreciate your help."
his confession, along with the compassion that oozed from his soul-- despite the less than ideal situation he caught himself in-- caused something to flutter to life within your ribs. it practically knocked the wind from your lungs, and the ambition (greed, hunger, restlessness) in your voice had even caught you off guard. "i can help you." the sensation of your panties dampening and clinging to the outline of your cunt unmistakable-- eyes darting down to his erection, your clit pulsed. "that's what.. best friends are for anyways, right?"
at your enthusiasm, mark seemed to flush an even deeper shade of pink— his tongue darting out to wet the plump of his lips. “are- are you sure?” he questioned, fingers playing the rip in his costume. “i kinda jus’ showed up without… asking if it was okay, you don’t have to feel obligated to help me if you don’t want to,”
“mark.” you broke his rambling quietly, swinging your legs out from underneath your comforter; the cool air that circulated your bedroom raising goosebumps along the fat of your newly exposed thighs.
the boy whispered your name back, an echo of his deepest, most riveting emotions terribly clear in his voice.
“i told you,” you started, curling a finger towards him to motion him closer to you— like expected, (like a good boy), mark obeyed wordlessly. “this is what best friends are for.”
your desire to aid mark certainly— was not out of the blue.
the both of you had been inseparable since early childhood; your bond growing suffocatingly strong day by day. wherever you went, mark followed blindly under the guise of friendship; but you both knew it was something stronger. something always there, lurking underneath the mask of comfortable touches, lingering glances, and joint souls. a singular night, years ago, you and mark had been fourteen; underneath the expanse of washington’s starry sky, your lips had slotted against his in a blind fury of affection. wrapped up in teenage innocence, mark had kissed you back with the same intensity, like he’d never get the chance again. despite this, you and him agreed to remain friends; the fear of change, fear of losing this friendship outweighing the complicated, uncharted waters of love.
the refusal, however, to make anything official didn’t stop your feelings from intensifying tenfold upon your later teenage years— mark’s, too, undying. instead, they bloomed into palms that groped far more than best friends should, and petty arguments that— instead of ending in a fit of giggles— ceased with his lips crashing ceremoniously onto yours.
nevertheless, you were now facing a line the both of you had not crossed before. as mark stood in front of you, his fingers fiddling with the rip of his hero costume, there was uncertainty and blurred lines. sweat beaded at his temples, and you could tell his self-restraint was wearing thin. mostly, though, through the uncharted fogs of intimacy-- there was lust.
"sit." you whispered, patting the bed beside you. mark did as you told, swallowing thickly. the heat radiating from his body was nothing like you had felt before-- as warm as mark usually ran, this was something entirely different. you leaned towards the boy, tilting your head slightly, to begin pressing kisses to his neck.
mark's breath caught, and his chest stuttered. there was a thick, heady need slowly blooming from his core-- and your touches, as light and teasing and beginning as they were-- were not enough. despite this, his chin moved upwards, allowing you better access to the skin on his throat. mark said your name; it was low, like a warning. "you're being so sweet," he groaned lightly.
you smiled against his pulse-point, before sucking on the flushed skin. "you say that like it's a bad thing."
"normally, it's not," mark shivered. "but i- i'm not normal right now."
that got your attention-- peeling yourself from his neck, your lips were plump and lazily coated in your saliva from your kisses. "what do you mean?"
"i told you," mark glanced down at his hands in his lap, which were busy slowly grazing the edges of the outline of his cock. "that stupid alien thing got it- it's powder all over me."
"so?" you questioned, not understanding how the two things connected.
mark flushed impossibly deeper, and you really looked at him.
he was panting, chest heaving up and down. his fingers kept twitching against his throbbing dick, and-- well, he was a mere two seconds away from drooling on you. "...you think the alien thing was an aphrodisiac?"
shamefully, mark nodded-- answering your question. "i-i've never been this hard in my life!" he exasperated, thumbs dipping into the fabric of his ripped costume, the need to yank it lower becoming all-consuming.
leaning forward again, your lips ghosted mark's jaw with ease. "okay," you whispered, vibrations sending shivers down your best friend's spine, "how do you want me to help you if i'm not allowed to be sweet?"
the sound of fabric ripping echoed through-out your bedroom again, and glancing downwards, what remained of mark's costume was dangling lifelessly from his knees. "i want," mark started, voice wavering, "i want you to let me use you."
"use me?"
mark nodded. taking advantage of your position so close to him, you felt a sturdy palm grasp the side of your face; he tilted your head, big brown irises meeting your own. "this isn't what i envisioned for our first time," the boy confessed, his breath fanning across your lips erotically. "i wanted to take my time with you."
your stomach flipped and swirled at his confession, arousal pooling thickly within your cunt. "you've thought about fucking me before?" you question; despite knowing the answer is yes (only because you cannot count the times you've fucked yourself to sleep to the thought of mark-- painfully aware the feeling is mutual), you want to hear him say it.
"no-- i've thought about making love to you," mark hums, eyelashes fluttering against your cheek due to proximity. "it feels almost.. uh, disappointing i'm not going to be doing that to you right now."
mark stood, suddenly, kicking off the remainder of his costume and discarding it aimlessly on your bedroom floor. hovering over you, he leaned forward, pressing you onto your back on the mattress.
your faces came tantalizingly close again, only now mark was lingering a few inches above you. "i don't think this will be disappointing," you express, bottom lip getting caught in between your teeth as you watch mark lick his own slooowly.
"it won't," he confirms, closing the gap between the both of you. your lips touch and the contact almost feels electric-- charged with anticipation and carnality. "and i'll make it up to you another time if it is." he mutters in between kisses, lips heavy and greedy as his mouth slots against yours. "i just-- i need you so bad, baby."
you hum, too wrapped up in the feeling of his lips on yours to pull away and speak. you toss your arms around his neck, pulling mark impossibly closer to you, and you feel him grind against your clothed pussy.
he moans whorishly at the action; every bump, every ridge, every vein of his cock more sensitive than he's ever felt in his life. the sound bleeds into your mouth, and you take the chance to stick your tongue straight down his throat. mark's hands take post on either side of your head, and he leans onto his forearms to steady himself above you-- his hips unrelenting in their movements against yours.
back and forth, over and over and over again.
the only thing separating the both of you now is mark's boxers (an embarrassingly large and crude wet spot forming where the tip of his dick rests) and your pajama shorts and panties. unhappy with this, your counter-part sticks a hand down your shorts to peel them off of your legs-- pausing his rutting until the shorts are off your frame, only to continue with a renewed hunger against your panties. "fuck," mark curses.
it's odd, hearing your best-friend curse; no, scratch that-- it's arousing hearing mark grayson curse. the swear falls from his lips, born out of impetuosity. the sound shoots straight to your pussy, and you can't help but moan.
in return, you hear mark gasp; your own sound spurring an entirely different version of the boy you love to life. he continues to hump, grind, and fuck you over-top your undergarments-- his swollen tip caressing your clit deliciously with every thrusts of his hips.
the both of you aren't even kissing anymore-- just breathing heavily, too entranced in the ecstasy of dry-humping to care about being close to each other in any other way.
"o-oh fuck," mark stutters suddenly, face falling immediately into the crook of your neck.
your eyebrows knit together momentarily, before you feel mark's entire body go rigid. "are you--?"
he nods, and a moan rips itself from his throat, almost as confirmation to what you suspected. it isn't long before the damp spot on his boxers becomes soaked-- his cum seeping through at an alarming rate. it falls in globs onto your panties, and in any other situation-- you'd be laughing.
but a good fifteen seconds have passed and-- mark is still cumming. his cock twitches underneath his underwear and he still, impossibly so, is leaking like a faucet. the worst part of it though, you realize, is that his dick is still painfully hard-- mark's orgasm having little to no aid on his arousal.
when he finally peels himself from the privacy of your neck, watery brown eyes meet yours. he opens his mouth, and you think the boy is going to apologize-- because that is a very mark grayson thing to do-- but all he asks is: "can you take me without prep?"
having caught you off-guard, you falter momentarily.
mark swallows, sucks his teeth, and then speaks again-- not waiting for you to answer his proposed question. "actually, i don't really care," he muses, his palms going to rest on your waist, "you will."
"mark--" you begin, watching him shrug off his ruined boxers easily. they fall to the floor, and you feel panic wash over you; to say mark is well-endowed would be an understatement. his cock glistens underneath the lighting from your bed-side lamp, and no amount of ambient lighting makes it look any less daunting than it is. it's not the width that's the issue-- it's the length. "holy shit, no--! i'll need something--" you try.
mark cuts you off by flipping you onto your side and pushing you further onto the bed. crawling to you, he settles in between your legs, straddling one of your thighs. the other he's got hoisted up on his shoulder by your ankle. "shh," he hushes, pressing a chaste kiss to your calf by turning his head, before using a finger to hook into your panties and pull them to the side. mark hisses, watching your cunt practically sparkle with slick. "look at how wet you are-- it'll be good, m'promise," he hums, aligning himself with your entrance.
the burn of his cock stretching you out follows not too long after his reassurances-- pain erupting from your cunt in a delightful way. mark falters, and you can see some of the boy you love resurface in this pussy-drunk, aphrodisiac infected version of mark grayson. "i know, i'm sorry," he coos. it's useless though-- as mark continues to push into you, inch by inch. "it'll feel good soon, baby, just-- haah-- let me get it in all the way."
when he bottoms out, it almost feels like mark is in your lungs. he's deeper than you thought was possible, and the way his face scrunches up suggests that he, too, feels euphoric.
without warning, his hips start to move-- his cock gliding in and out of your weeping cunt with ease. you cry out, your own hips rocking to both somehow meet his pace and thrash away from it. "ooh shit mark," you gasp, head lolling to the side.
mark only huffs in response, continuing to rock in and out of you desperately. "god-- needed this pussy s'bad," he groaned, tilting his head again to connect with your lower leg. you feel his lips begin to litter open-mouthed kisses to your ankle, the tip of his cock nudging your g-spot repeatedly.
there isn't much you can do back, in such a crude position, but you try to match your best friend's pace regardless. without thought, you shove a hand underneath your tank-top-- fingers instantly connecting to your stiffened nipples to roll them back and forth. the added stimulation has your back arching, and mark moans at the sight.
"that's right," he encourages between breathy moans, hips bucking wildly against your body-- the sound of your thigh meeting his v-line creating obscene noises that reverberate through your bedroom. "feels s'good, doesn't it? g-god, you're all i've been t-thinking about since that stupid shit got into my s-system," mark whines, bottoming out inside you once again, only to push his hips deeper-- grinding and reaching places inside your pussy you didn't even know existed. "like, all at once; it was just you: your face, y-your scent, your-- fuck!-- your perfect tits n' cunt,"
mark's mindless babbling only causes your pussy to clench around his fat cock harder-- squelching and pulsating pornographically. "y-yeah?" you manage to ask, eyes rolling into the back of your skull as he begins to thrust again.
"yeah." mark confirms this with zero hesitation, sweat beginning to drip down his brow-bone and onto the bridge of his nose as he fucks you deeper. "all i could think about while fuckin' cecil was rambling on and on about shit i- i don't even care about," he groaned, head tilting backwards in pure bliss. "'c'mon invincible, didn't you get the reports on the possible foreign allyship colony in-- no, you old fuck, i don't care about that--!" mark's mockery of his boss causes you to laugh-- although it's cut short when the boy impales you on his dick again. "in fact, the only thing i-i've cared about in the past--ohh-- hour is filling my best friend up with my cum."
that causes your eyes to shoot open, and you can't conceal your shock. "w-what?" you sputter, although the way your cunt strangles mark's cock is evidence that you're not as opposed to that idea as you may seem.
"i- i can't help it, i need it," mark whines, his dick throbbing against your walls. "needed you to be wrapped around my cock, n' you let me have that," he begins, "n' now i need to stuff this pretty pussy with my cum so you'll be leakin' me for days." every thrust of his hips now is pointed-- purposeful.
your jaw goes slack, and against your better judgement, you don't argue with him; in fact, you're nodding wordlessly along to his chatter, cunt aching now with the need to be filled. your moans fill your room harmoniously with mark's.
"shiiit," mark groans, brows furrowing, before suddenly pulling out of you. you whine at the loss of him, immediately missing being full, before you feel the boy yank you towards the head of your bed. naturally, you roll onto your back from your side.
mark grabs the leg of yours he had been straddling, bringing it to his second shoulder so now both of your legs dangle near his head. leaning forward, he grasps onto your bed-frame, while aligning himself up with you again.
your back arches violently off of the pillows as mark fucks into you again, this time, not giving you time to adjust to his size. "fuck," he curses, eyes rolling into the back of his skull, "i d-don't know how i didn't immediately bend you over the second i got into your room-- shiit--! i needed this so bad,"
"too busy being nice." you groan softly, and through squinted eyes, you can see the corner of mark's lips tilt upwards.
his grip tightens on your headboard, knuckles going white at the intensity in which he's grasped onto it with. "fuuuck, it doesn't matter now, though, huh?" you shake your head, moaning desperately, and mark grins. "that's right, pretty girl, it- it doesn't. all it means is-- is that i've gotta' make up for lost time."
thrust after thrust, you suddenly feel a hot coil in your stomach begin to form. "mark," you gasp out, fingers tangling themselves in the sheets of your bed as your orgasm approaches quickly.
"oh," mark cries out, terribly in tune with your body as his own hips begin to twitch-- the loss of rhythm in his thrusts apparent as he chases his own high. "wan' you to cum all over this cock, baby," he whispers, fingers digging into your headboard. "and- and i'm going to-- haaah-- fill this cunt up with my cum, breed this sweet fuckin' pussy,"
at his words, and the idea of being filled to the brim with your best friend flooding your mind-- your cunt begins to spasm uncontrollably. "i- i'm cumming," you sob, back arching and hips twisting away (unsuccessfully) from mark's incessant thrusting.
"ooh, fuck--! yes, yesyesyes, cum all over me, that's r-right sweetheart, shit," mark follows suit not long after-- his cock pulsing and spilling his seed into your pussy at an alarming rate. he's groaning, swearing, gasping at the sensation of your cunt greedily sucking up his cum, and he rides out his high by fucking it deeper into you. "fuck-- can't waste any of this cum, right? if- if you wanna be bred, you have to take all of it," mark rambles, hips rocking into yours.
your legs tingle from where they rest on mark's shoulders-- the sensation almost enough to distract you from the heavy weight that still rests snuggly in your cunt.
almost.
through thick lashes, you glance downwards at where you and mark are still connected; although he's catching his breath, you feel mark's cock twitch to life within you again. "mark," you warn hoarsely, voice destroyed from being fucked.
mark swallows, a guilty sort of look painted across his expression. "m'sorry," he apologizes, before he retracts his cock from your cunt-- only to slam it back into you again.
you gasp at the action, toes curling and hips thrashing. "i- i can't--" you try, but mark interrupts you.
"i know," he coos, still thrusting in and out of you now, his pace quickening rapidly. "but- but i jus' need to cum again," mark argues, face scrunching at the sensation of your pussy gripping onto him-- your body's way of saying you need him to stay inside of you without words. "just one more time, okay? m-make sure-- oh fuck-- make sure this cunt is stuffed to the brim."
you nod wordlessly, chin tilting backwards as delirium washes over your body-- far too cock-drunk to tell mark you know he's lying; to tell him you know he won't be able to stop cumming inside of you, spilling into your most sacred part, bind himself to you. to tell him you know the aphrodisiac won't wear off for another few hours, that this is far better than him taking it slow with you, that you wouldn't want to be anywhere but underneath him for the rest of your life.
all you say, instead, is through gritted teeth-- as he bottoms out again, harshly, punishing your g-spot. "t-that's okay," you slur, nails dragging down mark's lower stomach, "this is what best friends are for."
PLUVOiA 25’ ® - masterlist
loren's thots: this was more plot than porn im sorry </3 it lowk feels too intimate for kinktober too like damn...... idk i think some of the appeal is the tension between reader and mark but idk u tell me. in any case i hv other mark works if this one doesnt tickle ur fancy, but i hope it does!! it tickles mine tho i lowk need this man to knock me tf up!
Summary: You and Ryland are both given the amnesia serum so the primary crew has scientists on the Hail Mary. When you wake up 12 light years from Earth, neither of you remembers anything except for an unsettling dislike for the other person. An interaction with alien life has Ryland infected with a disease neither of you have seen before. What are you going to do?
Word Count: 11.8K
Warnings: NSFW content (18+ ONLY PLEASE), a little bit of male masturbation, p in v, unprotected sex (DON'T DO THIS. WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT.), sex pollen/fuck or die, swearing, primal urges/slight predator prey vibes, breeding kink, praise kink, a little overstimulation, slight voyeurism(I mean they're on a ship with an alien so...), virgin!Reader, amnesia, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, forced proximity, SPOILERS FOR THE BOOK(this covers a wide span of time, so I would say if you haven't read to basically the end, be cautious!), let me know if I missed anything!
A/N: Please only interact if you are 18+! Blank/empty blogs and blogs with no ages will be blocked! Just because I wrote this does not mean I will write more smut, this is just an itch my brain needed to write!
A/N: Hello again my darlings! Here is the FINAL fic for the [mini] Big Bang event with my bestie @bluebellhairpin! This one has been sitting in my drafts for MONTHS and this was the perfect time to bring it out of hiding... Uh, so please enjoy? I have never written anything like this and probably won't again LOL - Birch<3
Love Confessions Event Masterlist
Please proceed with caution!!! NSFW AND SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT!!!
You had never wanted to be a part of the crew.
You were a scientist. That was it. A scientist with a strong foundation in molecular biology and genetic engineering. That was your contribution to Project Hail Mary.
Ryland had never wanted to be a part of the crew.
He was a teacher. That was it. A teacher, formerly a scientist, with a strong foundation in molecular biology and astrophysics. That was his contribution to Project Hail Mary.
Neither of you had wanted to be a part of the crew. But you were.
You both had woken up 12 light years from Earth with no recollection of who you were, where you were, or what you were supposed to be doing. Ryland had woken up first - a mere 20 minutes before you.
Immediately, you had disliked him. Something about his presence just... didn't sit right with you. Maybe it was because he had the same realizations you did. An overlap in interests when it was pretty obvious the crew was specifically picked for everyone's greatest strengths.
And for some reason, you shared strengths with Ryland. Were you not good enough to send alone? They had to send a second scientist with? Who, by the way, got his memories back a lot fast than you did.
He was always one step ahead. One game level above you. All the time. It was really freaking annoying.
So as time slips by and the two of you gain back the essential memories for the mission, gain an alien friend, and set out for the planet Adrian, you are left with a strong dislike for the blonde-haired scientist.
- - -
And rightfully so. Adrian went to shit.
Rocky almost died.
Ryland almost died.
You almost died.
Yes, the three of you got the sampler back up and into the ship - but at what cost?
"I don't think you should be the one to open the sampler," you argue as you follow as closely as you can on Ryland's heels. In the accident, you had gotten slightly crushed by loose material in the dormitory and had suffered a leg injury. Nothing that the robot arms couldn't wrap up.
To you, Ryland's arm injury was the worse of the two wounds, and, because it was on his arm, he shouldn't be the one lifting and opening the sample from Adrian's atmosphere.
Ryland ignores you as he shuffles across the lab. "I told you, I will open it," he says a little gruffly as he sets the sampler down. A moment later, he gathers the contraption Rocky had made so that either of you could get a sample onto a microscope slide.
Rocky is still recovering, and he hovers above the two of you in one of his tunnels. His carapace is lowered, and his legs are folded underneath him to support his weight. The ship is only at 0.5Gs. It's less strenuous on everyone that way.
Tension fills the air. All three of you know it.
Not only is there the spat between you and the other scientist - the savior for both Earth and Erid could lie in Ryland's hands.
Everyone wants to know if there is a predator for Astrophage in that sample. Everyone is scared that there might not be. Then what? Then what happens?
No one wants to think about it, no one wants to say anything about it. So tensions rise, and the air of the ship seems to grow warmer as you and Ryland bicker back and forth over it.
"I've got it," he snaps back, setting the sampler down on the lab table in front of the two of you. You go to open your mouth to retort, but Rocky's voice chimes in quietly, unsure. "Why fight, question? Open sampler. Save Earth, save Erid. No need fight. Work together."
Your (colored) gaze snaps up to look at Rocky's tense form. Ryland stares down at the sampler on the lab table. Neither of you says anything. Rocky was right. There was no need to fight. Now, more than ever, you needed to be on the same team.
Swallowing your pride, you take a wobbly step back and spin on your heel. There's a round stool mounted to the floor a few paces away, and you quietly make your way over there with slightly jolted movements.
You sit and watch Ryland work. It's silent in the lab, other than the noises of the tools and gases releasing in the contraptions Ryland works with. After a few quiet minutes, you look away and over to another part of the lab, lost in thought.
It's when you unknowingly look away that Ryland messes up. It's not on purpose or anything drastic. His hands are decorated with blue latex gloves, like always. But, as he reaches to get the sample slide, his bare wrist accidentally touches part of the sampler.
Unknowingly, his skin comes into contact with the life forms from Adrian. Nothing immediately happens, there's no burn, or anything like that. It happens and the moment passes. He's waiting for you to say something about his technique being off, but it doesn't come.
Because when Ryland glances over at you, you aren't even paying attention to him anymore. You're lost deep in thought, and Ryland doesn't feel like engaging in conversation when he's got important things to look at.
Like seeing if there's life on this slide.
Ryland moves over to one of the several microscopes fastened to the lab's tables. With a deep breath, he mumbles, "Here we go," and looks down through the optics. He's quiet for a while as he focuses the scope, using the fine adjustment wheels to find the correct depth of field.
It's then his heart stops and his breathing stills.
Rocky senses the change and asks, "Grace, question?" Your attention is immediately grabbed, then, and your eyes snap over to look at Ryland's frozen form.
"There's life!"
That single exclamation leads to a wild next couple of hours.
You and Ryland both start designing experiments to figure out how best to isolate the Taumoeba. For once, the two of you work together quite well making and brainstorming protocols and equipment needed. Rocky, of course, is a huge help.
But you're starting to slow down, and Rocky knows it. "L/n, how long since last sleep, question?" He asks with a tilt of his carapace. Ryland is full steam ahead like he's gotten a second wind. You can't blame him. The prospect of actually saving billions of life forms both back on Earth and on Erid makes you want to push through, too.
Your injury has slowed you down, though. Walking on a wounded leg has made you expend more energy than you'd like to admit, and exhaustion weighs on you now. You want to stay up and help. You tell Rocky as such.
"I'm good, Rocky," you say quietly, wiping at your face and pushing some hair out of your eyes. "I can go for a little while longer." The Eridian isn't sure, and he lifts a leg to tap his claw on the xenonite wall. Ryland's gaze snaps up at the sound, and Rocky points over at you.
"How long since L/n last sleep, question?" He asks Ryland. The blonde-haired scientist bites back a smirk. An alien induced bed time. He glances over at you, who gives him a serious, I'm fine kind of a look. Ryland's gaze flashes back up to Rocky and he replies, "31 hours."
Rocky raises and lowers his carapace in what you've come to learn is mild frustration. "You need sleep. Human brain stupid with no sleep." You raise an eyebrow and huff, "Yeah, maybe Grace is. I'm fine, Rocky. Let's work on this next breeder set up."
The blonde-haired scientist's jaw clenches a little at the barb. Yeah, he kind of set himself up for that one. Still, he knows Rocky is right. You did need to rest. You needed to sleep so that by the time he was exhausted, you could take over. There was no time to slack off, but you both needed to be firing on all cylinders. And that means sleeping when needed.
"Rocky's right, Y/n," Ryland says a little softer than normal, and he uses your first name. "You need to sleep. You're more useful when your brain is working. You've slowed down tenfold over the last 30 minutes." He juts his chin toward the dormitory as his hands fiddle with another breeder tank. "Go, me or Rocky will wake you up for the shift change."
You can hear an unusual amount of sincerity in Ryland's voice, and as you glance between him and Rocky, you realize you've been out numbered. Your head lolls down a little toward your chest in defeat and you sigh reluctantly.
You point at both at both of them and grumble, "6 hours. No more than that, okay?" Rocky just releases a quiet trill and Ryland glances over you before giving a silent nod. His fingers twitch over the breeder box he's working on, and he tightens his grip on it to keep them still.
A moment later and you're crawling down the hatch to the dormitory, the motions slow and clumsy due to your leg. The blonde-haired scientist has to force his attention back to work, his leg bouncing slightly on the chair below him.
It's quiet for a few minutes as both Rocky and Ryland work. But Rocky can just tell something is different. Something is bothering Ryland. So he quietly asks, "What is wrong, question? You shake. Everything is fine, question?"
Ryland doesn't lift his gaze from the tank he's working on, but he answers a little quickly, "Yeah, yeah, buddy, I'm fine. I'm just a little anxious to get these tests started. Our savior is right in front of us, you know?"
The Eridian can't argue with that.
Ryland doesn't stop fidgeting, though. He can't. He clears his throat and wipes at his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair for a moment. "You know, what? I- I think I need a moment alone to think about this. I'm going to go up to the cockpit and brainstorm a little more, buddy. You keep working."
Rocky tilts his carapace in slight confusion but he doesn't question Ryland. Human thing, he muses. Instead, the Eridian thrums, "I will work at my bench. Faster. More done down there." Ryland is already pushing off the lab chair when Rocky speaks, and he gives him a thumbs up to acknowledge him.
As Rocky disappears down one of his tunnels and into the dormitory to join you, Ryland makes his way up the ladder and into the cockpit.
He's not really sure what's going on. He feels hot. Way too warm to be considered normal. Maybe it was from all of the effort of running around and making the breeder tanks, but that just doesn't sit right in his brain.
Plus, his jumpsuit feels too tight. It's not even one of Yao's or Ilyukhina's, or even yours. It's his, but it's fitting a little too snug. He feels hot and his cheeks burn with a heat he's not used to. Is he sick? How could he be sick?
On top of that, there's... an ache. An ache that he tries to will away. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten a random hard-on before. Seriously, he was once a teenage boy. He figured it was one of those weird times where the body is so ramped up on emotions - likely the high from finding Earth's and Erid's saviors - that his touch-starved body got a little excited. It's really only a natural reaction and he knows that.
So, he tries to implement his normal methods of making them go away. How he knows they are normal methods? Well... he just knows he had to use them on Earth for some reason. He's not sure why, who, or what would cause his cock to grow hard, but come on. He's a man.
His mind starts on the science experiments he needs to conduct. The engineering of the breeder tanks, controlling the gases going in and out, how to save the different strains he'll breed up.
Before he can stop it, he sees you helping him in his mind. A pain in his ass, sure, but also his only human company. He pictures the few times he's gotten you to smile. Even Rocky had managed to get you to laugh, even if you just rolled your eyes at Ryland's dumb jokes.
His mind drifts from the curve of your smile. He thinks about the lines of your collarbones. He'd seen them once when he accidentally floated in on you changing in 0G. That, naturally, leads him down to the swell of your breasts. The perfect curve and size. He can only imagine how soft and pliable they would be to touch...
Ryland! Dude, what the hell?! His brain screams at him, Knock it off, man! As he lifts a hand from his lap in the pilot's seat to brush some golden curls out of his eyes, it brushes his crotch. It's then he realizes his hard-on has pitched into a full on tent.
A soft whine curls up his throat as he tries to push you out of his mind. But it's odd. It's almost as if a mental block has formed in his brain. The more he tries to not think about you, the more he does. It's like all of his deep, primal instincts and desires written in his DNA latch onto you.
Ryland tries to fight off the thoughts about you with everything he's got. You hate him. He doesn't like you. The two of you are in this awful Adam and Eve situation 12 light years from Earth. He knows he's touch-starved. He knows he hasn't had a good lay in who knows how long.
But the more he fights his brain, the harder it gets to push his imagined image of your bare form out of his head.
Then, Ryland guiltily gives in. Just this once to get this... problem dealt with. It'll be once and done, and I'll just go straight down to the bathroom and clean up after. Y/n should be asleep, so I can handle it. I can do this. He lets his mind fully settle on his fantasy of your naked body.
He pictures your skin sliding against his. How soft you would be underneath him. He wonders what your skin tastes like, how you might sound when he nudges his cock between your thighs. More shyly, he pictures folding you in half underneath him, pulling your legs over his shoulders and putting you into a deep mating press.
That makes him snap out of the haze of his mind for a moment. Hold on, he seems to think. That's not me. I- I would never do that. That's pretty darn involved, and that's not really my style.
Thinking about you underneath him like that only makes his hard-on throb, and it becomes too much to bear. Bashfully, Ryland palms at the tent of his jumpsuit. He groans at the first touch of the material against his sensitive tip, but he quickly clamps his mouth closed.
Rocky can probably see you! And hear you! And come up any moment!
Ryland bites down on his tongue and leans back into the pilot's seat. Then, he works the zipper of his jump suit down with pink cheeks and shame in his movements. His cock is standing at attention and springs free once the zipper is low enough. He chokes down a whimper and gently palms at his length.
He works his hand from base to tip in long, fluid pumps. Pleasure spikes at him in sharp, prickly explosions. It almost hurts. He's never experienced anything like this before, but he doesn't think he likes it. But he knows he wants the ache to go away, so he keeps at it.
Maybe I'm just super sensitive, he thinks as he tries rolling his hips into his hand in search of some kind of release. But no matter what he does, nothing changes.
The blonde-haired scientist's pleasure remains stagnant. It doesn't grow. It doesn't shrink. It remains as a constant, burning ache.
It's then, Ryland realizes. This isn't a normal boner. This isn't a normal reaction to being touch-starved or anything like that. If anything, he should have unraveled faster than he'd care to admit.
No, his brain whispers in defeat. There's only one way to fix this. And you're not going to like it.
You.
He hates it.
There's no way he can look you in the eye right now, let alone form a half-coherent sentence. It feels as if every nerve in his body is tingling, burning with desire. It's not unbearable yet - but it's not going away.
Plus, you're supposed to be sleeping. The last thing Ryland wants to do is wake you up because his boner won't go away. Especially when you don't like him... at all!
But... Ryland's resolve crumbles faster than he wants to admit. All it takes is thinking about you, your smile when he sees it, that darn sparkle in your eyes when things are going right and the science is working.
It makes his cock twitch in his lap. The thick length throbs with want as it threatens to slap up against his abdomen. He grunts and knows that in that moment, something is not right with him.
Something is wrong.
As gently as he can, Ryland grabs his cock in his hand again, an untamed whimper falling from his mouth as he tucks it back into his jumpsuit. The simple touch has his hips rutting up without his control, a small bead of precum leaking from his cock's flushed tip.
Another wave of shame runs through his body as the want to cry wells up in the blonde-haired scientist's throat. Fuck, this is bad. He had once been a horny teenager. That was nothing in comparison to how he feels right now.
Ryland does his best to get his head together with the facts of what he knows despite the haze of desire looming over him. He needs to present you and Rocky with the facts of what was likely going to happen.
So, he carefully wipes his right hand on one of the pant legs of his jumpsuit, the sweat and precum mixing together to stain the material. It makes him cringe internally, and he hopes you don't notice it before he has a chance to explain.
Then, Ryland takes a deep breath and climbs out of the pilot's seat. Immediately, the fabric of the jumpsuit rubs against his sensitive cock, and his hips roll forward to try to relieve the tension in his body. He moans softly but then clamps his jaw shut in frustration.
With an aggravated exhale, Ryland forces himself upright and grits his teeth together. He can do this. It's not going to be pretty, but he will tell it to you and Rocky straight.
He's pretty sure it was his carelessness that got him into this position. It's now his responsibility to try to find a way out of this.
With his goal at the front of his mind, Ryland begins making his way down the rungs of the ladder to the laboratory. It's slow moving at first. Each movement from his legs has the jumpsuit pulling taught and slack against his still-hard cock.
He's still holding it together - just barely.
When Ryland's feet land firmly on the floor of the lab, he takes a shaky, deep breath. His heart is racing faster than before. He's sweating, everywhere. His face, neck, hands, arms, chest, armpits, leg crevices, hell, he could be sweating from his crotch. Everywhere is sweaty.
Ryland knows he's burning up - he doesn't need a mercury thermometer to tell him he's got a fever. He can just tell. On top of that, the skin he can see is flushed pink, verging red in some areas.
Not a good sign.
If that's not enough, his vision is growing a little blurry. His glasses are still on, but his actual eyes are losing the ability to focus properly. Somewhere in him gauging his surroundings, the blonde-haired scientist sees movement.
It's Rocky in one of his tunnels, on the way up from the dormitory. "Grace, question?" Rocky asks tentatively, the musical notes blending together as Ryland tries to quickly decipher them.
"Y-yeah, b-buddy," he stutters out as he almost limps across the laboratory. He has to catch himself on one of the tables as he gets a little lightheaded. A sudden burning sensation crawls up his spine, licking at the back of his neck and threatening to flood his head.
"You are not well," Rocky states - it's not a question this time. "You are leaking, but not from your head. What is wrong, question?" The simple question brings a half-hearted smile to Ryland's face as he manages to croak out, "Y-yeah, I am, buddy. I- I need you to get Y/n. Then I will explain."
Rocky doesn't say anything. He's confused, but he knows he can't help. So, he lowers his carapace slightly and scuttles back down to the dormitory to retrieve you. The moment alone gives Ryland the chance to focus his attention on his breathing, trying to will a deep breath of air into his lungs and out of his mouth to calm his reactive body down.
He shuffles so that both of his palms lie flush against the lab bench, and he leans over it, bracing himself. The cool metal is pleasant to the touch, and a sigh of content floods from his lips. Unfortunately, it's only momentary relief, but it seems better than nothing.
As quickly as the cooling relief came, the burning hot desire in his core increases. A needy whine tears its way out of Ryland's throat, his head lolling forward as tears threaten to burn at the edge of his vision. He snaps his eyes shut in an attempt to help his focus, forcing his brain to think about the cool metal beneath his hands.
Then, he can hear you clambering up the ladder quickly - Rocky must have made it sound pretty important. Shit, shit, shit. Ryland takes a quick breath, trying to slow his racing heart, but it's no use. Especially when he hears your voice just a moment later.
"Grace? What's the deal? I was trying to sleep like you guys told me to but Rocky was saying you aren't doing well- Oh," you cut your grumpy rant off when you set your gaze on your flushed, sweaty crewmate. Immediately, despite your best judgment and slightly disgruntled disposition, you take a few rapid, worried steps toward him.
"Stop!" Ryland cries out when he hears you coming closer. The sound of your voice awakens something deep inside of him. Before he can tell his brain No!, his hips snap forward uncontrollably, and his fingers try to dig into the hard metal under his touch.
You halt at his command, your sleepy, grumpy expression molding into more of a puzzled look as you watch him struggle to still his body. With sleep picking at your brain, it takes you a moment before an embarrassed realization settles over you. The movement.
You bite your tongue as you wait for Ryland to speak again, because you're about to duck away with flushed cheeks of your own.
A ragged gasp escapes Ryland's throat, and his face and neck have flushed red. Sweat dots his skin and mats his blonde curls hanging over his forehead. The sound of his gasp makes your ears perk up instantly, the rough noise unconsciously replaying in the back of your mind.
"S- so," he stutters out to start, keeping his eyes closed as he shuffles to stand more upright. Ryland remains facing the lab bench in an attempt to hide his hard-on. It works for the moment and so he focuses on trying to get his next words out. "The- the Taumoeba or other s-species from the s- sampler have had this effect on me."
Rocky scuttles around one of his tunnels above Ryland as you cock your head to the side in confusion. Ryland continues when neither of you says anything. "I- I was the only, only one who was in direct contact with them or- or the sampler."
"But you had gloves on," you say softly, as if to not make things worse. "I watched you work, you didn't mess anything up." The low timbre of your words instantly makes Ryland whine, the noise out of his control. One of his hands clenches down into a fist and he smacks as gently as he can at the lab table in frustration.
"I did," he manages to growl out, the noise rough and unusual coming from the usually soft-spoken blonde. The admission would have sucked to say either way, and Ryland knows it. Shame hits him. He fucked up and now he's uncontrollably horny because of his mistake.
However, his response just makes your eyes widen. That's not good. I didn't see him mess anything up. It was all textbook technique. Ryland pants, grunts, and then mumbles before all of his control seeps away, "I think, I think I got hit with an aromatic compound or I- I accidentally brushed the sampler on my arm. It's caused... this, this condition."
Before you can stop yourself, your eyes flit over his whole body to analyze his condition.
You can see the sweat dampening his skin and the jumpsuit, the bright yellow color deepening all over his frame in odd patches. The usually comfortable but loose fit is roughly the same, except for one area.
Ryland's hunched-over form makes it harder to tell, but it's undeniable when your gaze lands on it. His cock is hard and standing at attention underneath his jumpsuit. The now obvious tent brings an even fiercer heat to your cheeks. You can't help it. You hadn't been with anyone... you'd been too busy focused on your career and then saving the world.
"It, it won't go away," he sobs out, his head falling forward a few more degrees so his forehead rests against the cool metal of the lab table. His whole form is tense and on edge, and seeing him like this tugs on your heartstrings. But something about this just doesn't make sense.
Confusion draws your brows taut together, and you carefully step closer to Ryland as you mull over his words. Rocky, who has been silent this whole time, is beyond confused, begins scuttling back and forth in his tunnel, trying to make sense of two alien species biology. Humans and whatever species caused this reaction in Ryland.
"Your... condition won't go away?" you ask slowly, your presence now much closer to the blonde-haired scientist. He bites down hard on his tongue as he squeezes his eyes shut. Your body was closer, your voice was closer. He could almost reach out, grab your hips- No! He quickly stops himself.
He needs to finish explaining.
The next sentence he grunts out is hard to understand, but you eventually piece it together. "No, it won't. I- tried. It won't go away. It's... it's not normal. It won't stop unless one of two things happens." You silently look up at Rocky, who has stopped above the two of you, his legs slowly raising and lowering his carapace in thought. The Eridian doesn't say anything.
"One," he hisses through gritted teeth, "It'll end when I cum, but not by my hand." The dirty words falling from Ryland's mouth has your heart fluttering in your chest, your mouth running dry at seeing him so... untamed. He swallows thickly and then grunts out, "Or two, it'll end when the chemicals are fully metabolized by my bloodstream."
Ryland lifts his head and then quickly brings it down on the lab table in a quick smack, a snarl of sexual frustration falling from his lips. A fresh bead of sweat curls down his neck, and you watch it disappear into the crevice of his jumpsuit.
"H-how long until it'll be fully processed?" you ask a little nervously, shuffling on your feet to give your injured leg some reprieve. It takes every ounce of control Ryland has not to open his eyes and look at you - he knows it'll only make it worse. He coughs once and then mumbles darkly, "I- I think its metabolism will take longer than I want it to. I'll die from overheating because of this fever before my body can process it all."
His tone sends warning bells off in your mind, and suddenly the severity of the situation sets in. Rocky finally speaks up, chiming in with an urgent and thoughtful question. "Can we cool Grace, question?" Ryland shakes his head left and right as he groans out, "No, buddy. It's not like your radiator organ. The cooler things are I touch, the more I burn up inside. This isn't a normal fever."
Ryland's words are finalized with a whimper when he flattens his fisted palm against the cool lab table. You rush toward him at the sound of what you think is pain, but you stop a few feet away as you try to assess where to help.
"Ryland," you breathe out his first name as you look at him. Panic threatens to flood over you while you take in his overly turned-on state. What do you do? Another sob pulls from his throat at the sound of your voice being even closer, and you watch his body tense up yet again.
"I- I'm afraid of hurting you," he whimpers out brokenly, "I can barely control myself, Y/n." His voice breaks at the end of his sentence, but then he's heaving in a deep breath. "I've thought of two options," he rushes out, the words slurring together. "Either you lock me in the airlock until this all ends, or-"
Ryland cuts himself off as the other thought swirls in his brain. It makes his aching cock throb - the sensation now painful. The other option sends images of you into his head. He pictures the way your cunt would stretch around his cock as he sinks into you. He can see the way your back would arch in pleasure, your hands reaching for him. He can see the way your breasts would bounce with every thrust from his hips slamming into yours.
Those thoughts prompt more precum to leak from his tip, making the wet patch on the front of his jumpsuit grow bigger. You've grown quiet at his words. The implication of his silence not lost on you.
Either he dies in the airlock of his organs being cooked, or you let him fuck you to give his brain the endorphin release to combat the chemicals being metabolized in his blood.
Your logical mind comes to an obvious conclusion: you're both going to die out here anyway. Be that a microscopic alien induced sex craze, starving to death, Ilyukhina's heroin stash, Yao's gun, or the Nitrogen tanks left by DuBois. It was inevitable.
Your rapidly beating heart comes to another. Help him.
Your train of thought is broken by his needy voice cutting through the quiet air of the ship. "I- I can't force you to do anything," he manages to croak out. "I- I get it if you'd rather put me in the air lock. I- I'd never want to f-force myself onto y-" "It's... okay," you soothe, your tone gentle and sweet as you watch his body almost writhe in pain.
"N-no," he cries, "I c-can't coerce you into, into this. I still could hurt you. I don't - I don't know if I'll be able to control myself if we-" Ryland stops himself as his hips try to roll again. Tears run down his cheeks now, splashing onto the lab table under his head.
"I trust you," is the only thing you can think of to say. Your heart is beating the fastest it ever has, adrenaline shooting through your veins and making your fingers shake with anticipation. You quickly tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and mumble, "I- I've never done this before but..."
As your voice trails off, Ryland swears his grip on reality slides. You'd never had sex? And this would be your first if you let him? Fuck! He lifts his head from the table, his cheeks still wet with tears but with his eyes still clamped closed. "I can't- I can't ask you to do that."
"You don't have to ask," you reply, your left hand reaching out to rest on his right shoulder. At the touch, Ryland lurches closer to you, his body swinging around to face you, his eyes ripping themselves open to stare down at you.
His body works against his brain, making him lean into your personal space. He sets his gaze deep into yours and swallows thickly. He feels like a predator, stalking his prey right before they lunge for the kill. It takes him a second to lean back, a scowl of pain etched on his features as he seethes through gritted teeth, "S-sorry."
He means it for more than just closing the distance - he means it for everything that was potentially about to happen.
"Once I start," he whispers lowly, his blue eyes boring into yours, "I don't think I'll be able to stop. You may-" his voice catches and then he finishes, "Yao's gun-" "It's okay, Ry," you match his soft tone. The tears make his blue eyes glitter, and you can see all sorts of inner turmoil burning in his gaze.
You tilt your head to find Rocky's figure cowering in his tunnel directly above you and Ryland. "What is happening, question?" Rocky asks, the notes an octave lower than normal. He's scared. You offer him a smile and state nervously, "Rocky? We will explain all of this later. For now, try to avoid me and Ryland. Stay up here in the lab or go up to the cockpit. Things may get scary, things... could break, we could both yell or make a lot of noise. No matter what - just stay on your side of the xenonite, okay?"
Rocky dips his carapace in understanding and then asks, "Where will you be, question?" You glance back at Ryland, whose skin is only a few inches from you, the heat pulsing off him in waves. You swallow thickly as you catch his gaze, the intensity of it making a shiver crawl up your spine.
"We'll be in the dormitory," you reply slowly, holding Ryland's gaze level. His hands clench by his sides, and he warns in a low huff, "The second you move away, I- my body is going to chase you. I-I don't think I can stop it."
You offer him an encouraging smile and reply, "I'll just have to run faster than you, then." It makes the darkness in his eyes lighten ever so slightly, and it gives you faith that the Ryland you know is in there.
Then, you move. You retract your arm from his shoulder as you launch backwards as best as you can on your leg, away from the lab table and from Ryland. Just as you move, you see Ryland's eyes grow cold and narrow, and then he lunges. The crystal clear feeling of fear shoots through your nervous system as you wobbly dart toward the ladder, and using it like a fireman's pole, you slide down it to give yourself a small lead.
Ryland is only a few seconds behind you as you make your way toward the mattress on the floor of the ship that you had been sleeping on mere minutes ago. It was detached from the wall so that Rocky would have more room for his workshop. Now, it serves as a soft landing pad as Ryland's hands grab onto your waist from behind you.
His fingers dig into your waist kind of roughly, finding your last rib on each side and pulling you flush against his chest. "I'm so sorry," he croaks out as his hips start rutting against your backside, the wetness on the front of his jumpsuit smearing against the back of yours.
"I said it already," you pant out as the air leaves your lungs, "It's o-kay." Your last word comes out with a hitch as one of Ryland's hands quickly slides from your waist up the front of your abdomen to grab at your left breast. He palms at it, his fingers digging into and toying with the soft flesh as his hips roll against yours, shoving you forward a small step.
A small gasp tears from your throat at the feeling of his cock nestling against your ass and his hand so openly playing with your chest. You mind is spinning. It's trying to process, trying not to blush and shy, trying to plan for what to do next.
Unsure of what to do and to think because he's touching you like this, your hands carefully navigate around his groping at you. Your fingers reach for the top of your jumpsuit, hastily tugging down the zipper with uncalculated yanks as you maneuver around his arm. In doing so, you're trying to give him more access to your skin and body.
You also have to admit, despite being quite nervous and anxious for whatever was about to happen... it was kind of hot seeing your usually reserved and quiet crewmate indulge in his body's desires.
The second you free the front of your torso from the material of your jumpsuit, Ryland's hand dips under the zipper to slide over your skin. The warmth and softness of your body elicits a guttural moan from his lips. At the same time, it brings a an odd heat to your core, swirling in a way you hadn't experienced.
That sound? Was hot. His fingers gravitate to finding your right breast now, wanting to give it the same attention as the other. A pleased whimper escapes him as he praises, "So soft for me." You can't help but softly gasp in response to his touch and his praise. His feverish warm hand sends electricity crackling through your veins and anticipation brewing in your stomach.
He does his best to slow his movements down - his control is dwindling as more and more of your skin is revealed. He needs to prep you. He'll hurt you otherwise. He can't do that. If anything, he at least needs you turned on a little bit.
"I k-know you don't like me," Ryland grunts as he swirls his pointer and middle fingers over your right nipple, both consciously and unconsciously loving the feeling of it rising and pebbling under his ministrations. His touch has your back arching slightly, and you can't deny his touch feels nice. It makes it a bit hard to focus on his words, but you do listen.
"B-but I need to- I need you wet." Ryland groans out the dirty words as his cock catches on the curve of your ass and his hips try to snap. "I need to minimize my chances of hurting y-" "Just keep going," you cut him off with a soft mewl, working slowly to shake your arms out of the sleeves of your jumpsuit.
Ryland doesn't say anymore, but he does force himself to let go of you when he realizes what you're trying to do. The gap between your bodies is just big enough that he can help you peel your arms out of the sleeves, but then he's on you again.
Now, his hands land on the exposed skin of your waist. Seeing and touching your bare skin drives this desire in his mind absolutely wild. The fire coursing through his body has his vision edging with red, with one goal at the front of his mind: breed.
It was never anything he thought he was into before, but he just... wants to now. His subconscious notes the gentle slope of your spine, a mole on your right shoulder blade, and the way your hair rests around your neck. Seeing you like this only heightens that desire.
In an instant, his hands twist you around to face him, and he takes a step forward, one of his thighs parting your legs.
In two swift strides, your feet hit the base of the mattress on the floor. With the pressure of Ryland pushing on you, you gently flop backwards onto it, Ryland tumbling down on top of you. Now free from the confines of the jumpsuit, your bare chest bounces at the force of your back hitting the bed.
And, for the first time, Ryland gets an eyeful of your breasts.
"You're so beautiful," he moans appreciatively as he leans forward, his hips slowing their constant but fruitless thrusting as his mouth latches onto one of your mounds without warning.
His warm lips suckling at your breast and the blonde scruff from his jaw tickling your sensitive skin has you arching up into him, the foreign but pleasant feeling eliciting a sharp gasp from you. Beautiful? Must be the microbe's biochemicals talking. Unsure of what to do with your hands, they eventually find purchase threading through his fluffy blonde locks.
Ryland switches from suckling on the mound to place hot, wet kisses there instead. Slowly, as slow as he can manage with the desire coursing through him, he works his way from one breast through your valley of cleavage to the other. There, he gives your second breast the same treatment as the first. He quickly transitions to swirling his tongue and flicking it over your nipple until it grows under his touch and he can suck on it again with renewed vigor.
Unconsciously, your clothed hips roll up to meet his, and Ryland moans appreciatively against your skin as he grinds his hips downwards. With him on top of you like this, you finally can feel how his body is feverishly warm. It's then you know he needs to be stripped out of his jumpsuit.
"R-Ryland," you manage to pant out, one of your hands moving from the back of his head to softly cup his cheek. He doesn't move for a moment, lost in tasting your skin and soaking up the feeling of your softness underneath him. You don't relent, though, and it takes some effort to pull him up to see look him in the eyes. His blue gaze is almost black with the way his pupils have dilated. It's a wild, frenzied look in his eye, and it makes something deep inside you quiver.
"Your jumpsuit," you probe gently, releasing his face to pointedly tug at the material clinging to the front of his chest. The zipper was already part way down his chest to begin with, but the blonde-haired scientist quickly releases one hand from your waist to tug the soft material down even further.
Then, before you can even process it, he's reaching into the bottom part of his jumpsuit with a broken, rich moan. Your eyes are wide and nervous as you watch him hurriedly pull out his hard, throbbing cock. It slaps up to his abdomen, tall and standing at attention. A wave of panic shoots through you. It's... big.
His cock is swollen to the limit of what his body can handle. The first thing you notice about his cock is that it's long. You don't even want to guess how many inches. A lot. The next thing you notice is the girth of it. The shaft is thick down at the base but gets slightly narrower as it approaches the tip.
There's even an angry vein curling up the right side, and you're sure you could feel his pulse if you touched it. His whole cock curves to the right slightly, the tip a pretty, rosy red that matches the flush on Ryland's cheeks. The tip leaks precum since Ryland had been turned on for so long without a release. Being trapped in his jumpsuit has smeared that precum all over the tip of his cock, casting it in a milky white shadow.
You... can't deny it. His cock is pretty. And it turns you on.
Your throat goes dry as you stare at it while Ryland sighs in relief when it's free from the confines of his jumpsuit. "Ry-Ryland," you stutter out, his eyes snapping open at the sound of your voice. You swallow thickly and cough once as his hips continue their efforts to roll against you, his now exposed cock spreading his precum over the expanse of your bare stomach.
Once you've got his attention, you quietly ask, "Sh-should we fully strip?" The question is laced with an understandable sheepishness, but Ryland doesn't seem to pick up on it. If he was in his right mind, he certainly would, but instead, he just nods and leans forward, his mouth returning to pressing wet kisses along your skin. This time, his lips work higher up, nipping and leaving marks over your collarbones and toward the crevice of your neck.
You can smell his sweat now, and the combination of his mouth teasing your sensitive body and his natural scent flooding your nose has got you turned on. You hardly notice the way his fingers work your jumpsuit down over your hips - you're too busy figuring out how to roll them in time with his.
But then Ryland is grunting an order against your skin. "Kick it off." Before he gives you time to think about it, he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder. He bites down fairly hard, and it makes your back arch off the mattress and your legs shiver with a moan falling from your lips. That little bit of delicious pain is just enough motivation to finish kicking the jumpsuit off, the material landing somewhere on the ground to the side of the mattress.
Now, for the first time in your life, you are stripped bare before a man. Ryland covers you with his larger frame and the skin-on-skin contact of your chests pressed together keeps him from fully viewing your body.
The blonde-haired scientist growls in frustration as his cock catches on the zipper to his jumpsuit, and he sits back from rolling his hips against you. There, you can see almost all of him, and he can see all of you.
As Ryland tugs his arms out of his sleeves, a whine curls up his throat when he sees his precum spread across your bare stomach. Not only that, he sees you.
Your (colored) hair fanned out under your head, bruises and dark marks now lining your neck and chest. Your breasts shift as your chest rises and falls rapidly, your (colored) gaze set on him in nervous anticipation. Then, your stomach is covered in him, leading right down to the mound of hair that hides your cunt.
And Ryland groans at the sight of you spread bare underneath him. His cock seems to agree, twitching against his bare abdomen as he finishes freeing himself from his jumpsuit. He kicks his off just as you did to yours, and then he's hovering over top of you again.
Suddenly, you realize your crewmate is a lot leaner than you gave him credit. His biceps bulge on either side of your head, his pecs are sharply defined, and his torso is laced with some of the finest abdominal muscles you have ever seen.
It makes your cunt clench.
"So, so good for me," he grunts as he slips one thigh between yours, parting your legs. The action has his hips rolling forward as his brain realizes it's about to get the hit of dopamine it wants.
Ryland angles his hips down and catches his cock on your slit. He absolutely growls over the feeling of your arousal gathering in your folds, and he pumps his cocks a few times through them to gather what wetness he can. He's starting to lose control of his movements, though. His body has one goal in mind and it's taking everything in him to fight it off to make sure he doesn't hurt you.
Satisfied that his cock is lubricated, Ryland nudges the tip of it right to the entrance of your cunt. Your hands reach up from where they have been clutching at the sheets underneath you to slide around his neck. You cling to him and find his gaze with a shaky exhale and butterflies brewing in your stomach.
He's already watching you, and you can see remorse and something else dancing in his eyes. Then, as slowly as he can manage, he begins to sink his cock into you an inch at a time. He does it with shallow, manageable thrusts until he's fully seated himself inside of your cunt.
Whimpers and whines and gasps of all sorts fall from your mouth as your body reacts to being stretched out in a way you've never experienced. Your eyes snap closed and your jaw drops wide open in a breathy, soft moan. There's only a slight burn and pinch, which you're distracted from by the sound of Ryland's voice.
"I'm sorry," Ryland whimpers as he tucks his head into the crook in your shoulder, hiding his face from you. He's taking that look on your face to mean you're in pain. He doesn't like that.
You return his whimper with a shake of your head, and as you try to find your ability to speak, you pause. Ryland is shaking above you, and for a moment, you think he's crying again. A moment passes but then you realize - he's trying to hold himself back.
And failing.
His left hand slips from next to your head to hold onto your hip, and once there, his grip is tight. You somehow manage to know it's not as tight as it could be because of his wrapped up injury, but it's still a firm hold. A moment later, you hear him hiss into your shoulder, "Breathe, please."
You do as he says, relaxing your body and easing the burn in your lungs you didn't realize was there. Your thighs simply part wide for him. It's like your brain just knows what to do. Thousands of years of evolution written into your DNA at work. Thankfully, your injured leg rests off to the side and neither of you touches or moves it.
Ryland's cock reminds his brain of its one goal: breed.
As you regain your air after processing the feeling of being stuffed full of Ryland's cock, you manage to gasp out, "I- I thought you'd fuck me like you hate me." You force a deep breath into your lungs and tear your eyes open to look at Ryland in an attempt to gauge his reaction. It's then Ryland's hips start to slide in and out of your cunt on their own accord.
Soft, pleasured noises begin to disperse from your lips as your brain tries to catch up with all of the new feelings it's experiencing. Somehow, in all of the bliss and pleasure and nervousness and excitement, it deciphers what Ryland says next.
"But, but I don't," Ryland grunts into your ear as his cock slides into your cunt with a slow roll of his hips. At that, he effectively loses control of his mind and body.
You don't get the chance to respond to what he says. His hips begin really rolling, slowly gaining speed and accuracy as he thrusts into your cunt.
This feeling is foreign and new and somehow amidst the anxiety, nice? The feeling of Ryland's hand on your hip keeps you still as his hips snap to meet yours. There's a firmness to it that tells you that you won't be released until he's done with you. Right now? You aren't really upset about your position.
It's unexpected, sure, but not... entirely unwelcome.
With each thrust from Ryland, he brings a new spark of pleasure to your body. Noises like you've never made are produced due to his movements and the sounds he's making. Ryland can't even try to hold them back. Grunts, groans, growls. They are deep, untamed, primal sounds that tell you his body is happy with this course of action.
"Ry- oh, Ryland," you breathe out as he picks up speed in your cunt. The sound of skin slapping on skin begins to fill the air, combining with the sounds pulled from deep in both you and Ryland's chests. He groans lowly into the skin of your shoulder. He doesn't dare pick his head up, fearful that looking at you will only make him come more unrestrained.
In holding himself hostage like this, his glasses are fogging up, but it's not like he can tell. His eyes are screwed shut as tightly as he can manage. Your cunt feels incredible to his sensitive, throbbing cock. The soft, velvety feeling of your walls, the welcoming warmth of your core, and the way your cunt seems to take him so perfectly with each thrust.
It's driving him wild.
Ryland's hips only grow rougher and faster as he finds and settles into a hard, brutal pace. This is not what he would want to do for your first time, but he can't stop his body. It wants him to fuck you with everything he's got, and he is helpless to stop it.
Meanwhile, all you can do is slip one hand up and into his blonde curls and hold on with that grip. Your other hand removes itself from his neck to wrap around his back, raking down his skin in time with his thrusts and the moans filling the air.
At some point, your eyes force themselves closed despite wanting to watch what you can. Your jaw has fallen slack, lost in this immense pleasure and the jolts spreading throughout your body. It's furthered when Ryland grunts into your shoulder, "That's it, that's it." The small bit of praise makes your cunt clamp down and a moan of, "Ryyyyyy," slip past your lips.
That noise alone makes Ryland snarl, and his hips slam up harder into yours. "So warm, so wet," he grunts, "You're so tight on my cock, Y/n. You feel so good, gosh, I'm- not gonna-"
You think you might know what he means.
His movements have caused your pleasure to condense deep in your core. It's built with every thrust and every noise Ryland has made. Now, that pleasure is forming into a coil that's steadily growing with each passing second.
"M-me, t-too," you manage to whimper out, your back arching up off the mattress and shoving your chest flush against Ryland's. His hand on your hip slides under your back to hold you against him as his hips continue to work.
There's a slight angle change, and in that, the tip of his cock finds that one spongey spot in your walls that has you seeing stars. "Ryland!" you moan louder yet, your whole body quivering from the strength of his thrusts. The force of his hips makes your breasts bounce, but in being held against him like this, you're left with the delicious friction of your pebbled nipples rubbing against the soft, smooth skin of his chest.
"Fuck," he groans out. "You... You feel so good. So good for me. Sh-shit, Y/n!" You're right there with him, whimpering and mewling out the pleasure he's bringing you. The coil deep in your core builds and builds and builds until you cry out, "'m- 'm- Ryland!"
You cum hard and fast on his cock, writhing underneath him as pleasure explodes throughout your body. Your eyes, snapped closed with bliss, see shooting stars behind your eyelids and you stop breathing.
Your cunt clamps down hard on his cock, and Ryland's hips stutter at the shoot of pleasure that travels up the length of his cock. He forces himself to resume the pace, fucking you through your orgasm both to prolong it for your sake, but also because his isn't that far behind.
Ryland speeds up his hips one more time, pistoning in and out of your sensitive cunt. This new speed sends him barreling toward his own orgasm as he grunts out hoarsely, "Cummin', cummin'!"
Ryland releases a long, strangled groan as he cums deep in your cunt. His cock twitches out thick ropes of seed that paint the walls of your cunt white. It takes no effort for his body to rock you both through his orgasm. His brain is completely gone and his body is running on autopilot determined by the biochemicals floating through his blood.
There's a major sense of relief that floods the blonde-haired scientist. The release he gets from climaxing is not just physical. There's a weight lifted off of him, like in a weird way, it feels like he gets a breath of fresh, spring time air after being stuck in space for 12 light years.
That barrier in his mind that focused on breeding has been satiated.
Rapid, fast pants fall from Ryland's mouth as he sucks in air like he's coming up out of water. His arm holding his body over yours gives in and he crashes down into your chest. It knocks the wind out of you, but at the same time, only adds to the pleasure radiating throughout your body as his hips come to a stop deep in your cunt.
Yet in the haze of Ryland's blissed out mind, he is upset.
He's distraught. He feels like an asshole. His brain is telling him that you only did this to save his life when you should have put him in the airlock. He feels like he disrespected you and went against his core beliefs of treating women right.
On top of that, as he feels his cock twitch and that painful ache in his body dissipate, he realizes he didn't use a condom.
Yeah. He's cursing himself up and down on the inside.
Meanwhile, you're in complete and utter bliss. Ryland's cock is still buried deep inside of you, and honestly? You'd be content if he stayed right there as you come down from your high.
Your brain is working overtime to try to process and understand everything that just happened within the last... however long. That's when something Ryland said in the middle of all of this floats to the front of your mind.
Tentatively, with your voice quiet and unsure, you break the silence. "What... what did you mean by... you don't, uhm, hate me?" You loosen your grip on Ryland's hair, instead gently smoothing over the mussed up golden curls as you wait for his response.
Ryland doesn't even know what to say. How does he explain what's going on in his mind right now? He's getting hit with a wave of exhaustion now, likely an effect from the chemicals emitted from the alien life form, and he's beyond embarrassed and flushed. He simultaneously really wants to stay right where he is, connected to you in this way, but also... he really wants to put clothes on and try to hide himself from you.
Because what if...
He feels your hand smooth over his head and he releases a small puff of air from his lungs. Your second hand slowly slides up Ryland's back, over his shoulder, and to his jaw. Your own heart is picking up speed again with your sudden braveness, but you want to know.
As kindly as you can, you draw Ryland up from your shoulder so that he comes face to face with you. He's expecting to see a look of judgment, a look of anger, a look of disgust.
He finds none of that.
Instead, he only sees an open, willing expression. Maybe even... hopeful?
Ryland's throat grows dry at that look. His heart is beating faster and his breathing grows even more unsteady. He swallows and wets his lips, his eyes darting back and forth between your own.
His mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to backpedal, to cover it up, to say something to hide his mistake. But he can't. And that look from you has his splintered mind giving in and admitting slowly, "I... don't."
Surprise slowly spreads across your face like a can of molasses spilled on a table during winter. Ryland glances down from your eyes and stares straight at your collarbones. He sucks in a breath, shuts his eyes, and sighs, "I... I don't hate you, Y/n. I never have."
You are frozen underneath him. You don't dare speak. You don't dare move. All you can do is listen.
When you don't do anything, Ryland takes it as a sign to keep talking, even though that's literally the last thing he wants to do. "When I woke up from the coma," he murmurs, "All I knew was that I didn't like you. Something about you... just..."
He tears his eyes open and glances around, trying to find the right words. You swipe your thumb over his cheek and that draws his attention back to your face. His brows furrow and he whispers, "You just aggravated me."
You smile a little at that and softly chime in with a huff of, "You aggravated me, too." Ryland mirrors your small smile for a moment before his expression grows serious again. "I didn't... I didn't understand why. There was no reason for me to dislike you like that," he eventually says.
He shuffles onto one of his forearms so he can hold himself above you with less strain on his injury. Ryland's eyes dance over your face as he continues, "You were smart, witty, and a damn good scientist. But you just annoyed me." Somehow the words he says come across in a positive light, and you find them warming your chest and your cheeks.
Ryland settles his gaze on your mouth for a moment as his brows draw together. "After a while," he says, pauses, and then tilts his head and raises a brow, "A long while, after Rocky came on board, I... had a memory come back."
Your eyes grow wider at that. A memory? The two of you had this unspoken agreement where if one of you had a memory, you shared it. Neither of you knew what was happening when you woke up, and one by one, you each got memories. Those memories were missing puzzle pieces to solve and defeat Astrophage. Sharing those memories you individually gained back was a part of that.
Ryland sighs a little sheepishly and nods his head once in your hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I know I should I have told you. But... I didn't think you would believe me or... uhm... like? the memory?"
If he didn't have your interest piqued before, he certainly does now. You raise a brow in question, but again, you don't say anything. Ryland takes another deep breath and admits, "It was... you and me. Back on Earth. Stratt's vat, the original lab she set up for when we first got Astrophage, all of it."
"But," he mumbles, "It wasn't... just you and me. We... weren't like how we are here on the Hail Mary. We... joked...and laughed. You, uhm," he chuckles once and shrugs a shoulder, "You'd punch me in the shoulder if I made a really bad joke or if I quoted The Beatles too many times."
Your mouth curls up into a small, one sided smile as your mind begins to race. You part your lips to interrupt, but Ryland keeps going.
His expression is shy and open, and you can tell he's laying it all out for you. "When we were at Baikonur, your trailer was next to mine, and we'd walk to the lab together every morning," he says softly, "There were mornings where I wanted to reach over and grab your hand. I wanted to know what your skin felt like when it was always hidden under a latex glove."
Ryland's eyes flash up to yours. "I wanted to eat dinner with you in my trailer, or in my quarters on the ship when we were out at sea. I wanted to make you laugh every chance I could get just so I could see you smile when everything in the world was falling apart."
If you thought your heart was beating fast before, it's practically fluttering in your throat now. Your breathing is growing faster and shallower too, and you swallow to try to get your voice to work.
Ryland gives you an unsure smile as he confesses, "I... really, really liked you back on Earth. I mean, I had the world's biggest crush on you. I never did anything about it because we were trying to work on this project and I wasn't ever sure if you liked me back. And, oh, I don't know what the coma did to my brain, but it somehow twisted all of those unrequited feelings into a dislike that I've taken out on you for the last however many months."
"I mean, you had and have every reason to dislike me," he mumbles, his smile dissipating. "Both then and now with what I just put you through." Ryland bashfully shrugs one shoulder and admits, "Even now... I... I still like you."
Your eyes are wide with shock and disbelief at Ryland's confession. You don't even know what to say. All of that? On Earth? Now?
You are speechless.
There's only one thing you can think of to do to clearly communicate what you're feeling.
Using both hands to cup Ryland's face, you lean up off the mattress and capture his mouth in a soft, slow kiss. At first, he tries to pull back and panic over it, but then you slip a hand to the back of his head to keep him close, and Ryland sighs, melting into the kiss.
A soft, pleased hum resonates from Ryland, and he brings his hand not holding him up to cradle the back of your head. Once you feel him soften into the kiss, you allow yourself to enjoy it. The feeling of his lips slotting gently against yours, the tickle of his scruff on your face. Even the taste of his mouth is addicting and you find yourself wanting more.
But your lungs are still trying to get back to equilibrium, and you both pull away from the kiss slowly and at the same time. Ryland is the speechless one now, and you hold his face gently and glance over his features in the same way he had for you.
He's all sorts of confused. His hair is sticking up and out in a million different directions, his brows are taut, and you can practically see the questions forming on his mouth.
"It was never unrequited, Ryland," you whisper softly, "I never hated you. I think whatever happened to you in the coma also happened to me, because I also had the world's biggest crush on you."
Your cheeks burn with a shy warmth as you try to come up with your own words to say. Ryland is a step ahead of you, though, as he always is, and he asks, "But... how? When did you...? You've acted like you've hated me since you woke up!"
Now it's your turn to shrug. "Well, I... had a memory a few nights ago when I was getting ready to sleep and I guess it all made sense to me then."
The two of you stare at each other in disbelief for a few moments in silence. Then, at the same time, you both snort and burst into giggles. The tension in the room releases and you can't help but snicker as you come to terms with what information Ryland's provided you.
He sighs and shakes his head with a dumb, amazed grin. "Wow. To think this whole time we've been at each other throats all because the trip here messed with our brains. Unbelievable." You nod along and chuckle, "Well, I mean, at least we got it figured out? Even if under these conditions?"
Ryland winces a little and remorse fills his face. "I'm really sorry," he rushes, "I was so rough on you but I couldn't stop myself and I didn't want to hurt you-" "Ryland, Ryland," you soothe, again slipping your fingers over the scruff on his cheeks. "It's okay. I don't hurt anywhere. I'm okay."
"Actually," you giggle a little sheepishly, "I, uhm... kind of liked it rough like that?" That makes Ryland's cheeks flush a pretty rosy color. His mouth rapidly opens and closes as he tries to come up with something to say, but he doesn't. You end up giggling again, leaning up to rest your forehead against his.
His fingers gently slip into your (colored) locks and he sighs in happy, embarrassed defeat. He holds you close as you mumble, "And maybe, sometime in the future? We can try this all again when we're both healed up and 100%."
Ryland's brows shoot up in surprise as he echoes, "Try this again?" You blink in surprise but then grow bashful as you try to back track, "Well, well- we're the only two humans for 12 light years, and you know, we just did the deed. And well, if we both like each other, then I thought it wasn't a bad idea? Unless I'm totally reading this wrong-" "No!" He yelps out, tightening his grip on your hair slightly.
"No, no, no, that's not what I meant, I'm sorry," Ryland rushes out. "I just... can't believe all of this. This was never how our first time was supposed to go but here we are, and I... I just want to take care of you the way you deserve."
Your expression softens and you lean into his touch. You nuzzle your nose against his and nod faintly. "No, I know what you mean, Ry. I can't believe it either, and you just blew my mind," you say quietly. "You're... something, Dr. Grace."
Ryland smiles and softens into you again. It takes him a moment to get the courage, but then he whispers against your lips, "I love you, Y/n." Hearing those words makes you smile brighter than the stars surrounding the ship and you whisper back, "I love you, Ryland."
Without hesitating this time, Ryland closes the distance between the two of you and captures your lips for himself.
boredom (ryland grace x gn!reader)
summary: (y/n) is bored and ryland is stressed. why not solve both problems at the same time?
wc: 3.6k
cw: oral sex (m receiving), slight dacryphillia, some praise kink, overstimulation, orgasm denial (where my freaks at, this one is dirty) !!! MINORS DNI !!!
a/n: ngl this one kicked my ass 🥀 there are some BOOK-SPECIFIC spoilers in this fic so tread with caution all who haven't read phm but plan to! also, thank you for over 1k likes on doctor's visit?? and all of your comments and reblogs i love you people with my entire being (cross-posted on ao3)
You were bored.
Not the normal kind of bored, where you just had nothing to do.
You had things to pass the time. Laptops with truly anything you could ever want at your fingertips (you’d become a Minesweeper master), a couple of books you’d packed for yourself for the mission, spend time with your fellow crewmate and a literal alien. No, you had plenty of stuff to keep your brain occupied.
This was the kind of boredom that drove you crazy. You itched to do something, anything, to blow off the anxious steam that still simmered in your soul from Ryland and Rocky's near death experience after collecting the Astrophage sample from Adrian. Both had come out alive, thank God, a little worse for wear but breathing which was really all that mattered at the end of the day.
But the anxiety and stress and fear of them dying still lingered, flowing through you and giving you an anxious need to keep them close. So you couldn’t focus on the small, mundane things you usually did when you were travelling through the Tau Ceti system. You needed something bigger. More distracting.
Rocky had been sleeping a lot as of late while he healed, recovering from essentially being on fire. So, as Ryland did his scientist thing and focused on breeding nitrogen resistant Taumoeba, you spent much of your time sitting on the floor by Rocky who’d curl up and sleep opposite of you, pressed against the clear xenonite wall. Rocky seemed to be just as shaken from the accident and wanted to stay close just as much as you wanted to keep him close.
Several days ago, the Eridian had been so kind as to gift you one of the little gadgets he used to create xenonite objects. He’d been attempting to teach you how it worked to some varying degrees of success. You were busying yourself with the machine tonight, fingers hooked into the little doohickies that were connected to strings of xenonite- trying and failing to thread together a singular cube. You still didn’t quite understand how it worked. Rocky made it look so easy.
Ryland was sitting halfway across the room on a stool, typing notes one-handedly into a laptop to log today’s progress with the Taumoeba. The arm that had been barbecued during Rocky’s rescue rested delicately in his lap. He wasn’t on as much pain medication now, but the arm was still tender so he tried not to use it when he didn’t need to. The lighting was soft against his skin, the Hail Mary officially in its ‘night mode’ to help replicate Earth’s 24 hour cycle for yours and Ryland’s sanity.
You should be focused on the xenonite contraption sitting in front of you so you could teach others about it when you return to Earth.
But instead you were focused on him.
In the soft light, wearing his yellow jumpsuit which was partially unzipped to show the plain white t-shirt underneath, he looked almost ethereal. His blonde hair was especially unruly after a long day of running his fingers through it. Golden framed glasses sat abandoned on the table next to him, so he was hunched a little closer to the screen than normal so he could actually see what he was typing. The Taumoeba breeding was a long, grueling process. At least the little freaks worked quickly, or you would be in space for months trying to create a viable predator for Venus and Threeworld. But despite the short turnover time, it was still taking a lot out of Ryland, who was taking the brunt of the work.
He was tired and stressed knowing that the fate of humanity and Erid rested almost entirely on his shoulders alone.
You couldn’t help him with the Taumoeba, that was his department, and Rocky couldn’t really help from his side of the ship, but you’d been wondering if you could help in other ways. Something to relieve his stress and release your pent up energy.
Before Rocky joined you on the Hail Mary, when you’d been wandering aimlessly in space towards Tau Ceti to see what was unique about this star compared to every other star in the known universe, you’d become close to the scientist. Emotionally and physically. You were the only two on the ship after all, what were you supposed to do?
And after 4 years of being in a coma?
Both of you got handsy.
Mostly initiated by you, but Ryland responded with eagerness once he pushed past that initial nervousness. He’d explained that it had been much longer than 4 years since he was last intimate, as his last girlfriend had been years before that.
You’d learned that he was maybe just the teensy tiniest bit touch-starved. All the more fun for you.
However, once Rocky came aboard, any intimacy stopped cold-turkey. With an alien who could hear and ‘see’ everything in the ship, there was no plausible way to try anything without him knowing something was going on between the two of you. It would create a lot of questions neither of you were eager to answer. Even while he slept, it felt too risky.
Usually.
“I’m bored,” you state, absentmindedly toying with the machine in front of you but staring dead-on at the blonde’s back.
His jumpsuit shifted as he looked over his shoulder, squinting in your general direction.
“Alien super-tech not doing it for you?” He questioned, turning back around to keep typing. His voice was gravely, not due to exhaustion (not entirely, at least) but due to the ammonia fumes that did a number on his throat when he’d saved Rocky’s life. It still hadn’t quite returned to normal.
“No, not while Rocky’s not awake to answer my questions about it.”
“Haven’t you asked him like a billion questions about it already? You should probably understand it by now, don’t you think?” He joked. You could hear the stupid smile in his voice.
Smartass.
If there was one thing you learned about Ryland after spending months together on this tiny ship, it was that he was a brat when he was tired. He became loose-lipped, speaking his mind more than he normally would.
And you loved it.
“You come try working with these little strings and see how well you do,” you prod, unhooking your fingers and scooting the tool away from you.
“You’re the engineer, I think that’s your job. I’ll stick with little alien microbes.”
Ryland stayed vigilant on his keyboard, paying you no mind as you rose from the floor, picking up the blanket that you’d been sitting on and tucking it under your arm. “You’ve been working a little too hard on those alien microbes lately.”
“Kinda have no choice here- have to save the world and whatnot.”
You prowled closer. “Yeah, but you have to sleep sometime. Take some time to relax.”
He huffed when you sidled up next to him. “And how do you suggest I do…”
You twirled him around on his stool to face you, forcing his attention away from the laptop. The surprise in his eyes was evident- he hadn’t heard you approach or even knew that you’d moved from your spot on the floor. Now, you were inches away, standing between his spread legs and dropping your blanket to the floor.
Every drop of exhaustion-induced confidence he had evaporated. “....that,” he finished, eyes dancing between yours. The hand he had in his lap, the one still wrapped in bandages, balled into a tight fist and he swallowed after giving you a quick once-over.
When you brought a hand to his collarbone, feeling the beat of his heart and trailing your hand down the tight t-shirt his jumpsuit exposed, he glanced over your shoulder in fear and moved to stop your hand. “Rocky-”
“Is asleep. And should be for at least another couple hours.” He grabbed hold of your wrist with his good hand but didn’t put any pressure behind it.
“What if he wakes up?”
“Have you ever seen him sleep for less than an hour?”
He didn’t take his eyes off of your lips. “No…”
“Then we’ll be fine. I want to help you relax. You’ve been too wired recently and you need a break.”
He audibly swallowed, spreading his legs even wider to let you closer. Loosening his grip on your wrist, he let your fingers slip to the zipper of his jumpsuit. As you took hold of the metal and began tugging it down, he let out a breathy hum.
“What did you have in mind?”
His eyebrows shot into his hairline when you dropped to your knees, cushioning them on the blanket you’d set on the floor. Ryland sat up straighter than he had all night, looking at you in awe as you tugged the black zipper as far down as it would go. Once again, he stilled your hands with both of his this time, palms swallowing your hands whole.
“Wait- are you sure?” The strangled noise he made when you peered up at him through your lashes was one you wouldn’t forget.
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?”
Ryland refused to let you move another inch. “Because… you get nothing from this.”
Always looking out for you. “That’s not even the tiniest bit true, Ry.”
“But-”
“I promise, I’ll enjoy this just as much as you will.”
The silence that followed was heavy- heated. You would stop if he told you to, without question.
Unless his reasoning was that you would get no pleasure from it. Which again, couldn’t be farther from the truth.
When he finally pried his hands from yours, they were shaking- the wrap on his hand scratching against your skin. Then, he didn’t seem to know where to put his hands, opting to let them limply fall to his sides and brush against the seat of the stool. The loose boxers that you’d exposed after unzipping his jumpsuit were already tented.
“Nervous?”
“A little.” You were surprised he’d actually admitted it.
“Any particular reason why?”
He didn’t let his eyes wander from where they watched your fingers play with the elastic around his hips. “This is… uncharted territory.”
That brought you pause. “Your ex never gave you head?”
Even in the dim lighting, Ryland’s cheeks flamed at just the words. He’d been a little shy about regular sex before, but this seemed to take it to a whole new level. “No. She thought it was gross.”
Ryland never really talked bad about his ex, save for the fact that she’d dumped him, but every little fact he let slip just brought her lower and lower on your favorite people list. From your time with Ryland, you were quickly coming to realize that their sex life must’ve been very… vanilla.
No wonder the blonde was so skittish and so touch-starved. She’d never truly let him experience the pleasure he deserved.
The grin you gave him couldn’t have been more feline. “I get to be your first, then?”
He shook his head in disbelief. “Can you at least try to hide your excitement? It’s embarrassing.”
Breaking eye-contact with a laugh, you slid his boxers down painstakingly slow, revealing what hid underneath inch by inch. The sharp lines of his hips all leading down to his cock which sprang free once you’d tucked his underwear low enough. Just as pretty as the rest of him. You didn’t think you could ever tire from the sight.
It didn’t take much coaxing to have him fully erect, cock pulsing against your palm as you very gently settled your hand at the base of his shaft to keep him in place. Holding his thigh with your free hand, you delicately pressed a light kiss to the head. Barely a touch of your lips, but the reaction was immediate- his leg jumped against your hand and he moved to grip the stool. The man yelped.
You raised your brows up at him. He attempted a scowl.
Normally, you would’ve made a teasing comment but… you’d let it pass this one time. You wanted him to enjoy this, not feel ashamed.
Holding his eyes captive with your own, you watched with pleasure as his face contorted into one of pure agony when you slowly kissed down the side, along a prominent vein that ran there, pausing at the bottom to suck gently at the skin around the base. He had a healthy dusting of pubic hair, slightly darker than the hair on his head but just as soft. You’d felt it before with your hand but feeling it brush against your mouth was heavenly.
Ryland looked like he was already about to cum.
He was white knuckling the stool, head bowed to his chest and face scrunched in concentration. His cock throbbed against your face- an angry red color, eager for even a fraction of your attention. You drew your lips back. He whimpered.
“You can’t finish yet, Ry. We just started.”
“I know.” His response was rushed, uneven and rough. At this point, you couldn’t tell if the roughness was due to his still healing throat or if he really was that affected by your mouth.
“Can you hold off until I tell you you can come?”
Even in the cool air of the ship, his forehead was starting to shimmer with perspiration. He leant back against the table with a ragged huff. “I can try,” he whispered.
“Good. You can do it,” you purred, squeezing his thigh and gently fisting the yellow fabric there so you had something to hold onto when you brought your mouth back to his tip. Taking your time, you let your tongue lave over the skin, savoring the salty taste and boiling heat of him. His leg jumped again.
“G-God,” he whined.
If he was already reacting like this…
The groan he let slip when you twirled your tongue around his head was pornographic- the moan he finally didn’t bother to hold back when you sucked the first inch of him into your mouth had electricity shooting up your spine.
He felt almost painfully hard the further down you went, giving an inch, then pulling away, continuing the pattern until he was nearly brushing the back of your throat. When he did touch the back of your throat, his hands instantly found purchase in your hair.
You stopped to look up at him and you couldn’t tell if he wanted to pull you off of his cock or bury himself deeper. It seemed he was just as conflicted. And you could’ve sworn there was a glint of silver lining his eyes. You wanted to ask him if he was ok but… your mouth was a little full.
Squeezing his thigh once, you asked the silent question. The two of you stared at each other for a second, breathing together. Then he swallowed and you felt the tiniest bit of tension on your head as he shyly pushed further into your mouth.
That was answer enough for you.
When you really began working his cock, Ryland almost lost his control again. His hips stuttered in the stool and his hands tightened in your hair. But you pulled off of him before he could reach that high.
There were certainly tears in his eyes now.
“Please-“ he choked, trying to steer you back. His face was red.
You held firm. “Careful. Remember what I said?”
The hair that fell over his forehead bobbed as he nodded. “Yes, I’m sorry.” It sounded painful for him to talk, like his throat was tight and packed with cotton.
“You’re doing so good, Ry.”
Verbal validation was something you knew Ryland craved, whether he consciously knew it or not. Any breakthrough he had with the Taumoeba, when he pulled off a half-decent maneuver with the ship, when he’d please you before Rocky had moved in- Ryland’s eyes would light up when you praised him.
He didn’t light up this time, given the circumstances, but he did straighten up a little. When his chest rose and fell in a deep, steadying breath, you knew your words worked their magic.
“I want you to guide me. Then you can come. Can you do that?” You asked, feeling as his grip on your hair slackened and turned gentle. Fingers soothed over the strands he’d gripped. A single nod was all you got in return, Ryland not able to do much else.
Cradling your head in his palms, the scientist you’d come to love guided your lips and you welcomed him back into your mouth with eagerness. A sob-sounding gasp graced the room.
Fully surrendering control to Ryland, you let him set the pace. He started off attempting to be conservative, a gentle guiding of your head back and forth over his velvety cock. But it didn’t last, not when you ran your tongue along the underside of the shaft.
Throwing his head back, he whimpered again and his resolve finally snapped. Relaxing your throat to accept him, you took the rough battering in stride. Heat, moans and saliva- the strong muscle of his thighs under your hands, the fingers cradling your skull- everything you could feel and hear and sense, all orbiting around him.
When he came, he came fast and hard.
Every part of him tightened underneath you, hands keeping you locked firmly against his pelvis to swallow everything he had. And you gladly did so with minimal choking.
When he started to soften against your tongue but made no move to pull you off of him, you gave a couple taps to his thigh. Coming out of some sort of blissful trance, Ryland quickly helped guide you off of him. A string of drool followed your retreat. Your jaw ached and your throat felt raw but you couldn’t have been happier.
The pair of you sat in a slow, comfortable silence as both of you tried to regulate your breathing, staring at each other to see what the other would do next.
Ryland let go of your head in favor of wiping at his eyes, sniffing quietly and looking all sorts of embarrassed. An uncomfortable laugh burst from him and he shrugged.
“Don’t really know why I’m crying,” he sighed, reaching back to grab his glasses and slide them over the bridge of his nose so he could blink properly down at you.
“Overwhelmed?”
“Something like that,” he cringed, busying his hands with fixing his modesty and partially zipping his jumpsuit back up. “Never felt anything like that before, so… thank you. For showing me. No one’s ever even tried so it means a lot.”
Your heart broke. Someone so genuine deserved a partner who cared just as much for his pleasure than their own. If you ever had the opportunity to cross paths with his ex’s when you returned to Earth, they were due for a verbal lashing.
You sat back on your heels to give yourself room to stand, to give him room to breathe, but Ryland leant forward to chase your mouth before you could. Lips locked, kneeling between his legs, you cupped his stubbled jaw and let him show you his gratitude with his tongue. His shy smile when you broke for air had your heart stuttering. His eyes were gleaming.
Taking his hands, careful not to squeeze his injured one too hard, you stood and brought him with you.
“Now, you need to sleep,” you chided, tugging him towards the dormitory where he could rest in the peace and quiet while you watched Rocky and fiddled with the xenonite machine.
The blonde halted in his steps, bringing you to a stop. “I should-“
“No! No arguing. You’ve been up for almost 48 hours, you’re of no use to us exhausted. You’ll kill all of the Taumoeba at this rate!”
Ryland rolled his eyes which enunciated the dark rings under his eyes and shrugged in defeat.
“Fine. But I'm sleeping in here.”
“But-“
“A compromise! I'm compromising here. Take it or leave it. Please?”
The soft glow of Tau Ceti glinted off his golden rims. You couldn’t have asked for a more handsome man to be stuck in space with.
“Alright…”
-
“Grace ok, question?”
You startled at Rocky’s sudden voice, nearly dropping the book that you’d read about 50 times now onto the head of the sleeping scientist that rested in your lap.
Ryland had been asleep for almost 3 hours with no end in sight, your right leg was long past dead and now Rocky was awake to disturb the peace.
Your hand stilled where it was buried in Ryland’s hair to look back at Rocky who was indeed awake and standing close.
“Yeah, he’s ok Rock, just sleeping.”
“Why on you, question?”
“Uh…” you stalled, not really sure how to answer in a way that didn’t sound weird or lead to more questions. “It’s just something humans do sometimes when we’re really tired.”
“Oh, understand.” He usually didn’t fight you or Ryland if something you did was a ‘human thing’ and you and Ryland didn’t question Rocky when he said something was an ‘Eridian thing’. It was an unspoken rule.
Crisis averted.
The ship resumed its quiet hum as you read the worn and torn copy of The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy to an alien while running your knuckles absentmindedly over Ryland’s cheekbone, who slept peacefully for the first time in weeks.
a/n: ryland grace whimpering audio when? all sorts of firsts for ryland recently (and more to come). thank you for reading! preparing to write this fic had me zooming in on every picture of ryland in that stupid hot yellow jumpsuit to see how far down the zipper went and if it would indeed zip low enough LOL research says yes?
Summary: You and Ryland are both given the amnesia serum so the primary crew has scientists on the Hail Mary. When you wake up 12 light years from Earth, neither of you remembers anything except for an unsettling dislike for the other person. An interaction with alien life has Ryland infected with a disease neither of you have seen before. What are you going to do?
Word Count: 11.8K
Warnings: NSFW content (18+ ONLY PLEASE), a little bit of male masturbation, p in v, unprotected sex (DON'T DO THIS. WRAP IT BEFORE YOU TAP IT.), sex pollen/fuck or die, swearing, primal urges/slight predator prey vibes, breeding kink, praise kink, a little overstimulation, slight voyeurism(I mean they're on a ship with an alien so...), virgin!Reader, amnesia, enemies to lovers, mutual pining, forced proximity, SPOILERS FOR THE BOOK(this covers a wide span of time, so I would say if you haven't read to basically the end, be cautious!), let me know if I missed anything!
A/N: Please only interact if you are 18+! Blank/empty blogs and blogs with no ages will be blocked! Just because I wrote this does not mean I will write more smut, this is just an itch my brain needed to write!
A/N: Hello again my darlings! Here is the FINAL fic for the [mini] Big Bang event with my bestie @bluebellhairpin! This one has been sitting in my drafts for MONTHS and this was the perfect time to bring it out of hiding... Uh, so please enjoy? I have never written anything like this and probably won't again LOL - Birch<3
Love Confessions Event Masterlist
Please proceed with caution!!! NSFW AND SPOILERS BELOW THE CUT!!!
You had never wanted to be a part of the crew.
You were a scientist. That was it. A scientist with a strong foundation in molecular biology and genetic engineering. That was your contribution to Project Hail Mary.
Ryland had never wanted to be a part of the crew.
He was a teacher. That was it. A teacher, formerly a scientist, with a strong foundation in molecular biology and astrophysics. That was his contribution to Project Hail Mary.
Neither of you had wanted to be a part of the crew. But you were.
You both had woken up 12 light years from Earth with no recollection of who you were, where you were, or what you were supposed to be doing. Ryland had woken up first - a mere 20 minutes before you.
Immediately, you had disliked him. Something about his presence just... didn't sit right with you. Maybe it was because he had the same realizations you did. An overlap in interests when it was pretty obvious the crew was specifically picked for everyone's greatest strengths.
And for some reason, you shared strengths with Ryland. Were you not good enough to send alone? They had to send a second scientist with? Who, by the way, got his memories back a lot fast than you did.
He was always one step ahead. One game level above you. All the time. It was really freaking annoying.
So as time slips by and the two of you gain back the essential memories for the mission, gain an alien friend, and set out for the planet Adrian, you are left with a strong dislike for the blonde-haired scientist.
- - -
And rightfully so. Adrian went to shit.
Rocky almost died.
Ryland almost died.
You almost died.
Yes, the three of you got the sampler back up and into the ship - but at what cost?
"I don't think you should be the one to open the sampler," you argue as you follow as closely as you can on Ryland's heels. In the accident, you had gotten slightly crushed by loose material in the dormitory and had suffered a leg injury. Nothing that the robot arms couldn't wrap up.
To you, Ryland's arm injury was the worse of the two wounds, and, because it was on his arm, he shouldn't be the one lifting and opening the sample from Adrian's atmosphere.
Ryland ignores you as he shuffles across the lab. "I told you, I will open it," he says a little gruffly as he sets the sampler down. A moment later, he gathers the contraption Rocky had made so that either of you could get a sample onto a microscope slide.
Rocky is still recovering, and he hovers above the two of you in one of his tunnels. His carapace is lowered, and his legs are folded underneath him to support his weight. The ship is only at 0.5Gs. It's less strenuous on everyone that way.
Tension fills the air. All three of you know it.
Not only is there the spat between you and the other scientist - the savior for both Earth and Erid could lie in Ryland's hands.
Everyone wants to know if there is a predator for Astrophage in that sample. Everyone is scared that there might not be. Then what? Then what happens?
No one wants to think about it, no one wants to say anything about it. So tensions rise, and the air of the ship seems to grow warmer as you and Ryland bicker back and forth over it.
"I've got it," he snaps back, setting the sampler down on the lab table in front of the two of you. You go to open your mouth to retort, but Rocky's voice chimes in quietly, unsure. "Why fight, question? Open sampler. Save Earth, save Erid. No need fight. Work together."
Your (colored) gaze snaps up to look at Rocky's tense form. Ryland stares down at the sampler on the lab table. Neither of you says anything. Rocky was right. There was no need to fight. Now, more than ever, you needed to be on the same team.
Swallowing your pride, you take a wobbly step back and spin on your heel. There's a round stool mounted to the floor a few paces away, and you quietly make your way over there with slightly jolted movements.
You sit and watch Ryland work. It's silent in the lab, other than the noises of the tools and gases releasing in the contraptions Ryland works with. After a few quiet minutes, you look away and over to another part of the lab, lost in thought.
It's when you unknowingly look away that Ryland messes up. It's not on purpose or anything drastic. His hands are decorated with blue latex gloves, like always. But, as he reaches to get the sample slide, his bare wrist accidentally touches part of the sampler.
Unknowingly, his skin comes into contact with the life forms from Adrian. Nothing immediately happens, there's no burn, or anything like that. It happens and the moment passes. He's waiting for you to say something about his technique being off, but it doesn't come.
Because when Ryland glances over at you, you aren't even paying attention to him anymore. You're lost deep in thought, and Ryland doesn't feel like engaging in conversation when he's got important things to look at.
Like seeing if there's life on this slide.
Ryland moves over to one of the several microscopes fastened to the lab's tables. With a deep breath, he mumbles, "Here we go," and looks down through the optics. He's quiet for a while as he focuses the scope, using the fine adjustment wheels to find the correct depth of field.
It's then his heart stops and his breathing stills.
Rocky senses the change and asks, "Grace, question?" Your attention is immediately grabbed, then, and your eyes snap over to look at Ryland's frozen form.
"There's life!"
That single exclamation leads to a wild next couple of hours.
You and Ryland both start designing experiments to figure out how best to isolate the Taumoeba. For once, the two of you work together quite well making and brainstorming protocols and equipment needed. Rocky, of course, is a huge help.
But you're starting to slow down, and Rocky knows it. "L/n, how long since last sleep, question?" He asks with a tilt of his carapace. Ryland is full steam ahead like he's gotten a second wind. You can't blame him. The prospect of actually saving billions of life forms both back on Earth and on Erid makes you want to push through, too.
Your injury has slowed you down, though. Walking on a wounded leg has made you expend more energy than you'd like to admit, and exhaustion weighs on you now. You want to stay up and help. You tell Rocky as such.
"I'm good, Rocky," you say quietly, wiping at your face and pushing some hair out of your eyes. "I can go for a little while longer." The Eridian isn't sure, and he lifts a leg to tap his claw on the xenonite wall. Ryland's gaze snaps up at the sound, and Rocky points over at you.
"How long since L/n last sleep, question?" He asks Ryland. The blonde-haired scientist bites back a smirk. An alien induced bed time. He glances over at you, who gives him a serious, I'm fine kind of a look. Ryland's gaze flashes back up to Rocky and he replies, "31 hours."
Rocky raises and lowers his carapace in what you've come to learn is mild frustration. "You need sleep. Human brain stupid with no sleep." You raise an eyebrow and huff, "Yeah, maybe Grace is. I'm fine, Rocky. Let's work on this next breeder set up."
The blonde-haired scientist's jaw clenches a little at the barb. Yeah, he kind of set himself up for that one. Still, he knows Rocky is right. You did need to rest. You needed to sleep so that by the time he was exhausted, you could take over. There was no time to slack off, but you both needed to be firing on all cylinders. And that means sleeping when needed.
"Rocky's right, Y/n," Ryland says a little softer than normal, and he uses your first name. "You need to sleep. You're more useful when your brain is working. You've slowed down tenfold over the last 30 minutes." He juts his chin toward the dormitory as his hands fiddle with another breeder tank. "Go, me or Rocky will wake you up for the shift change."
You can hear an unusual amount of sincerity in Ryland's voice, and as you glance between him and Rocky, you realize you've been out numbered. Your head lolls down a little toward your chest in defeat and you sigh reluctantly.
You point at both at both of them and grumble, "6 hours. No more than that, okay?" Rocky just releases a quiet trill and Ryland glances over you before giving a silent nod. His fingers twitch over the breeder box he's working on, and he tightens his grip on it to keep them still.
A moment later and you're crawling down the hatch to the dormitory, the motions slow and clumsy due to your leg. The blonde-haired scientist has to force his attention back to work, his leg bouncing slightly on the chair below him.
It's quiet for a few minutes as both Rocky and Ryland work. But Rocky can just tell something is different. Something is bothering Ryland. So he quietly asks, "What is wrong, question? You shake. Everything is fine, question?"
Ryland doesn't lift his gaze from the tank he's working on, but he answers a little quickly, "Yeah, yeah, buddy, I'm fine. I'm just a little anxious to get these tests started. Our savior is right in front of us, you know?"
The Eridian can't argue with that.
Ryland doesn't stop fidgeting, though. He can't. He clears his throat and wipes at his face, pushing his glasses up into his hair for a moment. "You know, what? I- I think I need a moment alone to think about this. I'm going to go up to the cockpit and brainstorm a little more, buddy. You keep working."
Rocky tilts his carapace in slight confusion but he doesn't question Ryland. Human thing, he muses. Instead, the Eridian thrums, "I will work at my bench. Faster. More done down there." Ryland is already pushing off the lab chair when Rocky speaks, and he gives him a thumbs up to acknowledge him.
As Rocky disappears down one of his tunnels and into the dormitory to join you, Ryland makes his way up the ladder and into the cockpit.
He's not really sure what's going on. He feels hot. Way too warm to be considered normal. Maybe it was from all of the effort of running around and making the breeder tanks, but that just doesn't sit right in his brain.
Plus, his jumpsuit feels too tight. It's not even one of Yao's or Ilyukhina's, or even yours. It's his, but it's fitting a little too snug. He feels hot and his cheeks burn with a heat he's not used to. Is he sick? How could he be sick?
On top of that, there's... an ache. An ache that he tries to will away. It wasn't the first time he'd gotten a random hard-on before. Seriously, he was once a teenage boy. He figured it was one of those weird times where the body is so ramped up on emotions - likely the high from finding Earth's and Erid's saviors - that his touch-starved body got a little excited. It's really only a natural reaction and he knows that.
So, he tries to implement his normal methods of making them go away. How he knows they are normal methods? Well... he just knows he had to use them on Earth for some reason. He's not sure why, who, or what would cause his cock to grow hard, but come on. He's a man.
His mind starts on the science experiments he needs to conduct. The engineering of the breeder tanks, controlling the gases going in and out, how to save the different strains he'll breed up.
Before he can stop it, he sees you helping him in his mind. A pain in his ass, sure, but also his only human company. He pictures the few times he's gotten you to smile. Even Rocky had managed to get you to laugh, even if you just rolled your eyes at Ryland's dumb jokes.
His mind drifts from the curve of your smile. He thinks about the lines of your collarbones. He'd seen them once when he accidentally floated in on you changing in 0G. That, naturally, leads him down to the swell of your breasts. The perfect curve and size. He can only imagine how soft and pliable they would be to touch...
Ryland! Dude, what the hell?! His brain screams at him, Knock it off, man! As he lifts a hand from his lap in the pilot's seat to brush some golden curls out of his eyes, it brushes his crotch. It's then he realizes his hard-on has pitched into a full on tent.
A soft whine curls up his throat as he tries to push you out of his mind. But it's odd. It's almost as if a mental block has formed in his brain. The more he tries to not think about you, the more he does. It's like all of his deep, primal instincts and desires written in his DNA latch onto you.
Ryland tries to fight off the thoughts about you with everything he's got. You hate him. He doesn't like you. The two of you are in this awful Adam and Eve situation 12 light years from Earth. He knows he's touch-starved. He knows he hasn't had a good lay in who knows how long.
But the more he fights his brain, the harder it gets to push his imagined image of your bare form out of his head.
Then, Ryland guiltily gives in. Just this once to get this... problem dealt with. It'll be once and done, and I'll just go straight down to the bathroom and clean up after. Y/n should be asleep, so I can handle it. I can do this. He lets his mind fully settle on his fantasy of your naked body.
He pictures your skin sliding against his. How soft you would be underneath him. He wonders what your skin tastes like, how you might sound when he nudges his cock between your thighs. More shyly, he pictures folding you in half underneath him, pulling your legs over his shoulders and putting you into a deep mating press.
That makes him snap out of the haze of his mind for a moment. Hold on, he seems to think. That's not me. I- I would never do that. That's pretty darn involved, and that's not really my style.
Thinking about you underneath him like that only makes his hard-on throb, and it becomes too much to bear. Bashfully, Ryland palms at the tent of his jumpsuit. He groans at the first touch of the material against his sensitive tip, but he quickly clamps his mouth closed.
Rocky can probably see you! And hear you! And come up any moment!
Ryland bites down on his tongue and leans back into the pilot's seat. Then, he works the zipper of his jump suit down with pink cheeks and shame in his movements. His cock is standing at attention and springs free once the zipper is low enough. He chokes down a whimper and gently palms at his length.
He works his hand from base to tip in long, fluid pumps. Pleasure spikes at him in sharp, prickly explosions. It almost hurts. He's never experienced anything like this before, but he doesn't think he likes it. But he knows he wants the ache to go away, so he keeps at it.
Maybe I'm just super sensitive, he thinks as he tries rolling his hips into his hand in search of some kind of release. But no matter what he does, nothing changes.
The blonde-haired scientist's pleasure remains stagnant. It doesn't grow. It doesn't shrink. It remains as a constant, burning ache.
It's then, Ryland realizes. This isn't a normal boner. This isn't a normal reaction to being touch-starved or anything like that. If anything, he should have unraveled faster than he'd care to admit.
No, his brain whispers in defeat. There's only one way to fix this. And you're not going to like it.
You.
He hates it.
There's no way he can look you in the eye right now, let alone form a half-coherent sentence. It feels as if every nerve in his body is tingling, burning with desire. It's not unbearable yet - but it's not going away.
Plus, you're supposed to be sleeping. The last thing Ryland wants to do is wake you up because his boner won't go away. Especially when you don't like him... at all!
But... Ryland's resolve crumbles faster than he wants to admit. All it takes is thinking about you, your smile when he sees it, that darn sparkle in your eyes when things are going right and the science is working.
It makes his cock twitch in his lap. The thick length throbs with want as it threatens to slap up against his abdomen. He grunts and knows that in that moment, something is not right with him.
Something is wrong.
As gently as he can, Ryland grabs his cock in his hand again, an untamed whimper falling from his mouth as he tucks it back into his jumpsuit. The simple touch has his hips rutting up without his control, a small bead of precum leaking from his cock's flushed tip.
Another wave of shame runs through his body as the want to cry wells up in the blonde-haired scientist's throat. Fuck, this is bad. He had once been a horny teenager. That was nothing in comparison to how he feels right now.
Ryland does his best to get his head together with the facts of what he knows despite the haze of desire looming over him. He needs to present you and Rocky with the facts of what was likely going to happen.
So, he carefully wipes his right hand on one of the pant legs of his jumpsuit, the sweat and precum mixing together to stain the material. It makes him cringe internally, and he hopes you don't notice it before he has a chance to explain.
Then, Ryland takes a deep breath and climbs out of the pilot's seat. Immediately, the fabric of the jumpsuit rubs against his sensitive cock, and his hips roll forward to try to relieve the tension in his body. He moans softly but then clamps his jaw shut in frustration.
With an aggravated exhale, Ryland forces himself upright and grits his teeth together. He can do this. It's not going to be pretty, but he will tell it to you and Rocky straight.
He's pretty sure it was his carelessness that got him into this position. It's now his responsibility to try to find a way out of this.
With his goal at the front of his mind, Ryland begins making his way down the rungs of the ladder to the laboratory. It's slow moving at first. Each movement from his legs has the jumpsuit pulling taught and slack against his still-hard cock.
He's still holding it together - just barely.
When Ryland's feet land firmly on the floor of the lab, he takes a shaky, deep breath. His heart is racing faster than before. He's sweating, everywhere. His face, neck, hands, arms, chest, armpits, leg crevices, hell, he could be sweating from his crotch. Everywhere is sweaty.
Ryland knows he's burning up - he doesn't need a mercury thermometer to tell him he's got a fever. He can just tell. On top of that, the skin he can see is flushed pink, verging red in some areas.
Not a good sign.
If that's not enough, his vision is growing a little blurry. His glasses are still on, but his actual eyes are losing the ability to focus properly. Somewhere in him gauging his surroundings, the blonde-haired scientist sees movement.
It's Rocky in one of his tunnels, on the way up from the dormitory. "Grace, question?" Rocky asks tentatively, the musical notes blending together as Ryland tries to quickly decipher them.
"Y-yeah, b-buddy," he stutters out as he almost limps across the laboratory. He has to catch himself on one of the tables as he gets a little lightheaded. A sudden burning sensation crawls up his spine, licking at the back of his neck and threatening to flood his head.
"You are not well," Rocky states - it's not a question this time. "You are leaking, but not from your head. What is wrong, question?" The simple question brings a half-hearted smile to Ryland's face as he manages to croak out, "Y-yeah, I am, buddy. I- I need you to get Y/n. Then I will explain."
Rocky doesn't say anything. He's confused, but he knows he can't help. So, he lowers his carapace slightly and scuttles back down to the dormitory to retrieve you. The moment alone gives Ryland the chance to focus his attention on his breathing, trying to will a deep breath of air into his lungs and out of his mouth to calm his reactive body down.
He shuffles so that both of his palms lie flush against the lab bench, and he leans over it, bracing himself. The cool metal is pleasant to the touch, and a sigh of content floods from his lips. Unfortunately, it's only momentary relief, but it seems better than nothing.
As quickly as the cooling relief came, the burning hot desire in his core increases. A needy whine tears its way out of Ryland's throat, his head lolling forward as tears threaten to burn at the edge of his vision. He snaps his eyes shut in an attempt to help his focus, forcing his brain to think about the cool metal beneath his hands.
Then, he can hear you clambering up the ladder quickly - Rocky must have made it sound pretty important. Shit, shit, shit. Ryland takes a quick breath, trying to slow his racing heart, but it's no use. Especially when he hears your voice just a moment later.
"Grace? What's the deal? I was trying to sleep like you guys told me to but Rocky was saying you aren't doing well- Oh," you cut your grumpy rant off when you set your gaze on your flushed, sweaty crewmate. Immediately, despite your best judgment and slightly disgruntled disposition, you take a few rapid, worried steps toward him.
"Stop!" Ryland cries out when he hears you coming closer. The sound of your voice awakens something deep inside of him. Before he can tell his brain No!, his hips snap forward uncontrollably, and his fingers try to dig into the hard metal under his touch.
You halt at his command, your sleepy, grumpy expression molding into more of a puzzled look as you watch him struggle to still his body. With sleep picking at your brain, it takes you a moment before an embarrassed realization settles over you. The movement.
You bite your tongue as you wait for Ryland to speak again, because you're about to duck away with flushed cheeks of your own.
A ragged gasp escapes Ryland's throat, and his face and neck have flushed red. Sweat dots his skin and mats his blonde curls hanging over his forehead. The sound of his gasp makes your ears perk up instantly, the rough noise unconsciously replaying in the back of your mind.
"S- so," he stutters out to start, keeping his eyes closed as he shuffles to stand more upright. Ryland remains facing the lab bench in an attempt to hide his hard-on. It works for the moment and so he focuses on trying to get his next words out. "The- the Taumoeba or other s-species from the s- sampler have had this effect on me."
Rocky scuttles around one of his tunnels above Ryland as you cock your head to the side in confusion. Ryland continues when neither of you says anything. "I- I was the only, only one who was in direct contact with them or- or the sampler."
"But you had gloves on," you say softly, as if to not make things worse. "I watched you work, you didn't mess anything up." The low timbre of your words instantly makes Ryland whine, the noise out of his control. One of his hands clenches down into a fist and he smacks as gently as he can at the lab table in frustration.
"I did," he manages to growl out, the noise rough and unusual coming from the usually soft-spoken blonde. The admission would have sucked to say either way, and Ryland knows it. Shame hits him. He fucked up and now he's uncontrollably horny because of his mistake.
However, his response just makes your eyes widen. That's not good. I didn't see him mess anything up. It was all textbook technique. Ryland pants, grunts, and then mumbles before all of his control seeps away, "I think, I think I got hit with an aromatic compound or I- I accidentally brushed the sampler on my arm. It's caused... this, this condition."
Before you can stop yourself, your eyes flit over his whole body to analyze his condition.
You can see the sweat dampening his skin and the jumpsuit, the bright yellow color deepening all over his frame in odd patches. The usually comfortable but loose fit is roughly the same, except for one area.
Ryland's hunched-over form makes it harder to tell, but it's undeniable when your gaze lands on it. His cock is hard and standing at attention underneath his jumpsuit. The now obvious tent brings an even fiercer heat to your cheeks. You can't help it. You hadn't been with anyone... you'd been too busy focused on your career and then saving the world.
"It, it won't go away," he sobs out, his head falling forward a few more degrees so his forehead rests against the cool metal of the lab table. His whole form is tense and on edge, and seeing him like this tugs on your heartstrings. But something about this just doesn't make sense.
Confusion draws your brows taut together, and you carefully step closer to Ryland as you mull over his words. Rocky, who has been silent this whole time, is beyond confused, begins scuttling back and forth in his tunnel, trying to make sense of two alien species biology. Humans and whatever species caused this reaction in Ryland.
"Your... condition won't go away?" you ask slowly, your presence now much closer to the blonde-haired scientist. He bites down hard on his tongue as he squeezes his eyes shut. Your body was closer, your voice was closer. He could almost reach out, grab your hips- No! He quickly stops himself.
He needs to finish explaining.
The next sentence he grunts out is hard to understand, but you eventually piece it together. "No, it won't. I- tried. It won't go away. It's... it's not normal. It won't stop unless one of two things happens." You silently look up at Rocky, who has stopped above the two of you, his legs slowly raising and lowering his carapace in thought. The Eridian doesn't say anything.
"One," he hisses through gritted teeth, "It'll end when I cum, but not by my hand." The dirty words falling from Ryland's mouth has your heart fluttering in your chest, your mouth running dry at seeing him so... untamed. He swallows thickly and then grunts out, "Or two, it'll end when the chemicals are fully metabolized by my bloodstream."
Ryland lifts his head and then quickly brings it down on the lab table in a quick smack, a snarl of sexual frustration falling from his lips. A fresh bead of sweat curls down his neck, and you watch it disappear into the crevice of his jumpsuit.
"H-how long until it'll be fully processed?" you ask a little nervously, shuffling on your feet to give your injured leg some reprieve. It takes every ounce of control Ryland has not to open his eyes and look at you - he knows it'll only make it worse. He coughs once and then mumbles darkly, "I- I think its metabolism will take longer than I want it to. I'll die from overheating because of this fever before my body can process it all."
His tone sends warning bells off in your mind, and suddenly the severity of the situation sets in. Rocky finally speaks up, chiming in with an urgent and thoughtful question. "Can we cool Grace, question?" Ryland shakes his head left and right as he groans out, "No, buddy. It's not like your radiator organ. The cooler things are I touch, the more I burn up inside. This isn't a normal fever."
Ryland's words are finalized with a whimper when he flattens his fisted palm against the cool lab table. You rush toward him at the sound of what you think is pain, but you stop a few feet away as you try to assess where to help.
"Ryland," you breathe out his first name as you look at him. Panic threatens to flood over you while you take in his overly turned-on state. What do you do? Another sob pulls from his throat at the sound of your voice being even closer, and you watch his body tense up yet again.
"I- I'm afraid of hurting you," he whimpers out brokenly, "I can barely control myself, Y/n." His voice breaks at the end of his sentence, but then he's heaving in a deep breath. "I've thought of two options," he rushes out, the words slurring together. "Either you lock me in the airlock until this all ends, or-"
Ryland cuts himself off as the other thought swirls in his brain. It makes his aching cock throb - the sensation now painful. The other option sends images of you into his head. He pictures the way your cunt would stretch around his cock as he sinks into you. He can see the way your back would arch in pleasure, your hands reaching for him. He can see the way your breasts would bounce with every thrust from his hips slamming into yours.
Those thoughts prompt more precum to leak from his tip, making the wet patch on the front of his jumpsuit grow bigger. You've grown quiet at his words. The implication of his silence not lost on you.
Either he dies in the airlock of his organs being cooked, or you let him fuck you to give his brain the endorphin release to combat the chemicals being metabolized in his blood.
Your logical mind comes to an obvious conclusion: you're both going to die out here anyway. Be that a microscopic alien induced sex craze, starving to death, Ilyukhina's heroin stash, Yao's gun, or the Nitrogen tanks left by DuBois. It was inevitable.
Your rapidly beating heart comes to another. Help him.
Your train of thought is broken by his needy voice cutting through the quiet air of the ship. "I- I can't force you to do anything," he manages to croak out. "I- I get it if you'd rather put me in the air lock. I- I'd never want to f-force myself onto y-" "It's... okay," you soothe, your tone gentle and sweet as you watch his body almost writhe in pain.
"N-no," he cries, "I c-can't coerce you into, into this. I still could hurt you. I don't - I don't know if I'll be able to control myself if we-" Ryland stops himself as his hips try to roll again. Tears run down his cheeks now, splashing onto the lab table under his head.
"I trust you," is the only thing you can think of to say. Your heart is beating the fastest it ever has, adrenaline shooting through your veins and making your fingers shake with anticipation. You quickly tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and mumble, "I- I've never done this before but..."
As your voice trails off, Ryland swears his grip on reality slides. You'd never had sex? And this would be your first if you let him? Fuck! He lifts his head from the table, his cheeks still wet with tears but with his eyes still clamped closed. "I can't- I can't ask you to do that."
"You don't have to ask," you reply, your left hand reaching out to rest on his right shoulder. At the touch, Ryland lurches closer to you, his body swinging around to face you, his eyes ripping themselves open to stare down at you.
His body works against his brain, making him lean into your personal space. He sets his gaze deep into yours and swallows thickly. He feels like a predator, stalking his prey right before they lunge for the kill. It takes him a second to lean back, a scowl of pain etched on his features as he seethes through gritted teeth, "S-sorry."
He means it for more than just closing the distance - he means it for everything that was potentially about to happen.
"Once I start," he whispers lowly, his blue eyes boring into yours, "I don't think I'll be able to stop. You may-" his voice catches and then he finishes, "Yao's gun-" "It's okay, Ry," you match his soft tone. The tears make his blue eyes glitter, and you can see all sorts of inner turmoil burning in his gaze.
You tilt your head to find Rocky's figure cowering in his tunnel directly above you and Ryland. "What is happening, question?" Rocky asks, the notes an octave lower than normal. He's scared. You offer him a smile and state nervously, "Rocky? We will explain all of this later. For now, try to avoid me and Ryland. Stay up here in the lab or go up to the cockpit. Things may get scary, things... could break, we could both yell or make a lot of noise. No matter what - just stay on your side of the xenonite, okay?"
Rocky dips his carapace in understanding and then asks, "Where will you be, question?" You glance back at Ryland, whose skin is only a few inches from you, the heat pulsing off him in waves. You swallow thickly as you catch his gaze, the intensity of it making a shiver crawl up your spine.
"We'll be in the dormitory," you reply slowly, holding Ryland's gaze level. His hands clench by his sides, and he warns in a low huff, "The second you move away, I- my body is going to chase you. I-I don't think I can stop it."
You offer him an encouraging smile and reply, "I'll just have to run faster than you, then." It makes the darkness in his eyes lighten ever so slightly, and it gives you faith that the Ryland you know is in there.
Then, you move. You retract your arm from his shoulder as you launch backwards as best as you can on your leg, away from the lab table and from Ryland. Just as you move, you see Ryland's eyes grow cold and narrow, and then he lunges. The crystal clear feeling of fear shoots through your nervous system as you wobbly dart toward the ladder, and using it like a fireman's pole, you slide down it to give yourself a small lead.
Ryland is only a few seconds behind you as you make your way toward the mattress on the floor of the ship that you had been sleeping on mere minutes ago. It was detached from the wall so that Rocky would have more room for his workshop. Now, it serves as a soft landing pad as Ryland's hands grab onto your waist from behind you.
His fingers dig into your waist kind of roughly, finding your last rib on each side and pulling you flush against his chest. "I'm so sorry," he croaks out as his hips start rutting against your backside, the wetness on the front of his jumpsuit smearing against the back of yours.
"I said it already," you pant out as the air leaves your lungs, "It's o-kay." Your last word comes out with a hitch as one of Ryland's hands quickly slides from your waist up the front of your abdomen to grab at your left breast. He palms at it, his fingers digging into and toying with the soft flesh as his hips roll against yours, shoving you forward a small step.
A small gasp tears from your throat at the feeling of his cock nestling against your ass and his hand so openly playing with your chest. You mind is spinning. It's trying to process, trying not to blush and shy, trying to plan for what to do next.
Unsure of what to do and to think because he's touching you like this, your hands carefully navigate around his groping at you. Your fingers reach for the top of your jumpsuit, hastily tugging down the zipper with uncalculated yanks as you maneuver around his arm. In doing so, you're trying to give him more access to your skin and body.
You also have to admit, despite being quite nervous and anxious for whatever was about to happen... it was kind of hot seeing your usually reserved and quiet crewmate indulge in his body's desires.
The second you free the front of your torso from the material of your jumpsuit, Ryland's hand dips under the zipper to slide over your skin. The warmth and softness of your body elicits a guttural moan from his lips. At the same time, it brings a an odd heat to your core, swirling in a way you hadn't experienced.
That sound? Was hot. His fingers gravitate to finding your right breast now, wanting to give it the same attention as the other. A pleased whimper escapes him as he praises, "So soft for me." You can't help but softly gasp in response to his touch and his praise. His feverish warm hand sends electricity crackling through your veins and anticipation brewing in your stomach.
He does his best to slow his movements down - his control is dwindling as more and more of your skin is revealed. He needs to prep you. He'll hurt you otherwise. He can't do that. If anything, he at least needs you turned on a little bit.
"I k-know you don't like me," Ryland grunts as he swirls his pointer and middle fingers over your right nipple, both consciously and unconsciously loving the feeling of it rising and pebbling under his ministrations. His touch has your back arching slightly, and you can't deny his touch feels nice. It makes it a bit hard to focus on his words, but you do listen.
"B-but I need to- I need you wet." Ryland groans out the dirty words as his cock catches on the curve of your ass and his hips try to snap. "I need to minimize my chances of hurting y-" "Just keep going," you cut him off with a soft mewl, working slowly to shake your arms out of the sleeves of your jumpsuit.
Ryland doesn't say anymore, but he does force himself to let go of you when he realizes what you're trying to do. The gap between your bodies is just big enough that he can help you peel your arms out of the sleeves, but then he's on you again.
Now, his hands land on the exposed skin of your waist. Seeing and touching your bare skin drives this desire in his mind absolutely wild. The fire coursing through his body has his vision edging with red, with one goal at the front of his mind: breed.
It was never anything he thought he was into before, but he just... wants to now. His subconscious notes the gentle slope of your spine, a mole on your right shoulder blade, and the way your hair rests around your neck. Seeing you like this only heightens that desire.
In an instant, his hands twist you around to face him, and he takes a step forward, one of his thighs parting your legs.
In two swift strides, your feet hit the base of the mattress on the floor. With the pressure of Ryland pushing on you, you gently flop backwards onto it, Ryland tumbling down on top of you. Now free from the confines of the jumpsuit, your bare chest bounces at the force of your back hitting the bed.
And, for the first time, Ryland gets an eyeful of your breasts.
"You're so beautiful," he moans appreciatively as he leans forward, his hips slowing their constant but fruitless thrusting as his mouth latches onto one of your mounds without warning.
His warm lips suckling at your breast and the blonde scruff from his jaw tickling your sensitive skin has you arching up into him, the foreign but pleasant feeling eliciting a sharp gasp from you. Beautiful? Must be the microbe's biochemicals talking. Unsure of what to do with your hands, they eventually find purchase threading through his fluffy blonde locks.
Ryland switches from suckling on the mound to place hot, wet kisses there instead. Slowly, as slow as he can manage with the desire coursing through him, he works his way from one breast through your valley of cleavage to the other. There, he gives your second breast the same treatment as the first. He quickly transitions to swirling his tongue and flicking it over your nipple until it grows under his touch and he can suck on it again with renewed vigor.
Unconsciously, your clothed hips roll up to meet his, and Ryland moans appreciatively against your skin as he grinds his hips downwards. With him on top of you like this, you finally can feel how his body is feverishly warm. It's then you know he needs to be stripped out of his jumpsuit.
"R-Ryland," you manage to pant out, one of your hands moving from the back of his head to softly cup his cheek. He doesn't move for a moment, lost in tasting your skin and soaking up the feeling of your softness underneath him. You don't relent, though, and it takes some effort to pull him up to see look him in the eyes. His blue gaze is almost black with the way his pupils have dilated. It's a wild, frenzied look in his eye, and it makes something deep inside you quiver.
"Your jumpsuit," you probe gently, releasing his face to pointedly tug at the material clinging to the front of his chest. The zipper was already part way down his chest to begin with, but the blonde-haired scientist quickly releases one hand from your waist to tug the soft material down even further.
Then, before you can even process it, he's reaching into the bottom part of his jumpsuit with a broken, rich moan. Your eyes are wide and nervous as you watch him hurriedly pull out his hard, throbbing cock. It slaps up to his abdomen, tall and standing at attention. A wave of panic shoots through you. It's... big.
His cock is swollen to the limit of what his body can handle. The first thing you notice about his cock is that it's long. You don't even want to guess how many inches. A lot. The next thing you notice is the girth of it. The shaft is thick down at the base but gets slightly narrower as it approaches the tip.
There's even an angry vein curling up the right side, and you're sure you could feel his pulse if you touched it. His whole cock curves to the right slightly, the tip a pretty, rosy red that matches the flush on Ryland's cheeks. The tip leaks precum since Ryland had been turned on for so long without a release. Being trapped in his jumpsuit has smeared that precum all over the tip of his cock, casting it in a milky white shadow.
You... can't deny it. His cock is pretty. And it turns you on.
Your throat goes dry as you stare at it while Ryland sighs in relief when it's free from the confines of his jumpsuit. "Ry-Ryland," you stutter out, his eyes snapping open at the sound of your voice. You swallow thickly and cough once as his hips continue their efforts to roll against you, his now exposed cock spreading his precum over the expanse of your bare stomach.
Once you've got his attention, you quietly ask, "Sh-should we fully strip?" The question is laced with an understandable sheepishness, but Ryland doesn't seem to pick up on it. If he was in his right mind, he certainly would, but instead, he just nods and leans forward, his mouth returning to pressing wet kisses along your skin. This time, his lips work higher up, nipping and leaving marks over your collarbones and toward the crevice of your neck.
You can smell his sweat now, and the combination of his mouth teasing your sensitive body and his natural scent flooding your nose has got you turned on. You hardly notice the way his fingers work your jumpsuit down over your hips - you're too busy figuring out how to roll them in time with his.
But then Ryland is grunting an order against your skin. "Kick it off." Before he gives you time to think about it, he sinks his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder. He bites down fairly hard, and it makes your back arch off the mattress and your legs shiver with a moan falling from your lips. That little bit of delicious pain is just enough motivation to finish kicking the jumpsuit off, the material landing somewhere on the ground to the side of the mattress.
Now, for the first time in your life, you are stripped bare before a man. Ryland covers you with his larger frame and the skin-on-skin contact of your chests pressed together keeps him from fully viewing your body.
The blonde-haired scientist growls in frustration as his cock catches on the zipper to his jumpsuit, and he sits back from rolling his hips against you. There, you can see almost all of him, and he can see all of you.
As Ryland tugs his arms out of his sleeves, a whine curls up his throat when he sees his precum spread across your bare stomach. Not only that, he sees you.
Your (colored) hair fanned out under your head, bruises and dark marks now lining your neck and chest. Your breasts shift as your chest rises and falls rapidly, your (colored) gaze set on him in nervous anticipation. Then, your stomach is covered in him, leading right down to the mound of hair that hides your cunt.
And Ryland groans at the sight of you spread bare underneath him. His cock seems to agree, twitching against his bare abdomen as he finishes freeing himself from his jumpsuit. He kicks his off just as you did to yours, and then he's hovering over top of you again.
Suddenly, you realize your crewmate is a lot leaner than you gave him credit. His biceps bulge on either side of your head, his pecs are sharply defined, and his torso is laced with some of the finest abdominal muscles you have ever seen.
It makes your cunt clench.
"So, so good for me," he grunts as he slips one thigh between yours, parting your legs. The action has his hips rolling forward as his brain realizes it's about to get the hit of dopamine it wants.
Ryland angles his hips down and catches his cock on your slit. He absolutely growls over the feeling of your arousal gathering in your folds, and he pumps his cocks a few times through them to gather what wetness he can. He's starting to lose control of his movements, though. His body has one goal in mind and it's taking everything in him to fight it off to make sure he doesn't hurt you.
Satisfied that his cock is lubricated, Ryland nudges the tip of it right to the entrance of your cunt. Your hands reach up from where they have been clutching at the sheets underneath you to slide around his neck. You cling to him and find his gaze with a shaky exhale and butterflies brewing in your stomach.
He's already watching you, and you can see remorse and something else dancing in his eyes. Then, as slowly as he can manage, he begins to sink his cock into you an inch at a time. He does it with shallow, manageable thrusts until he's fully seated himself inside of your cunt.
Whimpers and whines and gasps of all sorts fall from your mouth as your body reacts to being stretched out in a way you've never experienced. Your eyes snap closed and your jaw drops wide open in a breathy, soft moan. There's only a slight burn and pinch, which you're distracted from by the sound of Ryland's voice.
"I'm sorry," Ryland whimpers as he tucks his head into the crook in your shoulder, hiding his face from you. He's taking that look on your face to mean you're in pain. He doesn't like that.
You return his whimper with a shake of your head, and as you try to find your ability to speak, you pause. Ryland is shaking above you, and for a moment, you think he's crying again. A moment passes but then you realize - he's trying to hold himself back.
And failing.
His left hand slips from next to your head to hold onto your hip, and once there, his grip is tight. You somehow manage to know it's not as tight as it could be because of his wrapped up injury, but it's still a firm hold. A moment later, you hear him hiss into your shoulder, "Breathe, please."
You do as he says, relaxing your body and easing the burn in your lungs you didn't realize was there. Your thighs simply part wide for him. It's like your brain just knows what to do. Thousands of years of evolution written into your DNA at work. Thankfully, your injured leg rests off to the side and neither of you touches or moves it.
Ryland's cock reminds his brain of its one goal: breed.
As you regain your air after processing the feeling of being stuffed full of Ryland's cock, you manage to gasp out, "I- I thought you'd fuck me like you hate me." You force a deep breath into your lungs and tear your eyes open to look at Ryland in an attempt to gauge his reaction. It's then Ryland's hips start to slide in and out of your cunt on their own accord.
Soft, pleasured noises begin to disperse from your lips as your brain tries to catch up with all of the new feelings it's experiencing. Somehow, in all of the bliss and pleasure and nervousness and excitement, it deciphers what Ryland says next.
"But, but I don't," Ryland grunts into your ear as his cock slides into your cunt with a slow roll of his hips. At that, he effectively loses control of his mind and body.
You don't get the chance to respond to what he says. His hips begin really rolling, slowly gaining speed and accuracy as he thrusts into your cunt.
This feeling is foreign and new and somehow amidst the anxiety, nice? The feeling of Ryland's hand on your hip keeps you still as his hips snap to meet yours. There's a firmness to it that tells you that you won't be released until he's done with you. Right now? You aren't really upset about your position.
It's unexpected, sure, but not... entirely unwelcome.
With each thrust from Ryland, he brings a new spark of pleasure to your body. Noises like you've never made are produced due to his movements and the sounds he's making. Ryland can't even try to hold them back. Grunts, groans, growls. They are deep, untamed, primal sounds that tell you his body is happy with this course of action.
"Ry- oh, Ryland," you breathe out as he picks up speed in your cunt. The sound of skin slapping on skin begins to fill the air, combining with the sounds pulled from deep in both you and Ryland's chests. He groans lowly into the skin of your shoulder. He doesn't dare pick his head up, fearful that looking at you will only make him come more unrestrained.
In holding himself hostage like this, his glasses are fogging up, but it's not like he can tell. His eyes are screwed shut as tightly as he can manage. Your cunt feels incredible to his sensitive, throbbing cock. The soft, velvety feeling of your walls, the welcoming warmth of your core, and the way your cunt seems to take him so perfectly with each thrust.
It's driving him wild.
Ryland's hips only grow rougher and faster as he finds and settles into a hard, brutal pace. This is not what he would want to do for your first time, but he can't stop his body. It wants him to fuck you with everything he's got, and he is helpless to stop it.
Meanwhile, all you can do is slip one hand up and into his blonde curls and hold on with that grip. Your other hand removes itself from his neck to wrap around his back, raking down his skin in time with his thrusts and the moans filling the air.
At some point, your eyes force themselves closed despite wanting to watch what you can. Your jaw has fallen slack, lost in this immense pleasure and the jolts spreading throughout your body. It's furthered when Ryland grunts into your shoulder, "That's it, that's it." The small bit of praise makes your cunt clamp down and a moan of, "Ryyyyyy," slip past your lips.
That noise alone makes Ryland snarl, and his hips slam up harder into yours. "So warm, so wet," he grunts, "You're so tight on my cock, Y/n. You feel so good, gosh, I'm- not gonna-"
You think you might know what he means.
His movements have caused your pleasure to condense deep in your core. It's built with every thrust and every noise Ryland has made. Now, that pleasure is forming into a coil that's steadily growing with each passing second.
"M-me, t-too," you manage to whimper out, your back arching up off the mattress and shoving your chest flush against Ryland's. His hand on your hip slides under your back to hold you against him as his hips continue to work.
There's a slight angle change, and in that, the tip of his cock finds that one spongey spot in your walls that has you seeing stars. "Ryland!" you moan louder yet, your whole body quivering from the strength of his thrusts. The force of his hips makes your breasts bounce, but in being held against him like this, you're left with the delicious friction of your pebbled nipples rubbing against the soft, smooth skin of his chest.
"Fuck," he groans out. "You... You feel so good. So good for me. Sh-shit, Y/n!" You're right there with him, whimpering and mewling out the pleasure he's bringing you. The coil deep in your core builds and builds and builds until you cry out, "'m- 'm- Ryland!"
You cum hard and fast on his cock, writhing underneath him as pleasure explodes throughout your body. Your eyes, snapped closed with bliss, see shooting stars behind your eyelids and you stop breathing.
Your cunt clamps down hard on his cock, and Ryland's hips stutter at the shoot of pleasure that travels up the length of his cock. He forces himself to resume the pace, fucking you through your orgasm both to prolong it for your sake, but also because his isn't that far behind.
Ryland speeds up his hips one more time, pistoning in and out of your sensitive cunt. This new speed sends him barreling toward his own orgasm as he grunts out hoarsely, "Cummin', cummin'!"
Ryland releases a long, strangled groan as he cums deep in your cunt. His cock twitches out thick ropes of seed that paint the walls of your cunt white. It takes no effort for his body to rock you both through his orgasm. His brain is completely gone and his body is running on autopilot determined by the biochemicals floating through his blood.
There's a major sense of relief that floods the blonde-haired scientist. The release he gets from climaxing is not just physical. There's a weight lifted off of him, like in a weird way, it feels like he gets a breath of fresh, spring time air after being stuck in space for 12 light years.
That barrier in his mind that focused on breeding has been satiated.
Rapid, fast pants fall from Ryland's mouth as he sucks in air like he's coming up out of water. His arm holding his body over yours gives in and he crashes down into your chest. It knocks the wind out of you, but at the same time, only adds to the pleasure radiating throughout your body as his hips come to a stop deep in your cunt.
Yet in the haze of Ryland's blissed out mind, he is upset.
He's distraught. He feels like an asshole. His brain is telling him that you only did this to save his life when you should have put him in the airlock. He feels like he disrespected you and went against his core beliefs of treating women right.
On top of that, as he feels his cock twitch and that painful ache in his body dissipate, he realizes he didn't use a condom.
Yeah. He's cursing himself up and down on the inside.
Meanwhile, you're in complete and utter bliss. Ryland's cock is still buried deep inside of you, and honestly? You'd be content if he stayed right there as you come down from your high.
Your brain is working overtime to try to process and understand everything that just happened within the last... however long. That's when something Ryland said in the middle of all of this floats to the front of your mind.
Tentatively, with your voice quiet and unsure, you break the silence. "What... what did you mean by... you don't, uhm, hate me?" You loosen your grip on Ryland's hair, instead gently smoothing over the mussed up golden curls as you wait for his response.
Ryland doesn't even know what to say. How does he explain what's going on in his mind right now? He's getting hit with a wave of exhaustion now, likely an effect from the chemicals emitted from the alien life form, and he's beyond embarrassed and flushed. He simultaneously really wants to stay right where he is, connected to you in this way, but also... he really wants to put clothes on and try to hide himself from you.
Because what if...
He feels your hand smooth over his head and he releases a small puff of air from his lungs. Your second hand slowly slides up Ryland's back, over his shoulder, and to his jaw. Your own heart is picking up speed again with your sudden braveness, but you want to know.
As kindly as you can, you draw Ryland up from your shoulder so that he comes face to face with you. He's expecting to see a look of judgment, a look of anger, a look of disgust.
He finds none of that.
Instead, he only sees an open, willing expression. Maybe even... hopeful?
Ryland's throat grows dry at that look. His heart is beating faster and his breathing grows even more unsteady. He swallows and wets his lips, his eyes darting back and forth between your own.
His mouth opens and closes a few times as he tries to backpedal, to cover it up, to say something to hide his mistake. But he can't. And that look from you has his splintered mind giving in and admitting slowly, "I... don't."
Surprise slowly spreads across your face like a can of molasses spilled on a table during winter. Ryland glances down from your eyes and stares straight at your collarbones. He sucks in a breath, shuts his eyes, and sighs, "I... I don't hate you, Y/n. I never have."
You are frozen underneath him. You don't dare speak. You don't dare move. All you can do is listen.
When you don't do anything, Ryland takes it as a sign to keep talking, even though that's literally the last thing he wants to do. "When I woke up from the coma," he murmurs, "All I knew was that I didn't like you. Something about you... just..."
He tears his eyes open and glances around, trying to find the right words. You swipe your thumb over his cheek and that draws his attention back to your face. His brows furrow and he whispers, "You just aggravated me."
You smile a little at that and softly chime in with a huff of, "You aggravated me, too." Ryland mirrors your small smile for a moment before his expression grows serious again. "I didn't... I didn't understand why. There was no reason for me to dislike you like that," he eventually says.
He shuffles onto one of his forearms so he can hold himself above you with less strain on his injury. Ryland's eyes dance over your face as he continues, "You were smart, witty, and a damn good scientist. But you just annoyed me." Somehow the words he says come across in a positive light, and you find them warming your chest and your cheeks.
Ryland settles his gaze on your mouth for a moment as his brows draw together. "After a while," he says, pauses, and then tilts his head and raises a brow, "A long while, after Rocky came on board, I... had a memory come back."
Your eyes grow wider at that. A memory? The two of you had this unspoken agreement where if one of you had a memory, you shared it. Neither of you knew what was happening when you woke up, and one by one, you each got memories. Those memories were missing puzzle pieces to solve and defeat Astrophage. Sharing those memories you individually gained back was a part of that.
Ryland sighs a little sheepishly and nods his head once in your hand. "Yeah, yeah, I know. I know I should I have told you. But... I didn't think you would believe me or... uhm... like? the memory?"
If he didn't have your interest piqued before, he certainly does now. You raise a brow in question, but again, you don't say anything. Ryland takes another deep breath and admits, "It was... you and me. Back on Earth. Stratt's vat, the original lab she set up for when we first got Astrophage, all of it."
"But," he mumbles, "It wasn't... just you and me. We... weren't like how we are here on the Hail Mary. We... joked...and laughed. You, uhm," he chuckles once and shrugs a shoulder, "You'd punch me in the shoulder if I made a really bad joke or if I quoted The Beatles too many times."
Your mouth curls up into a small, one sided smile as your mind begins to race. You part your lips to interrupt, but Ryland keeps going.
His expression is shy and open, and you can tell he's laying it all out for you. "When we were at Baikonur, your trailer was next to mine, and we'd walk to the lab together every morning," he says softly, "There were mornings where I wanted to reach over and grab your hand. I wanted to know what your skin felt like when it was always hidden under a latex glove."
Ryland's eyes flash up to yours. "I wanted to eat dinner with you in my trailer, or in my quarters on the ship when we were out at sea. I wanted to make you laugh every chance I could get just so I could see you smile when everything in the world was falling apart."
If you thought your heart was beating fast before, it's practically fluttering in your throat now. Your breathing is growing faster and shallower too, and you swallow to try to get your voice to work.
Ryland gives you an unsure smile as he confesses, "I... really, really liked you back on Earth. I mean, I had the world's biggest crush on you. I never did anything about it because we were trying to work on this project and I wasn't ever sure if you liked me back. And, oh, I don't know what the coma did to my brain, but it somehow twisted all of those unrequited feelings into a dislike that I've taken out on you for the last however many months."
"I mean, you had and have every reason to dislike me," he mumbles, his smile dissipating. "Both then and now with what I just put you through." Ryland bashfully shrugs one shoulder and admits, "Even now... I... I still like you."
Your eyes are wide with shock and disbelief at Ryland's confession. You don't even know what to say. All of that? On Earth? Now?
You are speechless.
There's only one thing you can think of to do to clearly communicate what you're feeling.
Using both hands to cup Ryland's face, you lean up off the mattress and capture his mouth in a soft, slow kiss. At first, he tries to pull back and panic over it, but then you slip a hand to the back of his head to keep him close, and Ryland sighs, melting into the kiss.
A soft, pleased hum resonates from Ryland, and he brings his hand not holding him up to cradle the back of your head. Once you feel him soften into the kiss, you allow yourself to enjoy it. The feeling of his lips slotting gently against yours, the tickle of his scruff on your face. Even the taste of his mouth is addicting and you find yourself wanting more.
But your lungs are still trying to get back to equilibrium, and you both pull away from the kiss slowly and at the same time. Ryland is the speechless one now, and you hold his face gently and glance over his features in the same way he had for you.
He's all sorts of confused. His hair is sticking up and out in a million different directions, his brows are taut, and you can practically see the questions forming on his mouth.
"It was never unrequited, Ryland," you whisper softly, "I never hated you. I think whatever happened to you in the coma also happened to me, because I also had the world's biggest crush on you."
Your cheeks burn with a shy warmth as you try to come up with your own words to say. Ryland is a step ahead of you, though, as he always is, and he asks, "But... how? When did you...? You've acted like you've hated me since you woke up!"
Now it's your turn to shrug. "Well, I... had a memory a few nights ago when I was getting ready to sleep and I guess it all made sense to me then."
The two of you stare at each other in disbelief for a few moments in silence. Then, at the same time, you both snort and burst into giggles. The tension in the room releases and you can't help but snicker as you come to terms with what information Ryland's provided you.
He sighs and shakes his head with a dumb, amazed grin. "Wow. To think this whole time we've been at each other throats all because the trip here messed with our brains. Unbelievable." You nod along and chuckle, "Well, I mean, at least we got it figured out? Even if under these conditions?"
Ryland winces a little and remorse fills his face. "I'm really sorry," he rushes, "I was so rough on you but I couldn't stop myself and I didn't want to hurt you-" "Ryland, Ryland," you soothe, again slipping your fingers over the scruff on his cheeks. "It's okay. I don't hurt anywhere. I'm okay."
"Actually," you giggle a little sheepishly, "I, uhm... kind of liked it rough like that?" That makes Ryland's cheeks flush a pretty rosy color. His mouth rapidly opens and closes as he tries to come up with something to say, but he doesn't. You end up giggling again, leaning up to rest your forehead against his.
His fingers gently slip into your (colored) locks and he sighs in happy, embarrassed defeat. He holds you close as you mumble, "And maybe, sometime in the future? We can try this all again when we're both healed up and 100%."
Ryland's brows shoot up in surprise as he echoes, "Try this again?" You blink in surprise but then grow bashful as you try to back track, "Well, well- we're the only two humans for 12 light years, and you know, we just did the deed. And well, if we both like each other, then I thought it wasn't a bad idea? Unless I'm totally reading this wrong-" "No!" He yelps out, tightening his grip on your hair slightly.
"No, no, no, that's not what I meant, I'm sorry," Ryland rushes out. "I just... can't believe all of this. This was never how our first time was supposed to go but here we are, and I... I just want to take care of you the way you deserve."
Your expression softens and you lean into his touch. You nuzzle your nose against his and nod faintly. "No, I know what you mean, Ry. I can't believe it either, and you just blew my mind," you say quietly. "You're... something, Dr. Grace."
Ryland smiles and softens into you again. It takes him a moment to get the courage, but then he whispers against your lips, "I love you, Y/n." Hearing those words makes you smile brighter than the stars surrounding the ship and you whisper back, "I love you, Ryland."
Without hesitating this time, Ryland closes the distance between the two of you and captures your lips for himself.
summary: after weeks of trying you can’t take the lies anymore—only to learn the truth was bigger than both you and your boyfriend, and you don’t know if love is enough to survive it
warnings: 18+ smut, p in v, graphic description of sex, gentle smut, port with plot, major hurt comfort, crying, feeling unloved, major deceit/lies, soft! ryland, but still angst, there is a happy ending, this is a long one so get ready
You lugged your bag down the steep stairwell, no longer caring if the wheels clattered against each step as you made your descent. The sound was sharp as it echoed, ricocheting up the narrow walls as it almost beckoned you to turn back.
It didn’t matter anyway. He wasn't there to hear it.
You felt as though this moment should have been more dramatic, some semblance of finality in it. You never expected it to feel so dull. It sat heavy on your stomach, churning deep inside with the same feeling that had been stuck there for the past few weeks.
It was not a clean break, wrapped up with a satisfying conclusion. It was slow. It eroded quietly at something that you once believed was unbreakably solid.
God, you almost wished it were more sudden than this.
You’d been circling this for a while now, flipping and mulling it over in your mind as it gnawed slowly. You’d give it time, given him time. That and every excuse you could possibly feed yourself, stretching them all thin until they barely held any comfort at all.
He’s tired.
Work is stressful.
It’s just a phase.
But it was only so long that you could look at something fraying so obviously in front of you and turn a blind eye to the truth.
By the time you reached the bottom of the stairs, your grip on the handle had tightened to the point your fingers ached. You paused in the dim hallway, breath catching. It wasn’t because of the suitcase, but the weight of everything you were leaving just four floors up.
The heavy door. The flat.
Him.
You stopped your train of thought before your heart led you straight back upstairs, stepping out into the night. The street was quiet, wrapping you in cold darkness immediately. It was late, no sounds of traffic or voices, only the distant sound of the city and the hollow echo of your own footsteps as you crossed toward your car.
You remembered the first time you’d stood on this exact stretch of pavement, keys in hand, both of you grinning like idiots.
Your salary, paired with his teacher’s one, had been just enough to make it work—barely, at times—but it had felt like a win at the time. A one-bedroom with an actual kitchen, a living room that wasn’t just a glorified corridor, and that tiny little balcony that had sealed it for him immediately.
He’d stepped out onto it that first day.
“It’s perfect,” he said, turning back to you with boyish excitement. “Do you know what we could grow out here?”
You hadn’t, at least not then, but it was impossible not to learn when living with a science teacher.
Every morning after felt easy. He’d be up before you sometimes, or just after, padding out onto the balcony with a cup of coffee in one hand, already half-focused on the plants before he’d even taken a sip.
You’d stand just inside the glass doors, your own mug warming your hands, watching him.
He’d crouch, careful with his makeshift garden. Fingers brushing over their leaves. He always treated them with such care. Checking the soil, murmuring little observations under his breath.
And then he’d look up at you.
“This one’s doing really well,” he said, pointing, already halfway into it. “I’m going to have to repot it soon—yeah, definitely. It’s starting to outgrow its house. If I leave it the roots’ll get compacted and then it’s just a whole thing—nutrient uptake drops, water retention—should probably move it before it gets upset.”
You never understood half of it, but you loved the way he said it. Loved the way his whole face lit up, voice picking up the pace. He always got completely absorbed with his subject, even something so small and living and hopeful.
Like he used to be with you.
You reached your car now, dragging your case the last few feet, catching some of the uneven pavement before you lifted it into the back. It landed with a dull thud, making this feel even more final.
The back of your eyes began to sting as you tried to swallow.
You glanced back at your building for one last time as you slammed the door shut. Turning and wrapping your arms around yourself to give you some semblance of comfort.
He always said that it was his job to take care of you. To make sure you were okay, to look after you.
You’d believed him.
Just another lie.
You think you knew from the beginning. The late evenings, distracted conversations. Him nodding along to things you said without really hearing them. You’d been kind to him, told yourself it was normal. People get busy, life gets in the way.
But then it began to stretch.
He’d start coming home later. And when he was home, he was miles away. You’d sit on the sofa together, something half-watched on the TV, and you’d feel it. Physically, he was next to you, but his attention was fractured; trying to be present but couldn’t quite manage it.
You tried to ignore it. Hell—you wanted nothing more than to ignore it. But you weren’t stupid.
“I’ve got an after-school thing.”
“I might be running late.”
You’d nodded, because what else were you supposed to do?
But something about it had sat wrong.
That was until you’d picked up your phone, dialled the school, and asked casually if you could leave a message for him. But the voice on the other end told you something you already knew: that the building had been locked up hours ago.
You fucking knew it.
You closed your eyes, inhaling slowly, trying to steady the tightness in your chest that had been building all day.
You still loved him.
You loved him, and you missed him.
Missed the way he used to look at you, the way he used to reach for you without thinking. Missed the thoughtless closeness that had once been the foundation of everything.
This was not supposed to end with you standing next to your car, years of your life packed away in the back, sneaking away in the middle of the night.
You were just about to open the door when you heard a noise.
First it was distant, but fast approaching, amplified in the empty night air. It grew louder fast, then closer, your stomach dropping as your mind scrambled to keep up.
No.
No, no, no.
You turned your head just enough to see it. A small white light cutting through the dark at the end of the road.
His bike.
Your heart leapt, slamming against your ribs as your fingers fumbled uselessly with your keys. They slipped, catching awkwardly between your hands as you tried to press the small button.
Not now.
Please, not now.
This was the whole point—you hadn’t waited for him, hadn’t given yourself the chance to hesitate, because you knew if you saw him, if he looked at you the way he used to, if he said your name...
You wouldn’t go.
Your breath came shallow as you tried again, hands shaking now. Behind you, the bike slowed.
“Hey!”
You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to rewind the last thirty seconds so you could just leave.
He pulled up. You heard the shift of movement as he dismounted, the soft scuff of his shoes against the pavement.
“Hey—” he called again, like nothing in the world was wrong. “You off somewhere?”
You finally unlocked the car, the sound that seemed to echo far too loudly in the street.
“If you needed me to pick something up you should’ve just asked,” he went on, voice warm, slightly breathless from his journey home.
You kept your head down, unable to look at him.
You heard the shift of his helmet being pulled off, the shake of it as he adjusted his hair, the soft clatter as he leaned the bike carefully against the side of your car.
God. You didn’t want to do this.
You didn’t want to stand here and say the words out loud. You didn’t want to hear him explain or watch him try to fix something that had already slipped too far through your hands. You didn’t want to beg him to tell you what you already knew.
That he’d lost interest.
Or something worse.
“Move, Ry,” you sighed, hand already on the door as you tried to pull it open.
The cold air bit at your skin sharply, but you barely felt it. He made no effort to move. He did the complete opposite, stepping in front of the car, cutting you off entirely, clearly not realising you were trying to do.
“Hey, are you alright?” he asked, his brows pulling together as he took a proper look at you. “It’s freezing out here.”
You almost laughed.
You hadn’t even brought a jumper. Every single one you owned was his.
Soft, worn cotton that still smelled faintly like him, no matter how many times you washed them. You’d stood in front of the drawer earlier, fingers curled around the fabric. You didn’t know if your heart could bear taking them.
So you’d left them behind, left everything back there.
“Move,” you tried again, stronger this time, your voice shaking despite your best efforts as you stepped forward, attempting to push past him. “Please, I—I need you to move.”
He shifted slightly, just enough to stay in front of you, confusion flickering across his face as your words finally began to register properly.
Something wasn’t right; he could see it now.
“Hey—wait—”
He dipped slightly, crouching just enough to catch your face as you tried to turn away, his head tilting, searching for some sign to tell him what was going through your head.
It was impossible not to see the red rims of your eyes, your breath coming in unevenly despite how still you were trying to hold yourself.
His expression shifted.
Please, don’t do this.
“…what’s wrong?”
His hands came up without thinking, settling gently on your shoulders like they always did when he was trying to ground you. You shrugged them off, stepping back like his touch burned.
He would never expect you to react that way to him.
His hands hovered in the air for a second before dropping back down, his fingers flexing, unsure at his sides.
You’d always lean into him.
Always.
“You’re worrying me, sweetheart,” he tried again, shifting his weight. “C’mon—let’s just go upstairs, yeah? We can talk about whatever this is inside. It’s not safe to be out here this late—”
You wanted to, so badly.
You wanted to go upstairs, let him pull you into the warmth of your home, make you tea, talk you through it in that rambling way of his until everything felt manageable again.
You wanted to look into his eyes and believe him.
But for both of your sakes, you couldn’t let that happen.
You knew the second you stepped back into your shared space, softening even a little, it would be over for you. You’d fold. You’d stay. You’d convince yourself it wasn’t as bad as it felt.
And you couldn’t do that again. You owed yourself more than that.
“I’m not going upstairs with you,” you said, lifting your head finally, forcing yourself to meet his eyes.
Those stupid, pleading blue eyes that had always undone you without effort.
“I’m leaving, Ry,” you continued, your voice breaking. “I—I can’t do this anymore.”
Your words didn’t properly land, hovering somewhere between the two of you. Words he never imagined he would hear.
His mouth parted like he was about to say something before stopping himself, his eyes searching your face like he was trying to find something that made sense.
Much like you had, for weeks at this point.
“What—” he started, then stopped, swallowing hard. “Why?”
He took a step closer, cautious now he realised how serious you were.
“C’mon,” he said, voice tighter, something creeping into it, panic, maybe, or confusion. “You’re not making any sense. Let’s just—let’s just go inside, okay? We can figure this out—”
“There is nothing to figure out.”
You saw the way he stilled, the way his shoulders tensed, the way his expression flickered again.
Hurt this time, unmistakable.
“Seriously,” you added, your hands trembling as you gestured weakly toward the side, toward the space you needed him to move from. “My mind’s made up, so if you can—”
Your voice wavered and he caught it.
Of course he fucking did.
It was like a switch flipped behind his eyes, the moment your words faltered. That ever-so-small crack in your composure was enough to make him hope that this was salvageable. He sharpened immediately, though his confusion remained, but it shifted into something more urgent.
“Hey—no, wait—” he said quickly, stepping forward again. “Don’t—don’t do that.”
His voice softened on the last part, trying to steady you.
You shook your head immediately, stepping back again, your heel catching slightly against the curb as you tried to keep distance between you.
“Just—please,” you said, breath uneven now. “Just move, Ry, I don’t—I don’t want to do this like this, I just—”
“Like what?” his words spilt out. “What are you talking about?”
He ran a hand through his hair, pushing it back messily. His eyes kept shifting between your face and the car, like he was trying to piece something together and kept coming up short.
“You’re leaving?” he said again, like saying it slower might make it make sense. “You’re—why would you—what happened?”
What happened?
Like he had the nerve to even ask.
A laugh broke out of you, brittle and wrong.
“What happened?” you echoed, your head shaking “Ryland—are you serious?”
He winced, the missing nickname hitting him.
“I—yeah, I—what do you mean?” he stammered, genuinely lost. “You were fine this morning, I—”
“That’s exactly it,” you cut in. “I’m always fine, right? Everything’s always fine because I don’t say anything and you don’t ask and we just—carry on like nothing’s wrong.”
“Something is wrong,” he said, immediately agreeing, more careful now. “Clearly something is—just tell me what it is.”
Just tell him what it is so he can fix it.
You shook your head again, your hands coming up as you could physically push the words back down.
“No, I—I can’t—” you started, your breath hitching as it all caught up with you. “I can’t keep pretending like this is—like this is normal, like this is what it’s supposed to feel like—”
“What isn’t normal?” he pressed, trying to follow. “You have to tell me, I can’t—”
“You’re never here anymore!” you burst out, the words breaking loose before you could stop them.
The silence that followed was painful. The confusion on his face faltered as it softened into something sadder, almost edged with apology, even if he didn’t fully understand why.
“What?”
“You’re just—” you gestured helplessly, your hands shaking. “You’re gone, Ry. You’re here, but you’re not here, and I—I don’t even know when that happened, I don’t know when I stopped being part of your life in a way that actually matters—”
“That’s not—”
“You don’t talk to me anymore,” you pushed on messily. “You don’t look at me properly, you don’t—you don’t see me, and I’ve been standing there just—waiting for you to come back to me and you just—”
“I am here,” he said desperately. “I’m right here, I—”
“No, you’re not.”
Not in the way he used to be.
He opened his mouth, trying to figure out how to respond to what was so obvious.
You could see it, see him trying, like he always did. Reaching for something to fix it, to explain, to make it all make sense again. He’d always been good at solving problems. But this felt like something that had slipped too far through his hands to put back together.
This had been breaking for a long time.
“I’ve just been busy,” he said finally, grabbing the first thing that made sense. “That’s all it is. It’s—it’s work, it’s been—”
“Busy?” you repeated, your voice cracking again. “You’ve been lying.”
His whole body went still, like you’d pulled something tight inside him.
You knew you were right.
“I—no, I haven’t—” he said too quickly.
There it was again.
That instinctive, immediate reach for something untrue, so fast it barely felt like he’d thought about it. You’d let yourself hope that he might fix it. That he might finally say something real enough to pull you back.
But that just cemented it.
He was sticking with the bullshit.
“You told me you were at the school,” you gritted out, tears finally slipping free despite how hard you’d been holding them back. “You told me you were working late, and I—I called, Ry. I called them.”
His face fell.
“They said the building was locked,” you went on, your voice breaking. “Hours ago.”
“Okay—okay, wait—” he said quickly, hands coming up again, palms out like he was trying to slow everything down. “There’s—there’s a simple explanation for that, I just—”
“What?” you asked. “What explanation?”
What could he possibly say?
“I was—I was there,” he said, nodding like he was trying to convince both of you. “I just—I left, like, right before you called, they must’ve just—missed me, or—”
“Ryland,” you pleaded for him to stop.
He tried to press on.
“I—stopped at the store,” he added, scrambling now. “On the way back, and I—lost track of time, that’s all, I just—”
You stared at him, and something in your expression must have told him because he stopped. The words fell apart mid-sentence, realising how poorly he was doing.
Even he wouldn’t believe a word coming out of his mouth. And he knew you weren’t stupid.
“You’re a terrible liar,” you said quietly. It wasn’t even cruel, just a plain observation that he couldn’t even be angry about.
He swallowed hard, his eyes flicking away from yours for the first time since he’d gotten there.
“I’m not—”
“You are,” you said. “You always have been.”
It was true. Last year he’d tried to convince you he hadn’t planned anything for your birthday, doing a terrible job of acting casual while you narrowed your eyes at him. He’d tripped over every word, couldn’t quite meet your gaze, and you’d laughed because it was so obvious, so him.
Now you weren’t even sure he’d remember the date without being reminded.
The silence stretched again as your mind went somewhere you had been skirting around for weeks. You didn’t want to believe it, but you had to be sure, even if you broke your own heart in the process.
“Is there—“ you began, trying to swallow the taste of the question back down. “Is there someone else?”
Your voice broke on the last syllable, his head snapping up.
“What?” his response was immediate, like he was unable to comprehend you asking such a question.
“Because I don’t understand what else it could be,” you went on, tears falling freely now, your chest heaving with it. “You’re gone all the time, you won’t tell me where you are, you barely touch me anymore, and I—I just need to know if I’m—if I’m just—”
“Hey—no—no, no, no,” he cut in quickly. He couldn’t stop himself when you looked like this. “Sweetheart, no—how could you even—no, I would never—”
He moved without hesitation, closing the space between you, one hand catching your arm just to steady you before the other came up, hovering for a split second at your cheek like he wasn’t sure he had the right.
His fingers were warm against your skin, his thumb brushing just beneath your eye as if he could physically stop the tears.
“I would never do that,” he said urgently. “Not to you, not—no, that’s not—don’t—don’t think that, okay? Please don’t think that.”
His words were so soft, but you were already splintering, and the contrast was too much to bear. Whatever you’d been holding together, whatever thin thread of control you’d been clinging to, snapped completely.
A sob tore out of you before you could stop it, your hands coming up to cover your face as your shoulders shook, the sound raw and helpless and completely out of your control.
“Hey—hey—” he panicked now. “Okay—it’s okay, I’ve got you—”
He pulled you into him, unable to stop himself, arms wrapping around you properly this time.
He couldn’t lose you like this.
You didn’t fight him, already lost in his familiar embrace. Your hands clutched at his jacket instead, fingers twisting into the fabric as you cried into him, the sound muffled against his chest.
“I’m sorry,” he was saying, over and over, the words tumbling out. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t—I didn’t realise it was—I didn’t know you were—”
You shook your head against him, your voice breaking apart between breaths.
“You weren’t there,” you managed, the words barely coherent. “You—you weren’t there and I—I didn’t know how to—how to fix it on my own and I—”
“I know, I know,” he said, his hand coming up to the back of your head, holding you there gently, his fingers brushing as he tried to calm you down. “That’s on me, okay? That’s—that’s my fault, I should’ve—”
His voice caught as the guilt started to settle.
How could he have let it get this bad?
Was he that blind?
“I’m here,” he said instead. “I’m here now, okay? I’m right here.”
You cried harder at that. The statement offering you little comfort. He had been here physically, albeit in fragmented pieces, but he wasn’t with you. It was outlined in every late-night and half-finished conversation.
Your knuckles started to ache as you squeezed his jacket tighter, feeling the damp of your own tears leaving small marks on his lapel. You could feel the erratic rise and fall of his own breathing where your cheek was anchored into his chest, far from his usual steadiness. Instead, it was racing.
Good.
It was a bitter thought, but you couldn’t help it. It felt good to have him feel just a fraction of what you were going through. The feeling didn’t last long; you were too tired. Far too worn to sustain any malice right now.
You let yourself take a deep breath in, trying to steady your breathing. The adrenaline diffusing into exhaustion. The fog in your head cleared as you came back into yourself, making the decision before you even pulled away, shaking your head softly against him.
“I think—“ you started, your voice muffled by his shirt. “Maybe it’s better if we just… spend tonight apart.”
His whole body went rigid beneath you. Every muscle locked up at once as you barely finished your statement.
“What?” he sputtered. His face had gone pale beneath the streetlight. “No,” he said again, already shaking his head. “No, absolutely not. No.”
“Ry—”
“No.” He swallowed hard, now blinking fast, trying and failing to get hold of himself. “No, I’m not—I’m not letting you just go somewhere alone when you’re this upset, okay? I’m not doing that.”
We don’t do that.
The urgency of it made your chest tighten all over again. He looked wrecked now, breathing still uneven, eyes darting over your face.
“I’m not asking for permission,” you said weakly; even to your own ears there was no strength in it. “I just… I can’t do this tonight. I can’t stand here and—”
“No, no, you can’t—” He was speaking too fast now, his brain sprinting ahead of his mouth. “Okay, yes, obviously, tonight is—bad, I get that, I do, but you can’t leave like this. You just can’t. Not—not when you think—” He broke off, exhaled sharply through his nose. “Not when you think that’s what’s happening.”
You looked away from him, jaw trembling.
“I don’t have it in me to argue with you.”
“Then don’t,” he said, almost pleading now. “Just—just let me try.”
Your throat tightened.
His voice dropped, but no less desperate. “Please,” he said, almost painfully with his sincerity. “Please just come upstairs with me.”
You didn’t answer.
You wanted to. To fold into the shape of him and let him lead you upstairs, but you felt completely wrung out. Heavy with grief and the cold and the too many sleepless nights spent staring at the ceiling when he was right there next to you.
“I’ll tell you everything,” he said. “Okay? I will. I promise, I know I’ve been weird, and I know I’ve been gone, and I know this looks terrible—horrific, actually, in retrospect, which is my fault—but it’s not what you think it is. It’s not. You have to—you have to believe me on that part.”
His hands had slid down to your elbows now, holding lightly. His thumb kept twitching against your sleeve.
“I’ll explain all of it,” he said more firmly. “I’ll tell you everything. Just… please don’t walk away from me tonight. Please.”
You searched his face, the open panic there. The fear. His mouth was parted slightly, ready to keep pleading if you needed him to. His eyes were frantic, horribly earnest.
He looked nothing like a man who had stopped caring. He looked like a man who had just realised what his silence had cost him.
The fight was draining out of you, leaving a dangerous flicker of hope you did not trust. Your face felt cold from the night and hot from crying. Your chest hurt. Everything hurt.
You gave the smallest nod, one that was barely there. One which he latched onto instantly. His whole expression changed with almost comical speed, relief flashing across his face so fast and so naked it might have been laughable in any other moment.
“Yeah?” he said, breathless. “Yeah?”
You managed another tiny nod.
You could let him try.
He perked up at once, scrambling to gather himself.
“Yeah, okay,” he said. “Yeah, alright. Come on. Come on, let’s just—okay.”
He was moving before he’d even finished speaking. He shrugged off his coat immediately, that caretaking part of him kicking in with no thought at all, and stepped forward to drape it around your shoulders before you could protest. It was still warm from him.
“You’re freezing,” he muttered, already fussing with the collar to pull it closer around you. “God, why didn’t you—no, stupid question, forget I asked.”
Gently but decisively, he took your keys from your unresisting hand. You frowned faintly, too wrung out to stop him, watching through blurred vision as he glanced at you once before he clicked the button.
The car locked with a sharp little chirp. He winced, caught out.
“I’m sorry,” he said immediately, not sounding sorry in the sense that he regretted it, only sorry that you’d noticed the calculation. “That was—yes, I know. But you were about to leave me in a parking spot, so I think I get one tactical decision.”
Despite everything, despite the ache in your throat and the tears still wet on your cheeks, the line was so desperately, transparently him that something in your expression must have shifted.
“I’m not locking you in,” he said more gently. “I’m just… I need to get you upstairs before you bolt or decide I’m terrible enough to justify vehicular manslaughter. One crisis at a time.”
You chuckled against your better judgment.
Damn him.
“C’mon,” he said quietly, his hand finding yours. And when you didn’t resist, he tightened his hold just a fraction.
At the front door, he let go of your hand only long enough to fumble the key into the lock, missing the first time because his hands were still shaking. He huffed under his breath, corrected, and pushed the door open before immediately turning back to you.
“Go sit down,” he told you. “I’ll make tea, alright?”
You didn’t argue, letting him guide you inside, his hand still hovering at your back. The flat felt wrong now, with you going back on the promise not to return here tonight.
You moved toward the sofa, lowering yourself down slowly, his jacket still wrapped around you. Behind you, you heard him move into the kitchen. Cupboards opening, shutting. The scrape of something being moved out of the way. The clatter of the kettle being filled, water rushing.
He was nervous; you could hear it in everything he did.
Your hands curled into your lap, fingers picking absently at the skin beside your nail, tugging at it until it stung. You pressed your thumb harder against it, grounding yourself in the sharp pain. You stared at nothing, eyes unfocused, listening to the soft click of the kettle switching on. The sound filled the space, just like old evenings.
He reappeared with two mugs in his hand, steam curling from both of them, glasses slightly fogged,
“Sorry,” he started automatically, stepping into the living room. “I couldn’t find your mug, I swear it was—”
You looked up. His words faltered mid-sentence, his eyes drifting from the mugs in his hands to your face.
“Oh,” he said softly.
You were really serious.
His voice was quiet and your gaze dropped immediately, heat creeping up your neck, embarrassment uncomfortable in your chest. You stared down at your hands instead, deciding they were far more bearable to look at.
He shook his head quickly, needing to undo the moment as fast as possible.
“Hey—no, look—it’s fine,” he said, a little too gentle. “It’s—I’m gonna fix it, alright? I’m gonna make it fine.”
You really hoped so.
He crouched slightly as he reached you, setting one of the mugs down on the coffee table before offering the other to you. You took it without looking up, the warmth seeping into your palms.
Then he sat opposite, on the edge of the table. Your knees were almost touching. He rested his elbows on his thighs, one hand still loosely wrapped around his own mug, the other running briefly through his hair again before dropping back down.
Here goes nothing.
“Okay,” he said finally. “So.”
You lifted your eyes to him slowly, bracing yourself.
“I don’t… really work as a teacher anymore.”
What?
I mean, you knew it wasn’t his first profession, that had been ripped away from him. He told you after a few weeks of dating, the past still sat heavy on his shoulders. But he took a shine to his kids, was protective of them, even found himself finding joy in the small places the classroom offered.
“…you got fired?”
It was the only thing you could deduce.
“No—no, God, no,” he said, startled. “I’m not that terrible.”
You didn’t laugh. He swallowed, nodding once to himself like he’d expected that.
“Right. Yeah,” he muttered, shaking his head. He set his mug down, both hands coming together loosely between his knees.
“What I’m about to tell you—” He faltered, dragging a hand over his mouth. “It’s not something I’m meant to say. Not to anyone. So I need you to trust me, okay? Just—trust me for a minute.”
Your throat felt too tight to speak, but you nodded.
“Do you know what the Petrova line is?”
You tilted your head, the question so abrupt it threw you slightly.
“…yeah,” you said slowly. “You’ve—you’ve talked about it before.”
He nodded in relief.
“Yeah, yeah, of course I have,” he said, more to himself than to you, like he was trying to reassure himself that there was a logical entry point here. “Right. Good. That’s good.”
How could he not remember?
He was fascinated by it, and mildly concerned. Researching articles and sharing them with you in the evening, or even messaging them to you while you were at work.
Maybe you weren’t a priority anymore.
He kept going.
“So—okay—the Petrova line,” he said, slipping unconsciously into explanation mode. “Those dots, right? The… the dimming events on the sun? They’re not just random fluctuations. They’re consistent.”
He glanced at you, checking you were following. You nodded faintly.
“They’re… eating it,” he said, the words sounding strange even as he said them. “Not—not like, metaphorically. Literally. Something is consuming solar radiation at the surface level and absorbing it or… something.”
“…huh?”
“I know,” he held up a hand, already anticipating the reaction. “I know how that sounds, okay? I do. But it’s—it’s measurable. The data’s there, it’s been there, we—I just didn’t realise how serious it was.”
His voice was picking up now, like he was explaining something to his class.
“It’s spreading,” he continued. “Exponentially. And if it keeps going at the rate it is, it—it’s not just a solar anomaly, it’s a—it’s a problem. A big one.”
Your fingers tightened around the mug in your hands.
“…Ryland,” you said quietly. “What are you talking about?”
How did this relate to anything?
He exhaled, dragging a hand down his face before looking back at you.
“I got… approached,” he said, choosing his words more carefully. “At work. In the school car park.”
Your stomach dropped.
“Approached?”
“Yeah,” he said with a small, humourless breath. “Like—cornered, basically. There were people. Government people. I didn’t—I didn’t know that at the time, obviously, I just thought—” He shook his head. “They knew about an article I wrote years ago. About life not necessarily requiring water to evolve, you remember?”
Like he had to ask.
You looked at him to continue.
“I tried to say no,” he added defensively. “I did. I told them I was a teacher, that I wasn’t—I wasn’t the right person, that they should find someone else, but they—”
Something tightened in his expression.
“They didn’t really give me a choice.”
The room felt smaller.
“They think these things—whatever they are—they’re alive,” he went on. “And they can survive on the surface of the sun.”
Your eyes widened as you fully registered his words.
But… how is that possible?
You didn’t have a PHD in space science or damn astrophysics, but this sounded insane, even to you.
“And because I have a background in molecular biology and I’ve written about organisms that can survive extreme environments and I am, apparently, just obscure enough to be useful without being politically complicated…” He let out a breathless exhale. “They… recruited me.”
Recruited him.
It was almost unbelievable. He was brilliant—yes—but your cardigan-wearing, plant-watering, middle-school-teaching boyfriend had somehow been snapped up by the government to investigate why the sun is basically dying?
He was right, it did sound insane.
“…you’re serious?” you said, though it didn’t sound like a question.
He held your gaze.
“I know how it sounds,” he said quietly. “I do. I know it sounds insane.”
He got that right.
“…you’re saying…” You started, your voice unsteady. “You’ve been—what? Working with the government?”
He nodded once. And you realised, with a sinking, dizzying feeling in your chest.
He wasn’t lying.
As much as you hated to admit it, the information sank through your chest. You wanted to tear it apart, find a seam and rip, pulling until you could shred it into something easier to understand.
But it made sense.
The late nights shrouded in secrecy, all of the distractions. He was stretched thin about something he clearly couldn’t talk about. He’d come home wired, your brain jumping to the worst possible conclusion, but his mind was still buzzing with something far greater than the two of you.
There was detail in his explanation—so much detail, and it was fast. The intricacies of his story felt unpolished and unrehearsed, just like life was. His lies were never this big; this felt too real to be something he’d constructed just to avoid telling you he didn’t love you anymore. He would never be that cruel.
It was true, but you didn’t want to think about what that meant for you both.
Your stomach twisted as you processed, not knowing whether to be angry or terrified. Your grip tightened around the mug as your pulse started to make itself known again, surging back with fresh force.
“You—“ you began. “Why didn’t you talk to me?”
You had an inkling as to why. This was a huge secret, but he still allowed you to think the worst, not noticing how fractured your relationship was becoming.
“Hey—no, I wanted to,” he told you quickly, slightly relieved you were humouring him. “I tried to tell you. Like—multiple times, actually, I just—”
He broke off, dragging a hand through his hair.
“There were NDAs,” he said, the words tight. “Not the kind you sign for, like, a new textbook publisher or whatever, I mean actual—legal, government-level—if I say the wrong thing to the wrong person I could—”
He cut himself off again, jaw tightening.
“They’re… not people you mess around with,” he finished. “They’re the real deal.”
Who the hell has your boyfriend even been talking to?
“These people?” you echoed, incredulous. “Ryland, how do you even know these people are legit?”
“They are,” he said immediately. “They just—are.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I know, I know,” he said, frustrated with himself now. “I just—I can’t give you, like, credentials or a LinkedIn profile or—I don’t know—”
Despite everything, the corner of your mouth twitched faintly.
“But they’re real. I promise you they’re real.”
You focused on him through the haze of adrenaline, allowing the noise in your head to go quiet. Mulling his words over and over as he awaited your response.
It was your turn to look at him now, the man you loved sitting opposite. And if you were being completely honest, he looked wrecked.
The exhaustion clung to him. There were faint shadows under his eyes that were far darker than they should have been. His hair had grown slightly longer than usual. It fell messily over his forehead, half pushed back and unkempt. His hands were itching at his knees, unable to stay still. Fingers flexing and twitching, wired with adrenaline.
He was waiting for you. Waiting for you to say something.
Tell him you believe him.
But in doing so, you’d be admitting that he hadn’t just drifted away from you, he’d been taken to somewhere you couldn’t follow.
Your throat burned as your emotions scattered.
He could have told you something—a small thing. Something to stop you from unravelling the way you had, enough to stop you from standing outside with a packed suitcase, ready to leave everything behind.
You parted your lips as you tried to find a question to ask, a hundred things you could demand of him right now. From the look on his face, he would do them all.
What mattered most right now? What did you need to hear from him first?
There was only one thing that circled in your mind, the thing that kept you up at night. The only thing that made this ache so sore.
Your voice was fragile as you posed the question.
“…you didn’t just… get bored with me then?”
Ryland looked at you, completely devastated.
How could you ask him that?
“No.” It was his most immediate response that night. “Absolutely not.”
He leaned forward, needing you to hear his words more clearly than ever.
“That was never—never what this was,” his voice was firm. His chest ached at how fragile you sounded, ached even harder that you had to pose the question.
He could hardly bear to imagine what must have been going through your head these past weeks.
“You really thought I—“ he stopped to align the words right. “You really thought I could stop loving you? Just like that?”
The thought sounded unfathomable to him.
You fell silent, your actions from tonight speaking for themselves.
You had. He had pushed you to the point where you had.
He exhaled as your gaze dropped to the mug in your lap; you felt a sense of shame, which he saw immediately.
“Hey—this is on me,” he quietly told you, shifting forward. “This is completely on me, alright?”
Before you could react, he reached forward and gently took the mug from your hands. His fingers brushed yours without him meaning to, and you found yourself almost itching for them again. He set it down beside his own on the table, deciding to join you on the couch.
“I feel so stupid—” you started.
“Hey—no,” he cut in immediately, his hand finding yours where it rested in your lap. “No. You’re not stupid.”
Far from it in his mind. You were the only person who was, quite frankly, alarmingly smarter than him on most days.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles, feather light as they moved.
“If anything, you’re underreacting,” he attempted with humour. “Honestly, I’m impressed you didn’t throw something at my head sooner.”
A weak, breathy sound left you. You definitely thought about it.
“I got in over my head,” he admitted. “And I handled it badly. You deserved better than that.”
His hand tightened around yours.
“A lot better.”
You could feel it in the way he said it, the weight he’d been carrying, the guilt sitting heavy in his chest. This was a conversation that should have happened weeks ago.
“I should’ve trusted you with it,” he went on. “I should’ve—I don’t know.”
His other hand came up then, tentative, brushing lightly along your arm before settling at your elbow.
“I’m sorry,” he said, softer now. “I’m so, so sorry.”
Your throat tightened again. He shifted, body angling toward yours fully now, closing the space without overwhelming you. His hand lifted slowly—giving you time to pull away if you needed to—but when you didn’t, his fingers came to your face, warm against your cheek.
“Hey…” he murmured. His thumb brushed lightly along your jaw, coaxing. “Look at me.”
Your eyes met his, wide and a little glassy. And the way he looked at you.
God.
The love he’d been too wrapped up to show properly for weeks was pouring out of him completely now. Attention back on track to where it should have been all this time.
“I love you,” it was a statement, the honest truth behind all of this. “Do you believe me?”
You had to.
You paused before nodding softly, still unable to meet his eyes. Your pause was far too long for him, showing him just how far this had fractured. His had been immediate. You had never been hesitant with him before, not when it was this.
He nodded, accepting what he had hoped wouldn’t happen. It was a small dip of his head, careful not to disturb you too much.
“Okay,” he sighed, defeated.
It wasn’t the okay you wanted. Far from reassurance and steeped in uncertainty. It was an acceptance; it almost sounded like a goodbye. Your fingers tightened slightly in his hand, but he misread it. From where you sat opposite him, all he felt was distance.
He swallowed, his thumb slowing against your knuckles.
Space. That was what you needed.
And if that was what you needed, then he would, of course, oblige. Even if it ate at his stomach from the inside out. If he’d hurt you this much, if he’d made you doubt something as fundamental as this, then the least he could do now was not crowd you. Not make it worse.
Even if it meant walking away when every part of him was screaming not to.
“Alright.”
Your brows pulled together faintly, but before you could speak, his hand slipped from yours. The absence of it was immediate. He pushed himself up from the couch, movements controlled, and straightened slightly, like putting physical distance between you might somehow make this easier.
“Hey—”
He gave a small, almost apologetic shake of his head.
“It’s alright,” he said quickly. “I can—I can come back tomorrow. If you want.”
“Huh?”
“You want space,” he added, choosing each word so it wouldn’t hurt you more. “Which—yeah. I mean, that’s fair. Completely fair.”
“Ryland—”
“I’ll just—” His hand dipped into his pocket, pulling out your car keys—the ones he’d taken earlier—and he stepped toward the table. The small clink as he set them down beside the mugs felt loud.
“You can leave if you want,” he said, glancing at them briefly before looking anywhere but directly at you. “Or stay here. Either’s fine. I’ll, um—”
He faltered.
“I’ll give you some space.”
Your stomach dropped. Suddenly, you could see the way he was reading this, the way he’d twisted your silence into something it wasn’t. You watched it hit him all over again, turning awkwardly as he made space to depart and all you could feel was panic once again.
No—
It flooded through your chest, hollow and twisting as you watched the man you love walk away from you once again. You only let him take a couple of steps.
“Ry—no, wait—”
You were moving before you even fully registered it, the room tilting for a second as your hand reached out. Your fingers caught the sleeve of his shirt, gripping it just enough to stop him. He turned back to you slowly. You swallowed, your grip tightening slightly on his sleeve, anchoring him there.
“Don’t—,” you said, your voice catching despite your best efforts. “I—I want you to stay.”
Something flickered across his face.
“Are you sure?”
You nodded your head quickly, stepping closer without thinking, your other hand coming up to fist lightly in the front of his shirt.
“I don’t want to be alone right now,” you admitted, the truth of it sitting raw in your chest.
And you didn’t want him to either. You knew exactly what he’d do.
He’d find somewhere last-minute, something overpriced and uncomfortable, tell himself it didn’t matter. He wouldn’t sleep, he never did when something was weighing on him, and then tomorrow he’d show up with that careful smile, pretending he was fine so you wouldn’t worry.
“Please don’t—please don’t leave me again.”
You didn’t give him time to overthink it. Your hand tightened in his shirt, pulling him down just enough. And then you kissed him.
It was everything you hadn’t said, everything that had been sitting heavy in your chest for weeks, all of it crashing into that single moment as your lips met his.
His hand came up to your face instinctively, fingers warm against your cheek as he kissed you back, grounding like he needed to make sure you were doing this. You broke it just enough to breathe, your forehead brushing his.
“Stay,” you whispered, your voice soft but certain. His breath hitched.
“I need you, Ry,” you murmured, your fingers curling tighter into his shirt, keeping him close. “Please.”
And the way he looked at you then, like you’d just handed him something he hadn’t dared to hope for.
“Okay,” he said again, but this time it wasn’t resignation.
You were giving him a chance, and he would be an idiot not to take it.
He leans down to kiss you again, and it’s the kind that makes your head spin. It’s the same kiss that got you to say yes to being his girlfriend, the one that made you feel like a teenager all over again.
He reaches his hand under your neck to tilt your head up, tasting you once again, guiding you gently with his mouth against yours.
“Honey…” he breathes against your lips. “We don’t—we don’t have to—“
You weren’t listening to him.
The night had overwhelmed you completely, more than you knew how to hold. The only thing that made sense now was him—and you needed him close. Needed the weight of him, the warmth of him, something real to hold onto.
“Please,” you ask him, already pawing at his shirt, desperate for him to be close to you. “I need you, Ry—please.”
He groans against your neck, trying to keep up.
He knew he could do this for you; you were etched into his brain. He knew how to make you breathe his name, how to make you fall apart from his words, his fingers.
You were practically begging him to hold you, to be near you. He felt it in the way your hands were palming his shoulders, trying to drag him deeper into the flat.
This he could do for you.
This was the least he could do for you.
He dipped his head to your neck, sucking and nibbling gently at the spot you liked. He hums when he hears your soft sigh, continuing until he feels your neck open for him more. He holds you in place as his movements get more precise, feeling his chest soar when he hears the gentle moan pass your lips.
One palm slid under the hem of your shirt, fingertips brushing the bare skin of your waist.
“Can I?”
It pained him to ask. Usually he listens to your body for confirmation, the way you melt into his touch, but tonight is different. He wants to hear you tell him, remind him that he is the one you want right now, the one who gets to have you like this.
You nodded, heart hammering. He eased his coat off your shoulders first, letting it pool behind you on the floor, then hooked his fingers under the edge of your shirt. He didn’t yank it up; he peeled it away tenderly, lips following the path his hands made—crouching almost in worship.
He kissed the newly exposed skin of your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your bra as he tugged the fabric over your head. Gently, he ushered you back toward the couch, far too desperate to make the small journey to the bedroom.
His hands held your hips as he knelt between your thighs, gazing up at you with an expression that could only be described as awestruck. He had seen many things in his life, but none quite as beautiful as you looking at him like this. Soft-lids, flushed cheeks.
He wasn’t religious, but at times like this, he believed he could be.
He dragged the zipper down with agonising slowness, then hooked his fingers into the denim and your underwear at the same time, easing them down your thighs together. Every brush of his knuckles against your skin made you shiver, and he noticed leaning in to press open-mouthed kisses along the inside of your knee as he freed one leg, then the other.
When you were finally bare, he sat back again. His breath hitched visibly.
“God,” he breathed when he saw you, sitting back on his heels just enough to take you in. His hands settled on your hips, thumbs stroking slow circles.
How could he forget this?
You were practically shivering with anticipation, lips parted as you ached for his touch. It had been weeks at this point, the strain between his own legs reminding him. How he had neglected you, both of you.
Tonight, he was going to fix this. Fix everything.
He leaned upward, allowing his hands to finally wander. He groaned, low and genuine. The first slow glide of his fingertips through your folds made you both gasp. You were soaked, slick heat coating his skin instantly, and you because the touch was so light, so careful, so exactly right. He circled your clit once, feather-soft, and your breath caught sharply.
He finally sank one finger inside you, slow and deep, and the stretch was perfect—familiar, warm, the slight callus on his knuckle dragging just right. You arched with a soft cry, and he hummed in approval, curling the digit gently like he was testing the waters even though he already knew exactly what you needed.
Your head fell back against the couch cushions, hips rocking down to meet his hand as the pleasure built in slow, syrupy waves. He was everywhere—mouth pressing kisses to your collarbone—while his fingers worked you open. He wasn’t out of practice at all; every twist, every curl was deliberate.
“Ry—fuck,” you gasped when he crooked his fingers just right, brushing that spot inside you that made sparks shoot up your spine.
His name had never sounded so sweet.
“That’s it, sweetheart,” he cooed as your face scrunched. “There we go.”
You flushed under the weight of his praise, legs parting to allow him even closer, but it wasn’t enough. You needed him closer, needed him inside of you. It had been too long; he owed you that much.
“Ry—“ you breathed out and he stopped his movements instantly.
“What is it?” he asked gently, lips still running along your jaw. “Talk to me.”
Tell him what you need.
“Want more,” you sighed as your hands wandered lower, gently tugging at the waistband of his jeans. He got the message, willing to give you exactly what you wanted tonight.
He pulled back to yank his shirt over his head in one quick motion. The sight of him—bare chest, the faint trail of hair leading down, the way his muscles shifted under his skin—made heat pool low in your belly all over again.
You missed that sight.
You were getting impatient, after weeks of torment, leaning forward to reach the button on his jeans. He couldn’t help but let a small chuckle escape his chest at your eagerness.
“Easy,” his hands came to cover yours. “We have all night.”
You huffed at his response and he sped up his movements, shoving jeans and boxers down in one go, kicking them off toward the end of the couch. His cock sprang free, flushed and already leaking at the tip, and he wrapped a hand around himself, stroking once, twice, eyes never leaving your face as he sucked in a breath.
Gently, he stood, soft as he lay you down. One hand holding the back of your head, the other on your hip, angling you exactly where he could look after you. Where he could take care of you properly.
Instinctively, your legs sprang up to wrap around his hips, automatically aligning his with yours as his cock strains against you.
“Baby—“ he groans as his eyes flutter closed, buring his face in your neck as you rock gently against him, the friction sending small jolts through his body.
“Hey,” he shakes his head as he mumbles. “Gotta take it slow, alright?”
It’s been so long, and he’d be damned if he ended up hurting you like this.
“Don’t wanna,” you plead as you paw at him. “I can take it—promise.”
A low, broken sound rumbled in his throat when the words left your mouth. God, you sounded so sweet beneath him. His beautiful girl begging so gently for him, in a tone he far from deserved.
He settled between your spread thighs, the head of his cock nudging against your slick folds, and he hissed at the contact, eyes fluttering shut for a second.
“Ah—“ He rocked his hips forward slowly, sliding the length of himself along your pussy without pushing in yet, coating himself in you while his hands flexed on either side of your head. Every slow glide bumped against your clit and you whimpered, hips jerking up to chase the friction.
“Please, Ry—”
“I know,” he coos. “I know.”
He just needs to get you there gently, the way he knows you like.
“You ready f’me?” he asks gently, satisfied with the pool of slick between your folds. His hand drifts lazily down as he circles your clit, waiting for your answer.
You nod slowly as you recline on the armrest, opening yourself fully to him. He eases himself in steadily, so thick you felt every inch stretching you open. Your mouth fell open on a silent cry as he bottomed out, hips flush against yours, and he let out the most broken, relieved sound you’d ever heard from him.
It really had been that long.
“That’s good?” he breathes, needing to know.
“Yes,” you mewl in response.
His mouth was on yours again before you’d even fully caught your breath, the kiss slower this time. It made you whimper into him. Your fingers tangled themselves in his hair, nails gripping as you pulled him close, the way you knew drove him wild.
His hips faltered as he let out a broken groan into your neck, trying to keep his composure.
“—sweetheart,” he pants, as he steadies himself with a chuckle. “M’not gonna last long if you do that.”
He pulled back and he looked at you, something pleading in his gaze. It was your turn to smile up at him, lips curling ever so slightly as you leaned up to his lips.
“Then you better hurry up, Ry,” you tease. “You’ve got a lot of making up to do.”
And he intended to do it properly.
He continued with a new pace, your fingers still trailing. It was deeper now, with one hand sliding under your knee to hitch your leg higher around his waist so he could angle even better. The new position made you cry out, back arching clean off the couch, and he groaned in response.
You had never looked more beautiful, so soft under his weight. You still trusted him completely, even after he left you.
After you nearly left him.
His jaw tightened as his hips faltered at the thought before he stopped himself. You felt his hands guide your own up beside your head, lacing your fingers as he folds you deeper into the couch cushions, desperate to hear your moans get louder against his ear.
“Feel good, honey?” he breathed. “C’mon, let me hear you.”
Let him hear he was doing it right. He had to be.
“So good—“ you breathe out. “Always feel so good.”
God, he hopes so.
Far too long he had left you alone, not taking care of you in the way he should. He cursed himself for almost letting you slip between his fingers, cursed himself when he had this to come home to every night.
He’d been such an idiot.
It was his job to take care of you. To make sure you felt wanted, seen, to make sure you felt good.
“Haven’t been good to you,” he admits as his voice breaks. “Not nearly enough—god—“
You whined under him, letting him know he was hitting your sweetspot as your chest brushed against his own.
Just like that.
He needed to see this, needed to give you this, to know that he could still make you feel good.
That you still loved him.
You were losing it under him, every thrust dragging pleasure through you in heavy waves, the emotional weight of his words mixing with the physical until you couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. Tears pricked at the corners of your eyes—not from sadness, but from how full you felt, how desperately loved.
“Ry—Ry, I—I can’t—” you gasped, hips meeting his on every stroke now, the slap of skin on skin mixing with the wet sounds of him moving inside you.
“You can,” he promised, voice cracking as he thrust harder, chasing the same edge you were on. “Yes, you can, baby, you’re almost there—can feel it—so deep, Christ—“
He reached between you, thumb finding your clit again in tight, perfect circles, and the added stimulation shattered you.
“That’s it—” he groaned, hips stuttering but not stopping, fucking you through it with those same devoted strokes. “There you go—“
Your orgasm crashed over you, vision whiting out as you clenched around him, moaning his name like a prayer. He slowed just enough to let you breathe, kissing you messily, tongues sliding together while he kept moving in shallow thrusts, drawing it out.
When your tremors finally eased, he pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy and adoring, before pulling out.
“You with me?” he asked, voice soft even as sweat beaded on his forehead. You nodded, wrecked and glowing, and tugged him back down into another kiss.
“Mm,” you nodded, against his lips.
He smiled, hand coming up to brush your hair back from your face, fingers careful, as they tucked a loose strand behind your ear. Finally, for the first time this evening, feeling close to you once more.
He lingered there for a moment, hand still cupping your cheek, thumb brushing softly along your skin. You hadn’t pulled away. You were letting him be close again.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I know I’ve said it, but… I’m really, really sorry.”
You watched him for a second. The panic from earlier had subsided, lost in the haze. Your hand came up to cover his where it rested against your face, holding it there.
“I forgive you.”
“Yeah?”
You nodded, a small smile tugging at your lips.
“Yeah,” you repeated.
Oh, thank God.
He let out an exhausted but satisfied laugh. How he managed to salvage this, he didn’t know, but what he did know, he was damn lucky.
“But—” you began. “If you ever get pulled into something like that again,” you said, holding his gaze, “maybe don’t just… disappear on me and hope for the best?”
He winced. Just a little.
“Yeah. Bad strategy.”
“At least keep me in the loop,” you added, your thumb brushing over his knuckles. “You don’t have to tell me everything if you can’t. But… don’t shut me out like that.”
That was more than fair.
“Okay,” he said, nodding once. “Yeah. I can do that.”
Your brow lifted slightly.
“Can you?”
He let out a breathy laugh, the tension in him easing just enough to let a bit of that familiar energy back through.
“Right—yes. Sorry,” he said, straightening slightly. “If I am ever, hypothetically, recruited into another deeply questionable, government-adjacent science situation—”
You huffed.
“—I will,” he continued, softer now, more sincere, “tell you. Or at the very least… not vanish in the process.”
You smiled properly then.
“Good.”
He nodded, a little more firmly this time, already planning on how he was going to make this right.
Not just tonight, tonight wasn’t nearly enough.
His mind was already moving ahead of him, piecing it together the way it always did, except this time it wasn’t equations or variables—it was you. What you liked. What you needed. All the ways he could show up better.
Tomorrow, for a start. He could take the day off. He would take the day off.
Stratt could wait. The sun—well, the sun had its issues, but it could manage one more day. He’d deal with the fallout later. Right now, there were more important things to fix.
A few days, maybe.
As long as it took.
Slow mornings. Proper meals. Being here fully, the way he should have been all along.
His thumb brushed over your knuckles again, softer this time, almost absent as the thought settled into certainty.
He was going to make this up to you. The way you deserved.
He couldn't wait for you to see it yourself.
a/n: sorry this is late !! things have been hectic on my end (may or may not have been head-hunted to be the head chef of a new fine dining restaurant omg i have the meeting on tuesday!!!) and i still feel super rusty with writing
ive literally just started the book so please excuse any inaccurate plot timeline, hopefully i shall get some more inspo later on as i do really want to write a full series for this thing
as always, let me know what you think ! reqs are open and this has to be the nicest fandom i've ever joined, you all are so lovely <3
summary you and ryland got hit by some kind of dust
word count 8K
content 18+. smut. sex pollen. fuck or die. masturbation (m). penis in vagina sex. riding. humour (i tried). crack. ryland's glasses stay ON during sex.
a/n officially the longest fucking thing i have ever written. i'm not truly satisfied with this but it's whatever. i hope u guys enjoy it. english is not my first language
masterlist | read on ao3
you and ryland have been staring at yet another mysterious gift sent by rocky like it was a trunk shot from pulp fiction.
you know, the one where— okay so nevermind. that's not important.
what's important was what rocky had sent, which was another cylinder.
you glanced at ryland. ryland glanced at you. then you both glanced at the cylinder.
it sat in the center of the lab table, perfectly still, perfectly silent, and deeply, profoundly suspicious.
“so,” you said, arms crossed. “before you do anything impulsive and deeply stupid, let’s review our options.”
ryland didn’t even look up. “option one: we open it and potentially discover advanced human knowledge. option two: we don’t open it and i slowly lose my mind wondering what’s inside.”
“option three,” you added, “we don’t open it and you will forever be curious about the content but hey, at least you'd still be alive!”
he glanced up at you with a grin that immediately told you he was not going to pick option three.
“ryland last time you said ‘this’ll probably be fine,’ we almost suffocated.”
“counterpoint,” he said, straightening and placing a hand on the latch, “almost.”
you sighed.
“i just don’t like it,” you said for what was probably the fifth time.
ryland made a thoughtful humming sound that meant the exact opposite.
“you don’t like anything that comes from rocky.”
you crossed your arms without taking your eyes off the object. “that is objectively untrue. i like the parts that don’t explode, corrode, or attempt to rewrite the laws of physics.”
“so.... none of it?”
“exactly.”
pause.
just when ryland reached for the cylinder, you spoke out again.
“and just for the record....” you said, voice flat, “i am deeply against whatever you’re about to do.”
“come on. what’s the worst that could happen?”
you dragged a hand down your face, already bracing for disaster. “okay, i need you to understand that that phrase is cursed. like, historically cursed. civilizations have fallen after someone said that.”
he ignored you.
of course he ignored you.
the seal popped before you could argue more. the cylinder hissed open with a soft, pressurized sound.
for a second, nothing happened.
you leaned forward slightly, squinting, peering into the opening, expecting.... something. a device. a sample. anything.
“okay.... maybe it’s empty—”
poof!
a burst of fine gold dust shot out of the container in slow motion, catching the light as it drifted upward and outward, directly into both your faces before either of you could react.
“oh— come on—!” you coughed immediately, stumbling back and waving your hands uselessly through the air. “why is it always airborne—”
“i didn’t—” ryland coughed too, turning his head and blinking rapidly. “i didn’t know it was going to do that!”
“it’s a mysterious alien container, of course it was going to do that!”
the dust settled almost as quickly as it appeared, vanishing into nothing. no residue, no smell, no visible trace that anything had even happened.
you both stood there, breathing hard, staring at each other.
“....okay,” you said slowly. “status report.”
he blinked a few more times, then patted his arms, his torso, like he might find damage. “uhhh.... lungs: functioning. skin: not melting. vision: normal.”
“define normal.”
“i can see you glaring at me, so, yeah. normal.”
you exhaled. “great. fantastic. we inhaled space dust and survived. love that for us.”
“see?” he said, already relaxing. “nothing to worry about.”
you pointed at him sharply. “you do not get to say that. you lost that privilege the moment you opened it.”
“fair.”
then there was a beat.
“so.... that’s it?” you asked.
he peered into the cylinder, turning it upside down. only the residue of the dust fell, nothing else was inside.
“that’s it.” he confirmed.
“okay,” you said finally, though your voice carried a thin edge of disbelief. “either that was completely harmless, or we just inhaled something that’s going to kill us slowly and mysteriously.”
“statistically,” ryland said, already turning back toward the console, “it’s probably the second one.”
“great,” you muttered.
“yep.” he clicked his tongue and made a double finger gun. “nailed it.”
only for a while.
only for a while, it actually seemed like he was right.
you two ran scans, double-checked the air composition, monitored your vitals like you were waiting for them to spike into something dramatic and undeniable. everything came back normal. no toxins, no foreign pathogens, no radiation spikes, nothing that explained the golden dust or what it was supposed to do.
it should have been reassuring.
it wasn’t.
because about an hour in, you noticed something off.
not dramatic. not alarming. but subtle enough.
you shifted in your seat, tugging slightly at the collar of your yellow jumpsuit. the fabric suddenly felt too close, too warm against your skin.
“hey,” you said, not looking up from your screen. you were in your station in the lab, your back facing ryland. “did the temperature go up?”
ryland glanced at the panel beside him. “nope. holding steady.”
“huh.” you leaned back, frowning. “feels warmer.”
“maybe you’re just stressed.”
you snorted. “yeah, because inhaling unknown alien particles was such a relaxing experience.”
you tried to ignore it.
it didn’t work.
because by the second hour, it got worse. worse enough that it distracted you from doing your job.
you were restless now, shifting every few minutes, hyper-aware of your own body in a way that was getting increasingly distracting.
“okay, nope. something’s happening.” you said, standing up. you zipped down your suit. it pooled around your waist and left you in nothing but a dark green tank top you wore underneath. now you looked like a formula 1 driver walking around the garage in the middle of a malaysian heat.
except you were pretty sure that the heat in malaysia was tolerable enough and the drivers were used to it.
this, whatever this was however, was far from it.
“i'm sure it's nothing—” ryland finally turned but then paused.
“what?” you asked as you tied your hair into a ponytail.
he was sitting still. too still. his posture was stiff, shoulders slightly tense, like he was holding himself in place. his jaw tightened and his eyes that were currently fixated on you slightly dilated.
“....ryland?”
he flinched, snapping back to the present. he fixed his glasses while his eyes withdrew, focusing on somewhere else but you.
“yeah?” his voice came out a little too quick. a little too tight.
you narrowed your eyes. “you okay?”
“fine. totally fine.”
“you don’t look fine.”
he let out a short laugh that didn’t sound entirely natural. “well, looks can be deceiving.”
“you’re flushed.”
“it’s warm,” he said immediately. “i’m…. internally warm.”
“....that’s not a thing.”
“it is now.”
you crossed your arms, studying him.
“you’re acting weird.”
ryland scratched the back of his neck. you did not miss the way he licked his lips. and there was a faint flush creeping across his face, coloring his cheeks and the tips of his ears, subtle but unmistakable once you saw it.
“nothing. nothing. um—”
you frowned. “are you okay?”
“yes, yes,” he cleared his throat while still staring at a very specific spot on the floor, like he was avoiding your eyes.
“okay....” you turned, walking back to your station, trying to not let his sudden weird behaviour get to you. it's ryland. he was always a bit odd, even back on earth when you first met him on the ship.
by hour three, thankfully you finished your work quickly because the heat was no longer tolerable.
“fuck....” you muttered under your breath, standing up and started pacing around.
ryland was still busy with his duct-taped-computers, probably working on the algorithm to translate rocky's melodic language.
he stopped typing on the keyboard and grabbed his notebook, writing something there now.
your paces halted. and unfortunately your brain decided that right now was the perfect time to let your eyes wander to his arms out of all places.
you didn’t know why but it just happened.
you didn't get to stop yourself. you brain drifted, catching on the absolute ridiculous size of his biceps. since when did he work out? the thought of middle school science teacher ryland grace going to the gym and working out during the weekends got more ridiculous the more you think of it.
you should have stopped. should have sat back down and worked or went to take a nap or— oh my god his veins—
you flinched.
jesus, what the fuck?
since when the fuck did you notice that?
nope. absolutely not.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose like that might reset your brain.
it didn't.
you sighed, audible enough just to your ears. your gaze flicked, just for a second, and then immediately snapped back to somewhere else.
that was a mistake.
because now you knew, and knowing made it harder not to look again.
your brain, completely unhelpful, decided to supply additional commentary. since when does he have arms like that? it asked, again, like this was new information, like you hadn’t been working side by side with him for months.
you squeezed your eyes shut briefly, exhaling through your nose. get it together. this was ryland. your crew mate. your friend. the only other human being alive within literal light-years.
and yet—
“oh, for fuck's sake,” you cursed under your breath.
“what?” ryland immediately turned, ears sharp enough to hear you. he looked concerned for a bit.
“nothing,” you said quickly. too quickly.
he adjusted his glasses. “that did not sound like nothing.”
“it’s nothing.”
ryland tilted his head. a hint of amusement decorating his face.
“you were staring at me,” he pointed out.
you jerked your gaze away. “i was not.”
“you absolutely were.”
“i was not,” you insisted sharper, which would have been more convincing if you hadn’t immediately glanced back at him again.
he let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “wow. okay. so it’s not just me. good to know.”
you pressed a hand to your forehead, giving up on your pretenses. “no, it is definitely not just you.”
you paced again a few more steps, trying to shake it off, but it didn’t help. if anything, it made you even more hyperaware of everything. your breathing, the air, him.
and by the fourth hour, denial was no longer an option.
“okay, that's it.” you said, pacing now because sitting still felt impossible, “we need to figure out whatever the hell this is.”
“yep,” ryland said, standing up simultaneously.
“define what you’re feeling,” you asked.
he hesitated. “uh, okay. so, scientifically?”
“obviously.”
“i feel.... distracted,” he started, frowning slightly as he tried to articulate it. “like my brain keeps derailing. and also—” he stopped.
he looked at you and held his gaze for a second too long.
“ryland.”
“....also very aware of you,” he finished.
pause.
“define 'aware'. like when you were staring at me?”
“i wasn't—” he stopped, then frowned, like he was trying to catch his own thoughts mid-escape. “okay, maybe i was.”
you crossed your arms. “why?”
“i don’t know,” he said immediately, which somehow felt worse than any actual answer. “i just— looked up and— there you were.”
“i’m always here!”
“yes,” he said, a little too quickly. “i am aware of that. conceptually. but right now it’s.... more noticeable.”
you stared at him.
“more noticeable.” you repeated.
he rubbed the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. “that sounded weird.”
“it sounded very weird.”
“i meant it in a normal, non-weird way!”
“there is no version of that sentence that is normal, ryland!”
“you were staring at me too!” he reminded.
you opened your mouth, then shut it again, abandoning whatever argument you were about to attempt. he got you there.
then you sighed. you realized that you both seem to be doing that a lot today.
“you know what? nevermind. just— are there any other symptoms? like what, hormones? perception? impulse control?”
“all of the above, probably.”
you exhaled slowly, forcing yourself to think. maybe it was—
“the dust,” you said suddenly, stopping in your tracks.
he went still. “what?”
you pointed at the cylinder. “it has to be that.”
“yeah,” he said, nodding slowly like he just pieced all the puzzles together now. “yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah, that makes sense. mysterious alien substance, unknown effects, sudden onset of—” he gestured vaguely between you “—this.”
you raised an eyebrow. “'this?'”
“i don’t have a better word!”
“well, find one!”
“i’m a scientist, not emily brontë!”
you dragged both hands down your face. “oh my god.”
“okay,” you continued. “let's not panic. let us all calm down. so, we agreed we got exposed to an unknown particulate substance.”
“yep.”
“we’re experiencing.... thermal dysregulation.”
“yep.”
“and—” you hesitated, “—behavioral anomalies.”
he made a small, distressed noise. “that is a very scientific way to say that i cannot stop staring at your lips.”
you frowned. “you were staring at my lips?”
“and you were staring at my arms! we can do this all night!” he said defensively.
“did you just quote the sequels— nevermind. not important.”
you pressed your lips together. which, unfortunately, made his eyes drop there again.
you both noticed, and you both looked away at the same time.
“okay,” he said, pacing once, like movement might fix this. “okay, okay, okay, okay, we can figure this out. we always figure things out.”
“right,” you said, latching onto that. “we analyze.”
“we observe.”
“we hypothesize.”
“we do not panic.”
“we are absolutely not panicking.”
you were both very clearly panicking.
“let’s list everything again.” he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “all symptoms. no judgment.”
“no judgment,” you agreed.
“elevated body temperature.” he started.
“check.”
“heightened sensory awareness.”
“check.”
“uh....” he hesitated, visibly struggling. “increased.... focus on.... specific.... features?”
you folded your arms tighter. “check.”
“compulsive attention,” he added weakly.
“check.”
he swallowed. “and a— a noticeable shift in, uh—”
“attraction?” you said bluntly.
he closed his eyes. “yeah. that.”
the word hung there, heavy but accurate.
you both went very still. because once it was said like that, clean, clinical, undeniable, something in your brain clicked into place.
not just the symptoms.
the pattern.
your mind started pulling threads together, faster now. the dust. the delivery method. the lack of any visible organism. the immediate onset being minimal, then escalating over time.
you frowned, thinking harder.
“okay,” you said slowly. “if this were any known terrestrial system, particulate exposure with delayed onset behavioral changes would suggest—”
“toxins,” he said automatically.
“but there’s no impairment,” you countered.
“cognitive function is intact. motor function is intact. we’re not disoriented.”
“right,” he said, catching up. “so not a neurotoxin.”
“and not a pathogen,” you added. “no immune response. no inflammation.”
“so it’s not attacking us.”
“it’s affecting us.”
you both went quiet again, thinking.
he ran a hand through his hair, pacing again, faster this time. “okay, so— delivery system: aerosolized particulate. effect: behavioral modification. targeted toward—”
he stopped.
you watched it happen. the exact moment the realization hit him.
his entire posture went rigid.
“....no,” he said.
your stomach dropped. “what?” you asked, even though something in you already knew but refused to acknowledge it.
he looked at you. then away. then back again, like he wished reality would swap out for a better option.
“no, no, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, shaking his head. “that’s— that’s not—”
“ryland,” you said, sharper now. “what.”
he gestured helplessly toward the empty cylinder. “there were no organisms. no plant matter. nothing visible. which means whatever this is, it doesn’t rely on traditional biological structures.”
“okay....?”
“which means,” he continued, words picking up speed like he couldn’t stop them now, “it could be a synthetic analog. or an alien biochemical system that doesn’t follow earth-based taxonomy. something that mimics a known function without the same physical form—”
“ryland.”
he stopped and looked at you.
you held his gaze.
“say it.”
he hesitated. like if he didn’t say it, it wouldn’t be real.
“....on earth,” he started, carefully, “there are airborne particulates that influence behavior in very specific ways.”
your chest tightened.
“they’re typically produced by plants,” he went on. “released into the air. inhaled. they trigger physiological responses that.... alter attraction. increase reproductive drive. reduce inhibition—”
your breath caught.
he exhaled, defeated.
“....pollen,” he finished.
silence.
thick.
absolute.
you stared at him.
he stared back.
“that’s not possible,” you said, even as your brain was already connecting it. "that's not fucking possible. what the fu—”
“i know,” he said quickly. “i know. there were no plants. there’s no visible biological structure. it doesn’t make sense.”
“so it’s not pollen.”
“it’s not plant pollen,” he corrected weakly.
you both paused.
“but it’s doing the same thing,” you said.
“yeah.”
another silence. longer this time.
he let out a hollow laugh, dragging a hand down his face. “that’s— wow. okay. that’s just— fantastic. amazing. incredible. we got hit with alien.... pseudo-pollen that—”
he stopped himself.
you finished it for him. “that makes people.... like this.”
he nodded, looking like he wanted to walk directly into space.
you swallowed. your skin still felt too warm. thoughts still kept drifting back to him.
to his hands. arms. the way he was looking at you right now.
you dropped your hands. wanna know the worst part of this? it's that now that you understood it, it didn’t make it stop. it just made it clearer.
“we’re in trouble,” you said quietly.
he nodded, equally quiet.
“yeah,” he said. “we really are.”
“and rocky just gave it to us with no warning?”
“to be fair,” ryland said, “he might not have known humans would react like this.”
you stopped pacing. “react like what, exactly?”
“like this,” he said weakly. “he probably thinks this is how humans reproduce. like, 'here, have some breeding dust, make more crew for the mission!'” ryland continued.
“oh, jesus.”
another pause.
longer this time.
he shifted his weight. “okay. solution-oriented thinking. we just.... wait it out.”
“wait it out,” you repeated.
“yep. it’s a chemical thing, right? it’ll metabolize, wear off, we go back to normal, and we never speak of this again.”
“not even a little bit.” you agreed quickly.
“not even in a funny anecdote way.”
“especially not in a funny anecdote way.”
he removed his glasses, pinching the bridge of his nose with his eyes shut tight while his other hand was gripping the edge of his desk for dear life. firm, almost rigid, like it was the only thing anchoring him in place. “good plan. great plan. love that plan.”
you stopped pacing and looked at him properly.
really looked.
the flush hadn’t faded, it had deepened. his breathing was just slightly off, not enough to be obvious unless you were paying attention, but you were paying attention now. and the way he was holding himself. tense, contained, like he was actively stopping himself from—
“ryland,” you said slowly.
“yeah.” he did not look at you.
“why are you holding onto the table like it’s about to float away?”
he let out a short, strained laugh.
“because if i don’t,” he said, voice tight in a way that made something in your chest twist, “i might do something incredibly stupid.”
your stomach dropped. “define 'stupid.'”
his eyes flicked up to yours, and whatever you saw there made your breath catch.
“i think,” he said quietly, “you already know.”
pause.
you stole a look at him. ryland had gone very still, hands braced on the edge of the console, head bowed like he was trying to think his way out of this. he looked just as wrecked as you are. tense, flushed, jaw tight like he was grinding through it.
the lab suddenly felt too small, like the walls had inched closer, like the air had thickened into something you had to push through just to breathe. you were still standing too close to each other. close enough to feel the heat rolling off him. close enough that every tiny shift felt amplified. and neither of you seemed able to take that one simple step back.
you both pretended to think. which would’ve been easier if your thoughts weren’t constantly derailing.
“okay,” ryland said finally, too quickly, like he’d been holding the word in his mouth for a while. he wasn’t looking at you. he hadn’t been looking at you for a solid minute now, which somehow made it worse. “solution. we need a solution.”
you nodded, even though he couldn’t see it. “yeah. yeah, obviously.”
he paced once, twice, hands flexing at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. “we don’t know the duration of the effect. could be hours, could be longer.”
“right,” you said, your voice coming out tighter than you meant.
“it might not get worse,” he said quickly.
you both paused.
“it’s definitely getting worse,” you said.
“yeah,” he admitted. “yeah, that’s fair.”
another stretch of silence followed, thick and charged and deeply unhelpful.
another beat. he stopped mid-pace, suddenly locking eyes on your lips again as you bit the lower one in concentration. a visible shiver ran through him.
you, meanwhile, were transfixed by the way his t-shirt stretched across his chest when he breathed. arms. shoulders. that stupid little strand of hair falling over his forehead.
it was ridiculous. you were both adults. professionals. stuck on a ship light-years from home with an entire species depending on you not screwing this up.
and yet.
both of you looked away at the same time.
he continued pacing, then he straightened slightly, like he’d latched onto something solid. “okay. i’ve got it.”
you perked up. “yeah?”
“isolation.”
silence.
“what?” your voice came out small.
“we isolate,” he repeated, more firmly now, like saying it again would make it more reasonable. “separate areas of the ship. minimal contact. we wait for the effects to wear off.”
you stared at him. “you’re kidding.”
“i’m not kidding.”
“ryland, that’s not a solution. t-that’s— what if it gets worse? what if it doesn’t wear off?”
“then we reassess,” he said, easy. “but right now, the safest option is distance.”
you laughed, sharp and disbelieving. “distance? on this ship? we share literally everything. systems, controls, workload—”
“yeah,” he said, gaining momentum, talking faster now. “we separate. different sections of the ship. minimal contact. we only communicate over comms when absolutely necessary. reduce exposure to.... stimuli.”
“stimuli,” you repeated flatly.
he made a small, helpless gesture. “i’m trying to keep this clinical.”
you stared at him. really stared this time.
“ryland,” you said slowly, “we are on a single-crew mission with two people.”
“yes.”
“yao and ilyukhina are—”
“i’m aware.” his voice was tighter this time, jaw clenched.
“we barely manage everything together on a good day.”
“we’ll adjust.”
“adjust?” you let out a short, disbelieving breath, shaking your head. “we’re already compromised. you said it yourself. attention issues, cognitive interference. you think splitting up is going to make that better?”
his jaw tightened. “it removes the trigger.”
“it removes the only person who can help when something goes wrong,” you shot back. “we don’t have backup. we don’t have a third crew member to pick up the slack. if something breaks, and something will break, we need both of us functional.”
“we are functional,” he insisted, but it came out strained, like he didn’t fully believe it.
you took a step closer without thinking.
his entire body reacted.
it was subtle. so subtle you almost missed it. but it was there: the way his shoulders went rigid, the way his breath hitched just slightly, the way his hands curled like he was holding himself in place.
that alone made your point for you.
you gestured between the two of you. “this is not functional.”
he didn’t answer.
you softened your voice, just a little. “we don’t know how long this is going to last.”
“it could wear off in a few hours,” he said, but it sounded more like hope than certainty.
“or it could be days,” you said quietly.
he didn’t argue.
“or weeks or never at all!” you added, pushing it, because you needed him to really think about it, not just cling to the best-case scenario.
“it’s the only plan that doesn’t make things worse. it’s better than the alternative.” he replied.
you stilled. “what alternative?”
he didn’t say anything.
which, unfortunately, was an answer.
you exhaled slowly, your chest tight. “okay. no. we’re not doing this vague shit. we need to actually say it.”
“we really don’t,” he said quickly.
“we do,” you insisted. “because if we don’t, we’re just going to keep circling around it and nothing gets solved.”
he dragged a hand down his face. “no.”
“ryland—”
“no,” he repeated, firmer this time. “we are not— no. that is not the solution.”
you stared at him. you've never heard his voice went that rough. that low. “it’s the only solution that makes sense.”
“it’s not a solution,” he shot back. “it’s—” he stopped, jaw tightening. “it’s not something we should even consider.”
“we both know what this is doing to us,” you pressed, voice low but steady now. “it’s not just going to fade if we sit in separate rooms pretending we’re fine. it’s getting worse.”
“i said no,” he repeated, sharper this time.
“and what happens if it peaks while we’re in the middle of something critical?” you continued anyway. “a maneuver, a repair, a calculation— what then? we just hope we can think straight?”
“we will think straight,” he snapped. “we’re not animals.”
“no, we’re worse,” you shot back. “we’re aware of it and still can’t stop it.”
he looked away first, jaw flexing, like he was trying to clamp down on something.
“we are not going to make a decision like that under the influence of alien—” he gestured helplessly, “—whatever this is.”
“we might not have a choice,” you said.
“we always have a choice.”
“do we?” you asked. “because right now it feels like we’re both in agony and pretending that distance is going to fix it.”
he flinched. barely, but enough.
“you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do,” he said, quieter now. steadier. like he was forcing the words into place. “okay? whatever this is, it doesn't make that decision for us. you don’t—” he stopped, swallowing. “you don’t owe me anything. not for survival, not for the mission. nothing.”
your expression softened for half a second, before hardening again.
“this isn’t about owing anyone anything,” you said. “this is about reality. about what’s actually happening. we can’t function like this, ryland.”
“we can,” he insisted. “we will.”
“you don’t believe that.”
he didn’t answer.
you stepped closer without thinking. his shoulders tensed immediately, like proximity itself was dangerous.
“look at me,” you said.
he did.
“you’re telling me to isolate,” you said, softer now, but more intense. “to stay away from you, to fight this out on our own, when we both know exactly what would make it stop.”
his breath hitched. just slightly, but he held his ground. “knowing something doesn’t mean we should do it.”
“why not?” you asked. “if it works, if it stabilizes us, if it lets us actually do our jobs.... why not?”
“because that’s not a choice,” he said, the words coming out sharper than he meant them to. “that’s a reaction. that’s the pollen making the decision for us.”
“or it’s us making the best decision with the situation we have,” you countered.
“no,” he said, shaking his head, stepping back now like he needed the space. “no, that’s not the same thing.”
you followed without realizing.
“then what is?” you demanded. “we wait it out and risk compromising the mission? we split up and hope nothing goes wrong? how is that better?”
“because at least it’s ours,” he snapped.
the words hung there. then he froze, like he hadn’t meant to say it that way.
you frowned slightly. “what?”
he dragged a hand down his face, exhaling hard. “if we— if we do this, it shouldn’t be because we’re backed into a corner. it shouldn’t be because some alien dust messed with our heads and left us with one option.”
“it’s still us,” you said. “it’s still our choice.”
“is it?” he asked quietly.
that got you. because there was something in his voice now. something deeper than just logic. something personal.
“i don’t want that,” he went on, more quietly now, but more intense for it. “i don’t want.... something like that to happen because we had no other way out. because we were trying to survive it. i don’t want it to be something we look back on and think, ‘we didn’t really choose that.’”
you stared at him.
he looked away again, jaw tight.
“that’s not—” you started, then faltered. “that’s not what this is about.”
“it is for me,” he said.
there was a beat.
“we don’t have the luxury of waiting for perfect conditions,” you said, more gently now. “we have a mission. we need each other functioning.”
“i know,” he said. “i know that.”
“then stop pretending this is something we can just outlast.”
“i’m not pretending,” he said, voice rougher now. “i’m choosing the option where you don’t wake up later and regret it.”
pause.
you blinked at him. your voice came out quieter than you intended. “you think i’d regret it.”
“i think,” he said carefully, “that this isn’t exactly a clear-headed situation.”
you opened your mouth but no argument came out. because he wasn’t wrong.
“i’m just saying that it might fix the problem.”
“at what cost?”
a beat.
he stepped closer. just one step, but it closed the gap enough that the heat surged again, sharp and immediate, both of you feeling it.
his hands flexed at his sides like he was actively resisting the instinct to do something else with them.
“you think you won’t regret that?” he asked, voice lower now, rougher around the edges. “you think we won’t look back at this later and realize we only did it because we didn’t have a choice?”
you didn’t answer right away.
he shook his head, almost to himself. “that’s not…. that’s not how that should happen.”
there was something else in his voice then, something quieter, buried under all the logic and resistance. something that didn’t quite belong to the situation at hand.
“if we’re going to—” he stopped, jaw tightening, then tried again. “if something like that ever happens, it shouldn’t be because we’re trying to survive some alien.... whatever this is. it should be because we actually—”
you watched him cutting himself off. the way his shoulders were locked, the way his whole body looked like it was braced against something internal, something he was refusing to let slip.
“isolating wouldn't work,” you said quietly. “we can’t do this alone. not here. not now.”
“maybe not,” he admitted.
“then—”
“i’m still not doing that,” he cut in.
you blinked. “ryland—”
“i’m not,” he repeated, firmer now. “we’ll figure something else out. we’ll manage it. we have to.”
“even if it makes things harder?”
“yeah,” he said. “even then.”
you searched his face. trying to understand. trying to find the line he wouldn’t cross.
“you’re really that set on this,” you said.
“yeah,” he said quietly.
another pause.
“fine,” you said at last, though it didn’t sound like agreement so much as reluctant acceptance. “we do it your way.”
he nodded once.
“we isolate,” you added. “but if it gets worse—”
“we reassess,” he said immediately.
neither of you moved.
just stood there, separated by a few steps and a whole lot of tension, both of you very aware of how fragile that distance felt.
like it could disappear in a second.
like he might cross it.
like you might let him.
his jaw tightened.
his shoulders went rigid again.
and for a split second, he looked like he might—
but then he turned away.
“i’ll take the lab first,” he said, voice a little rough. “you can have the cockpit.”
you swallowed. “okay.”
“we’ll.... check in. over comms.”
“right.”
—
you weren't sure what time it was, but two things for certain: you were going crazy because sleep refused to come and the ceiling was mocking you.
you had been lying in bed, tangled in your sheets for what felt like hours but was probably just twenty minutes, staring at the ceiling, flipping from one side to the other like a rotisserie chicken. the gold dust still simmered under your skin, turning every shift of fabric into slow torture. your tank top clung to your damp chest. your shorts felt too tight, too rough, too everything. you rolled onto your stomach, then flopped onto your back again, kicking the blanket off with a dramatic groan.
“this is stupid,” you muttered into the dark, dragging a pillow over your face like that might solve anything. “this is so fucking stupid. i am the pilot of the hail mary. i’ve navigated black holes in simulations. i should not be this horny because of some stupid alien dust.”
another wave of heat rolled through you, settling low and insistent between your legs. you whimpered softly, pressing your thighs together, but that only made it worse.
your brain refused to calm, looping the same thoughts over and over again.
ryland’s voice.
ryland’s face.
ryland's arms.
ryland's hair.
just him in general. the way he’d looked at you before you separated. the way his voice had tightened. the way his shoulders had gone rigid like he was holding himself together by sheer force.
you groaned softly into your pillow, pressing your face into it like that might smother the thoughts.
with a frustrated sigh, you shoved the covers off and swung your legs over the side of the bed, the cool floor a brief relief against overheated skin. you sat there for a second, breathing, trying to steady yourself before started pacing.
“isolation,” you scoffed under your breath, pacing faster. “yeah, great plan, ryland. fantastic plan, ryland. terrific plan! it was never gonna fucking work.”
you sighed again before stopping to take a deep breath.
“okay,” you said to yourself. “it's fine. it's fine! you're okay. you're doing good. just— breathe. it’ll pass.”
you closed your eyes and tried to focus.
in.
out.
in—
“mhmmph—”
pause.
you blinked an eye open.
what—
“mhmphhh— fuckk—”
—the hell was that?
you tilted your head slightly, listening.
at first, nothing. just the low hum of the ship, steady and familiar. long enough you were starting to think that your brain was playing tricks on you.
but then—
“oh, please— please—”
it was soft and faint. slightly uneven. and came from the other side of the wall.
and the other side of the wall was ryland's room.
you froze. you heard it again. a low, muffled whimper drifted through the thin wall
unmistakenably ryland.
he was in the room next to yours.
awake.
and very clearly not handling this any better than you were.
he was trying so hard to stay quiet, really committing to the bit, but failing miserably. another whimper followed, shaky and desperate, quickly bitten off. the faint, rhythmic sound of skin on skin. a muttered curse. your name, whispered like he was cursing the universe for putting him in this position.
heat flooded your face so fast you probably matched the emergency lighting. you stood there, mouth slightly open, ears straining despite yourself.
is he—
no.
no way.
no fucking way.
another moan, softer this time, but unmistakably him. he was doing a terrible job at being stealthy. the wall might as well have been paper.
you paced faster, hands flapping uselessly at your sides like a malfunctioning robot.
dilemma time. big, stupid, pollen-fueled dilemma.
option #1: stay in your room. be responsible. respect the isolation plan he’d suggested earlier like the noble scientist he was. suffer in dignified silence until the dust wore off. maybe meditate. or count rivets in the ceiling. very professional.
option #2: march over there, bang on his door, and finally deal with whatever this is, together.
you stopped, pressing your ear against the cool wall, right where the sounds were loudest. another whimper from his side. your stomach flipped. your body voted very enthusiastically for option two.
“but he said isolate,” you argued with yourself in a harsh whisper. “he was all ‘we’re professionals, we can handle this.’ what if i go over there and he freaks out? what if it gets awkward? what if he opens the door with his dick in his hand and we both just scream?”
you frowned at the mental image. not very flattering thing to think about.
“fuck, no. i’m strong. i’m a pilot. i’ve done evasive maneuvers in asteroid fields. i'm on a mission to save earth. i can handle one night of alien-induced horniness without climbing my crewmate like a tree.”
you resumed pacing, arms crossed tight over your chest like that would somehow contain the fire. three steps. turn. three steps. the sounds from his room continued. another low moan, a bitten-off “shit” that sounded way too sexy for your sanity.
you stopped again, staring at your door like it was the airlock to certain doom.
your hand hovered near the door panel. you yanked it back like the button burned.
“no. professional boundaries. we have a mission. we have dignity. we—”
a particularly broken moan cut through the wall, followed by a muffled thump like he’d smacked his head against something.
you groaned, dragging both hands down your face. “okay, fuck it. i’m weak. i’m so fucking weak. if he doesn’t want this he can yell at me tomorrow when the pollen wears off.”
a beat.
“if.... it ever wears off.” you added.
before you could talk yourself out of it again, you marched to the door, heart hammering like a faulty thruster. you raised your fist and banged on his door, loud, impatient.
no turning back now.
inside, everything went dead silent. then frantic shuffling. something clattered to the floor. then the door finally slid open.
ryland stood there, flushed crimson, hair a disaster, breathing like he’d just run a marathon. his glasses were crooked. shorts wrinkled, barely even on, one hand still guiltily hovering near his waist. his eyes widened comically when he saw you.
you didn’t give him time to speak.
you grabbed the front of his shirt, pulled him forward, and kissed him hard.
he made a surprised noise that got immediately swallowed when you kissed him, the door sliding open the rest of the way as he stumbled back into the room.
for a second, he didn’t move. just froze, like his brain had short-circuited.
then his hands came up instinctively, one landing on your waist, the other tangling in your hair as he kissed you back with pent-up desperation. you stumbled forward into his room, mouths still locked, and kicked the door shut behind you with your heel.
the kiss was messy at first. noses bumping, tongues fighting. but neither of you cared. you poured every ounce of frustration and heat into it. his back hit the wall and he pulled you closer, hips pressing against yours so you could feel exactly how affected he still was.
after a long, dizzying minute you forced yourself to pull back just enough to breathe.
“wait, wait,” you said, out of air. “you were the one who wanted to isolate. if you want me to stop.... say it. we can pretend this never happened—”
“no— no, no, no, no. don’t you dare,” he said immediately.
you blinked. “what?”
“don’t say we can stop and then actually mean it,” he said, like that was a personal attack. “that’s— no. absolutely not.”
you huffed a breath that might’ve been a laugh. “you were literally the one arguing against doing this.”
“i know,” he said. “i was wrong. past me was— misguided. naive. deeply out of touch with current events.”
“current events,” you repeated.
“yes,” he said, nodding once, very serious about this. “new data has come to light.”
“and that data is?”
“i need you.”
a beat.
“please.” he stared at you, eyes dark and glassy, lips swollen. his hands flexed on your hips like he was scared you’d vanish. for a heartbeat the only sound was your ragged breathing and the low hum of the ship.
“i tried— i really fucking tried to be good. but this dust is evil and you were just right next door and you look too good in that tank top and i’ve been losing my mind for hours. please.”
you raised an eyebrow, smirking. “oh, so that's what the staring was for earlier?”
“i.... well, i mean— yeah.” he stammered, realizing there is no point of pretending anymore.
you couldn't help but chuckled. “yeah, okay. the feeling's mutual.”
“yeah?” he laughed too.
“yeah.”
“can i kiss you again then?”
you smiled. “thought you'd never asked.”
this time it was him who surged forward, kissing you slower this time, deeper, letting the burn build deliberately. his glasses fogged up immediately, the lenses clouding over from the combined heat of your breaths. he didn’t take them off. didn’t even reach for them. just kept kissing you through the haze, like the fog made it somehow hotter. your fingers traced his jaw, his neck, the rapid flutter of his pulse. he shivered under your touch.
you walked him backward toward the bunk without breaking the kiss. when his knees hit the edge he sat down heavily, pulling you with him so you straddled his lap. the new position pressed you right against the hard line of him, making you both gasp into each other’s mouths.
slowly, you started undressing each other. your hands slid under his shirt, palms mapping the warm, flushed skin of his chest. he lifted his arms so you could tug it off. you tossed it somewhere behind you, leaving him in only his glasses. he returned the favor, peeling your tank top up inch by inch, kissing every new strip of skin he revealed. your stomach, the underside of your breast, your collarbone, until the fabric was gone.
his fingers hooked into the waistband of your shorts. you rose up on your knees so he could slide them down your thighs along with your underwear. you kicked them away. then you focused on his shorts, tugging them down slowly, savoring the way his breath hitched when you freed him.
naked now, you settled back onto his lap, skin to skin. the contact was electric. you took your time, rocking gently against him without taking him inside yet, just feeling the slide and heat while you kissed him lazily, tongues tangling in slow, filthy strokes.
you reached between your bodies, wrapping your hand around him. he groaned loud, head tipping back, the sound vibrating through his chest. “fuck— your hand feels so good,” he breathed, hips twitching up into your grip. “please don’t tease me— been dying for this.”
“you sure about this?” you murmured against his lips between kisses, giving him one last out even as your hips rolled in a slow, teasing circle.
“never been more sure of anything in my life,” he breathed, hands gripping your thighs.
you laughed softly into his mouth, the sound turning into a moan when he shifted his hips just right. one of his hands slid between your bodies, fingers exploring with gentle, curious touches until you were trembling.
only then did you reach down, wrap your hand around him, and guide him to your entrance. you sank down inch by torturous inch, both of you moaning at the slow, perfect stretch. when you were fully seated you stayed there for a long moment, foreheads pressed together, breathing each other in while your bodies adjusted.
then you started to move.
slow rolls of your hips at first, savoring every drag and press. ryland’s head tipped back, exposing the long line of his throat. you leaned in to kiss along his jaw, his neck, sucking lightly at his pulse point while you rode him with deliberate, unhurried patience. his hands roamed your back, your sides, your breasts, learning every curve like it was new data he needed to memorize.
gradually the rhythm built. your movements grew deeper, harder. the bunk creaked steadily. soft gasps and moans filled the small room. his fingers found your clit, rubbing tight circles that made your rhythm falter and your breath catch.
“ryland— fuck, just like that—”
“you feel so good,” he panted, voice breaking on the words. “oh, baby— don’t stop, please—”
it hit you like a solar flare. you cried out his name loud, clenching around him hard, hips stuttering through the waves. he followed right after, burying himself deep with a broken, guttural moan.
“yes— fuck— coming— inside you— god, you’re perfect— take it all—”
you collapsed against his chest, both of you trembling, hearts hammering in sync. his arms wrapped around you tight, holding you close while the aftershocks rolled through, glasses still fogged and slightly askew on his nose.
for a long moment, neither of you said anything.
you were half sprawled across him, one leg tangled with his, your arm draped somewhere over his chest like you’d both simply.... collapsed and decided to stay that way. the room was quiet except for your breathing, slowly evening out, though not nearly fast enough to feel normal.
ryland was staring at the ceiling.
very intently.
like it had just revealed the meaning of life and he was still processing it.
“....so,” you said eventually.
“so,” he echoed.
another pause.
you shifted slightly, propping your chin on his chest so you could look at him. “on a scale from one to ‘we should never speak of this again,’ where are you at?”
he didn’t look at you.
“....i’m considering faking amnesia.”
you snorted. “wow. rude.”
“i’m kidding,” he said quickly, then paused. “mostly.”
“mostly,” you repeated.
“okay, no, that sounded worse than i meant it,” he said, finally turning his head toward you, eyes wide like he was trying to fix it in real time. “i don’t regret it. i do not regret it. i just—” he gestured vaguely with one hand, which was difficult considering you were partially pinning him down, “—need a second to emotionally catch up with my own life choices.”
you raised an eyebrow. “your life choices led you to space.”
“for the record, i did not consent to that.”
fair, but you ignored him. “and then to alien pollen.”
“unfortunately, yes.”
“and then to me.”
he hesitated.
“that part i’m less willing to categorize as a mistake.”
you stared at him for a second.
then narrowed your eyes. “that was almost smooth.”
“thank you,” he said. “i panicked halfway through it.”
“i could tell.”
another stretch of quiet settled in, but it was different now. looser. like the tension that had been buzzing under your skin all day had finally burned itself out, leaving something softer in its place.
“....for the record,” you added after a moment, “your ‘being quiet’ plan earlier? terrible.”
he made a strangled noise. “oh my god.”
“like, impressively bad,” you continued. “i heard everything.”
“you did not hear everything.”
“ryland.”
he covered his face with both hands, cheeks heated up. “i would like to be ejected into space now.”
“denied,” you said immediately. “we need you for the mission.”
“please, just kill me already.”
“also,” you added, very seriously, “for future reference, the wall is not soundproof.”
“i have gathered that,” he said into his hands.
“just making sure.”
he peeked at you through his fingers. “....are you going to bring this up again later?”
“oh, constantly.”
“i walked into that one.”
“you really did.”
another quiet moment passed.
you could feel his breathing steady under you now, less uneven, less strained.
“....hey,” he said after a while.
“yeah?”
there was a small pause before he spoke again, like he was choosing his words more carefully this time. “are you okay?”
it caught you off guard.
not the question itself, but the way he asked it. steady. grounded, like he needed the answer to mean something.
you blinked, then nodded. “yeah,” you said, softer. “i am.”
he turned his head then, just enough to look at you properly, like he needed the visual confirmation to go with it.
“okay,” he said finally, the word carrying more weight than it should have. “i'm glad.”
you nudged him lightly with your shoulder, a small, grounding kind of contact. “you?”
he let out a breath that sounded like it had been stuck somewhere in his chest for a while. “yeah. i think so. which is honestly surprising, given.... everything.”
another quiet stretch settled over you, but it wasn’t awkward. not really. just calm, in a slightly surreal, post haze kind of way.
eventually, the exhaustion caught up with you. real, actual exhaustion this time. not the restless, jittery kind from before.
you shifted closer without thinking, your head settling more comfortably against him.
he stilled for half a second then relaxed. his arm tightening just slightly around you.
“also,” he added, voice softer now, almost drowsy, “for the record…. i don’t regret it.”
your chest tightened. you didn’t lift your head, didn’t look at him. just let the words settle somewhere quiet inside you.
“…me neither,” you murmured.
that was the last coherent thing either of you said.
because a few minutes later, the exhaustion finally won.
summary: you and clark have been best friends since college, and you know everything about each other—including his superhero identity—but tensions have risen since you started working with him at the daily planet, and after superman is exposed to a 'truth telling toxin' you decide to take a little advantage of the fact that he can't lie
notes: a little late to the party, but have a clark kent fic! sorry this is late (and i've been m.i.a.) i've been busy watching the film eight times, crying about the film, and having an existential crisis about the fact that i'll never love another man the way i love david corenswet... but anyway! i struggled a little with this, hence it taking so long, so i'm sorry if it sucks? but regardless, i always love to hear what y'all think, so please let me know!
warnings: swearing, alcohol consumption, it has some corny moments, some jealousy, brief mention of a dating app, lots of tension, very minor miscommunication, clark jokes about eating kryptonite, jimmy is a well-meaning meddler, italics, clark says 'gosh' a lot, and SMUT (making out, f oral receiving, fingering, unprotected p in v, dirty-ish talk, also it's a few thousand words of smut oops) 18+ ONLY MDNI!!!
word count: 21621
- Clark -
“It’s kind of pathetic if you think about it,” Jimmy says.
Lois rolls her eyes. “Don’t start, Jimmy.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he says, gesturing toward Clark with his coffee mug. “Just look at him. He’s like a golden retriever waiting for someone to throw the ball.”
Lois tries not to laugh, but a soft snort slips out before she can hide it behind a sip of coffee.
“I think it’s sweet,” Cat says, perching on the edge of Jimmy’s desk. “Being in love with your best friend is so… early-two-thousands romcom coded.”
Lois swivels in her chair to give Cat an incredulous look. “What does that even mean?”
“It means Clark is a nerd who’s hopelessly in love with a girl way out of his league, and it’s adorable in a tragic, pathetic kind of way,” Jimmy says.
“Jimmy!” Cat smacks his arm. “Stop calling Clark pathetic.”
“I’m not calling him pathetic,” Jimmy insists, still grinning. “The pining is pathetic. There’s a difference.”
“You’re still being a jerk,” Lois mutters into her coffee.
Their teasing continues, but Clark barely registers it. He hasn’t heard a word since the moment you walked through the door—hair mussed from the wind, a binder hugged tight to your chest. Perry intercepted you immediately, stopping you at the front desk to talk about the article you submitted late last night. Clark only knows this because he can hear every word from across the newsroom—the warmth in your voice, every shift and cadence he’s memorised over the years.
It’s not an accent or a twang. It’s just you.
The voice that lingers in his dreams, that echoes in the back of his mind whenever he’s flying through the sky, wondering if you’re thinking about him too.
It’s always you.
“Morning, team!” you greet cheerfully, dropping your bag and binder onto the desk opposite Clark’s.
Jimmy smirks, his gaze flicking toward Clark before settling on you. “Good morning, hot shot. What was all that with the boss about?”
Clark is staring—he knows he is—but he can’t help it. You’re just so goddamn beautiful. You have been since the day he first met you, and no amount of superhuman restraint has ever dulled the way you affect him. If kryptonite is his greatest weakness, you’re a very close second.
“Didn’t you hear?” you tease Jimmy. “I’m the new headliner.”
You grin, pretending to flick your hair off your shoulder with mock dramatics—and that’s when Clark notices it. The change. The subtle way your body reacts.
Your heartbeat picks up, quick and sharp against his ears. He can see it now—literally see the steady thump of your heart beneath your ribs, see the way the muscles in your chest tighten and your breath catches ever so slightly.
But why?
The question lodges in his mind like a splinter. Is it Jimmy? Is it something Jimmy said? Does he make you nervous? Does he make you excited?
Do you... like him?
Clark’s brow furrows. He tracks the heat rising under your skin, the almost imperceptible tremor in your hand as you lower it to lean on your desk—and then he freezes.
Oh, God. He’s staring directly at your chest. Through it, technically, but from the outside no one else would know the difference. His face heats, and he blinks hard, forcing himself to stop—to look away before someone notices.
“Better watch out, Kent,” Lois says, smirking over the rim of her coffee cup. “You might’ve just convinced Perry to hire your biggest competition yet.”
Clark clears his throat, pulling his gaze up to your face where it belongs. “Yeah, I think I did.”
You give him that cheesy little smile—the one where your nose scrunches up, your cheeks flush pink, and his heart stops—the one that slips into his dreams every damn night. He loves that smile. He loves your face. He loves you—and God, he hates that he’s too much of a coward to say it out loud.
He wishes he wasn’t.
He wishes—of all the powers in the universe—that he had the ability to rewind time. Then, he’d go back to college, back to the late-night study sessions and coffee runs and the years of friendship and banter. Back to that night, right before graduation, when he told you the truth about who he really is.
If he’d been half as brave as everyone thinks he is, he would’ve said—
I’m Superman. And by the way, I’m in love with you. Wanna make out?
Maybe then things would’ve been different. Maybe if he tacked it on to the big reveal, you would’ve fallen for him too—charmed by the whole ‘superhero’ thing.
And maybe by now you’d be doing everything and more than just making out. Because yeah, he wants to do a lot more than that. A lot more. Which is a real problem, because just thinking about having you—really having you—makes him dizzy enough to fly straight into a building.
He isn’t joking when he says you affect him like kryptonite. He doesn’t know why, but when it comes to you, he’s helpless. Powerless. He’s always felt things more deeply than most—because he isn’t like most—but with you? It's something else entirely.
He knows for a fact he couldn’t live without you. That’s why he convinced you to stay in Metropolis after college. Why he’s never stopped being your best friend. Why he got you the job at the Daily Planet—because weekends with you weren’t enough. He needs you every single day.
And that’s also why he’s never told you how he really feels. Because the way he loves you scares him—and if it scares him, what would it do to you? Probably terrify you. Maybe even drive you away. And he can’t risk that.
He can’t risk losing you.
So here he stays, hopelessly stuck in the friendzone, listening to you chat animatedly with Cat about some loser you met on Hinge who you’re going out with tomorrow night.
“His profile says he’s into hot yoga and smoking meats,” you say, holding your phone up for Cat to see.
It takes every ounce of—superhuman—self-control for Clark not to scoff.
“Baby girl, it also says he collects limited edition knives,” Cat points out, her brows drawn. “Are you sure you want to go on a date with this guy?”
You roll your eyes. “I appreciate the concern, but he’s the only half-decent match I’ve had in weeks.”
Cat blinks at you. “Seriously? But your profile is perfect. I made sure of that myself.”
“I know,” you sigh, your gaze sliding toward Clark—who’s very conspicuously looking anywhere but at you. “But I left my phone unattended on my desk a couple weeks ago, and someone thought it’d be funny to change everything so the only matches I got were Arkham escapees.”
Jimmy snorts at his desk, but his eyes stay glued to his screen like he isn’t blatantly eavesdropping.
“Clark,” Cat says, her glare narrowing at him. “Messing with her dating profile? Really?”
Clark’s head snaps up—blue eyes wide and full of faux-innocence. “It was Jimmy’s idea.”
“Dude,” Jimmy says, swivelling in his chair, “you really don’t want to start pointing fingers. Because I won’t hesitate to—”
“Okay!” Lois cuts in, standing from her desk with her empty mug in hand. “I’m going to need you all to shut up and get some actual work done before I lose my mind.”
Jimmy chuckles and turns back to his desk. Cat sighs, handing your phone back with a dramatic shake of her head. Clark glances toward Lois, mouths a quiet thank you, then lets his gaze drifts back to you—only to find you already watching him.
You’re wearing a that half-scowl, half-smirk look that makes his stomach flip like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t. He feels seen. Exposed. Almost like you’re the one with x-ray vision. Or worse, maybe you can read his mind.
He raises a brow. “What?”
“No snide comment about my hot-yoga-loving, knife-collecting, entrepreneurial date?”
His lips twitch. “Oh, he’s an entrepreneur? That’s impressive. Really sounds like you found a winner.”
“Entrepreneur is just code for broke,” Jimmy mutters.
You ignore him, your eyes staying locked on Clark. “So, you’re not going to warn me against going on this date?”
Clark shrugs, leaning back in his chair like he’s not affected. “Why would I? He sounds great.”
“He collects knives, Clark,” you say, tilting your head just enough to make it feel like a challenge. “Doesn’t that seem a little… murder-y?”
Clark smiles, leaning forward again until his elbows rest on the desk. “For your sake, I hope he’s not.”
“But if he is...” you press, voice dropping low. “You think there’ll be anyone around to save me?”
The way your lips curl, the glint in your eyes, that soft, sly note in your voice—it’s enough to make Clark feel uncomfortably warm. He always runs hot, but looking at you now? Teasing him like this? It feels like you’re daring him to lose control.
God, the things he’d do if you weren’t looking at him like that in the middle of the goddamn newsroom.
“You mean Superman?” he asks, his voice low now, matching yours. “I’m sure he’s got better things to do on a Friday night.”
Your brows shoot up. “Better things?”
“Maybe,” he says with a nonchalant shrug, but his throat feels tight.
“Well,” you murmur, leaning back in your chair, “you’d know. Considering how close you and Superman are. All those exclusive interviews…”
Jimmy snickers quietly, but neither of you spare him a glance.
“I hope he doesn’t, though,” you add, tone light but loaded, your smile lingering as your gaze slides toward your computer screen. “I hope he’s got nothing better to do. I hope he’s hanging around, just in case my date is a psycho and I need saving.”
Clark opens his mouth to reply when Steve walks by, cutting in like a brick through glass.
“Haven’t you been saved by Superman, like, five times already?”
Your cheeks heat, and Clark hears your heart pick up—a sound so sweet it nearly undoes him. Because he knows it's for him. Well, Superman technically, but Clark Kent is taking this win.
“It was once—maybe twice,” you say quickly.
“Actually,” Jimmy chimes in, “I think it was more—”
“Oh my God,” you cut him off, flustered. “Why is everyone so chatty this morning? Can we please just work?"
Steve rolls his eyes and keeps walking.
Jimmy frowns. “You and Clark were the ones—”
“Jimmy,” Clark says, his voice clipped in a way that makes Jimmy blink. “Seriously. Work.”
Jimmy throws his hands up in surrender and spins back to his screen. Clark waits a beat, then glances up over the low partition between your desks. The second your eyes meet his, he can’t help the small, smug curve of his mouth. You roll your eyes but can’t hide your own grin, and suddenly it feels like the whole newsroom has faded into background noise.
Because you’re looking at him like that—with those eyes—and lousy date or not, you still know exactly who’s going to show up if you need saving.
The rest of the day goes by like any other. Everyone gets lost in their work, debates flare and die out, coffee is chugged like it’s oxygen, and Perry yells at someone for a misspelled headline at least once. It’s fair, though—journalists should at least know how to spell. At least.
By three p.m., Clark can tell you’re deep into that afternoon slump—when the sunlight pouring through the big glass windows feels too warm, your last coffee was too long ago, and you’re one sigh away from curling up at your desk for a nap.
Clark secretly loves this time of day. He doesn’t get the same crash as everyone else, so it’s the perfect time to spoil you without you—or anyone else—raising an eyebrow. He lives for the way you give him that sleepy, dopey smile whenever he drops a chocolate bar on your desk, grabs something from the front desk for you, or—his favourite—when he walks down the block to get you a real coffee from your favourite café instead of the sludge in the breakroom that Perry insists on calling coffee.
He’s just about to do exactly that when he sees you drag your tired feet into the printer room and start stacking cartons of paper reams like some kind of reckless architect.
He stops at the doorway, brows furrowed. “What are you doing?”
You glance over your shoulder as you drop a third box onto the wobbly stack. “Building. What does it look like?”
“It looks like you’re five seconds from filing for workers’ comp,” he says, stepping into the small room.
The space is cramped, mostly taken up by the oversized printer and a few sad piles of paper—some blank, some the casualties of misprints. The back wall is lined with floor-to-ceiling shelving crammed with office supplies and random junk that no one has bothered to sort since, well, ever.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” you say with a small smirk. “I can still type with a broken neck.”
Clark is about to argue when you bend over and press your palms flat against the top box to test its stability. His words die in his throat. His eyes—traitorous, shameless—drop to the curve of your ass, barely two feet in front of him. He’s staring—again. He knows he’s staring, but he can’t stop—because apparently, all it takes to unravel Superman is you in a pair of fitted grey office pants.
Then you plant one foot on the unsteady tower like you’re about to climb Everest, and something in him snaps.
“Woah, no way,” he says, stepping forward in a blur.
Before he can think better of it, his hands are on your waist—warm, firm, and holding you steady as he pulls you back down to the floor like you weigh nothing.
The heat of you bleeds through the thin fabric of your shirt, and it’s dizzying. You’re too soft, too precious, and he has no business touching you like this. His breath snags in his chest, sharp and unsteady. He’s hugged you before—plenty of times—but this? This is different. This feels dangerous.
Then, of course—
“What’s going on in here?” Jimmy asks, grinning like an idiot as he leans against the doorframe.
“I was just trying to—” you start.
“She was just—” Clark says at the same time.
And then he hears it—your heartbeat, skipping once before it kicks into overdrive. Your body grows even warmer beneath his hands, and you step away quickly, like his touch was too much. His stomach twists.
You’re flushed. Flustered. Because of Jimmy?
The thought hits him like a punch to the gut. It has to be. What else could it be? You’ve never looked at him like that. Not Clark. Not the way you look—the way your body reacts—when Jimmy appears, always wearing that lazy grin, the one that apparently drives women wild.
“Hey, I’m not judging,” Jimmy says, raising his coffee cup in a mock toast. “The printer room is a classic. Just don’t let Perry catch you—he almost had a coronary when he found me in here with someone.”
Then he winks and walks away, strolling across the newsroom toward his desk.
For a second, Clark just stands there, jaw tight, the faint sound of your too-quick heartbeat still humming in his ears like static. He wants to say something—ask why you get all warm and pink every time Jimmy walks into a room—but he swallows it down. This isn’t the time. He doesn’t have the right.
Instead, he clears his throat and turns back to the shelf, reaching easily for the toner cartridge on the top shelf.
“This what you were risking your life for?” he asks, holding it out to you.
You sigh dramatically as you take it. “Yes, that. Don’t look so smug just because you’re freakishly tall.”
“Sorry,” he says, tone dry, “next time I’ll let you make the ER trip.”
You scowl up at him, lips twitching like you’re trying not to smile. “Well, not all of us can be eight feet tall and built like a Greek god.”
A slow smile tugs at his mouth. “Seven and a half, tops.”
You roll your eyes, but your cheeks are still pink. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re reckless,” he fires back, soft but certain.
There’s a beat—a pause thick enough to feel. Your eyes hold his, that half-challenging, half-teasing look that makes his pulse thud a little harder. Clark’s not sure if you know what you’re doing to him or if you’re just being you, but it’s suddenly too much. Too warm.
Jimmy’s stupid grin flashes in his mind. He can still hear the way your heart had jumped when he appeared, the way you’d flushed—warm and flustered in his hands, but not because of him.
Clark clears his throat and steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from reaching for you again. “Try not to give yourself a concussion while I’m gone,” he says, trying for light, but it comes out a little too clipped.
You blink. “Gone?”
“Coffee run,” he mutters. “You look like you could use it.”
“Oh. Thanks,” you reply, with that soft, tired smile—like it’s just another small kindness between friends.
And it kills him. Because he doesn’t want to be just friends—not when Jimmy’s grin gets that kind of reaction out of you. He wants that reaction. He wants to be the one who makes you smile, who sets your cheeks on fire, whose presence throws your heartbeat off balance.
By the time he’s back out in the newsroom, his chest is tight and his jaw aches from clenching so hard. Jimmy is laughing with Cat at his desk, and Clark can’t help but picture you grinning at him like that. Laughing like that.
He swallows hard, grabs his jacket, and heads for the elevator before he does something stupid. Like break the sound barrier just to get to your favourite café and back, because apparently, that’s the only way he knows how to compete.
The walk helps. A little. At least enough for him to stop replaying the printer room in his head like it’s a crime scene and he’s looking for evidence of when, exactly, he lost his mind. He forces himself not to rush, because it’s not like you’re going anywhere. Most of the Planet’s staff will be chained to their desks until well after sunset—you included. Then he’ll walk you home like he always does, listening to you rant about something dumb Perry said or the latest atrocity the breakroom coffee has committed. God, he loves your voice when you’re like that—sharp, alive, unfiltered.
It’s pathetic, he knows—just as Jimmy had so graciously pointed out this morning—but Clark couldn’t deny it even if he wanted to. Because aside from saving the planet and doing as much good as one man—one Kryptonian—possibly can, he lives for you.
He hasn’t thought much about what he’ll do when you inevitably find someone. Someone who isn’t him. Maybe he’ll move to a red sun planet and sulk until he withers away. Or move to the moon and mope for all eternity. Or, hell, maybe he’ll just swallow a chunk of kryptonite and be done with it.
Because the truth is, he doesn’t think he’d survive it. Losing you to someone else would tear him apart in ways nothing else could. It’s the second-most painful thought in his head—the first being losing you in the other sense. The permanent, irreversible sense. Which is exactly why he should be trying to keep his distance. Why he shouldn’t need you like this, so badly it scares him.
But every time he’s tried to warn you, every time he’s told you that being close to him is too dangerous, you’ve just looked him in the eye and said you don’t care. That you need him.
And God help him, because hearing you say those four little words—I need you, Clark—is enough to bring Superman to his knees. In more ways than one.
“Uh, Clark?” Lois asks, head tilted, one arm holding the elevator doors open. “Plan on moving any time soon?”
Clark blinks, hard, and realises he’s back at the office. In the elevator. Holding your coffee in one hand and a paper bag with two warm pastries in the other.
“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Daydreaming.”
Lois smirks as she steps aside. “Wonder what about.”
Clark steps out of the elevator and—of course—his eyes go straight to you, all the way across the bullpen. You’re at your desk, typing away with that little furrow between your brows, the one he could sketch from memory.
“I swear you’ve got a sixth sense just for her,” Lois says as she steps into the elevator. “Doesn’t matter where she is—you always know. Like your compass doesn’t point north. It points to her.”
Lois is a journalist, Clark knows that. Words are her weapon. But the truth of them still hits him square in the chest. He doesn’t mind the teasing, but he hates how transparent he is—how anyone can look at him and just see.
“You should just ask her out,” Lois adds lightly. “Put us all out of our misery.”
Before he can find an answer, the elevator doors slide shut and she’s gone—taking her sharp words and knowing smirk with her.
Clark waits a moment, draws a deep, steadying breath, then crosses the newsroom toward you. He can see the exposé you’re working on, the one you’ve ranted about a hundred times, and he can practically feel the focus radiating off you. It almost makes him hesitate—almost.
“Coffee,” he says, placing the cup on your desk. “And pick a pastry. Or we can split them both.”
You flinch slightly before glancing up at him with that dopey, tired grin. Your bottom lip is swollen and raw from chewing on it, and the sight alone makes something stir in his chest—and lower.
“Where’s my coffee?” Jimmy calls, spinning lazily in his chair.
Clark hears it again—your heartbeat, stuttering once before racing fast—and his chest tightens. He doesn’t want to regret getting you this job, but he’s starting to think he might have been better off leaving you at Metropolis Mail. You hated it there, but at least you didn’t have a crush on any of the old, sleazy men you worked with.
“Clark doesn’t like you like he likes me,” you tease, eyes narrowing at Jimmy.
Jimmy snorts. “And you know what? I’m grateful that he doesn’t. Otherwise, we’d have to—”
“Jimmy,” Cat interrupts from across the bullpen, “don’t finish that sentence unless you want me to staple your mouth shut.”
Clark settles at his desk, watching as you reach for the bag of pastries. Your cheeks are still pink—flustered, again—and he can hear your pulse humming too fast.
“Okay, we’re halving these,” you declare. “I’m not choosing between a chocolate croissant and a cinnamon roll.”
He smiles softly as you tear open the bag and flatten it on your desk. You split the croissant, then the cinnamon roll, eyes flicking between the halves before—like always—you pick the smaller pieces for yourself. He knows you do this every time you share food, even when it’s something you love. He’s only asked you about it once, and you’d just shrugged, saying he’s bigger so he gets the bigger piece.
But no matter how many times you do it, it still makes him feel special.
Then—before Clark can even think about standing up to grab his halves of the pastries—you lick your fingers. Slowly. A low hum vibrates from your chest, the sound unexpectedly loud in the unusually quiet newsroom.
Clark’s breath catches. His eyes flick up, locking on to the way you drag your fingers between your lips. It’s a simple gesture—intimate but mundane—except somehow, it’s not. It’s you, and suddenly the air feels charged—thick with something electric, something that has Clark’s body reacting before his brain can catch up.
He shifts in his chair, suddenly aware of how uncomfortably tight his trousers have become.
Jimmy snorts quietly at his desk, barely suppressing a giggle. Even Cat, a little further away, throws Clark a knowing smirk, eyebrows raised like she’s watching a sitcom.
Clark clears his throat, trying to focus on his screen but failing spectacularly. This—this slow, deliberate lick of your fingers—is a distraction he doesn’t want but absolutely can’t resist.
And today is the longest Thursday ever.
- You -
It’s not often you’re at work early, especially on a Friday, but this morning you woke up at six a.m. and couldn’t get back to sleep. No matter how many times you tossed and turned or fluffed your pillow. So here you are, chewing on the cap of your pen and glaring at the empty desk across from you—Clark’s desk.
He’s not always on time—extracurricular activities and all—which is something you should be used to by now. But you’re not. You still worry every time he’s not where he’s supposed to be, and you know it’s ridiculous, but you just can’t help it.
“Relax,” Jimmy says, startling you as he drops his bag onto his desk. “He’s just late, not dead.”
You shoot him a glare. You want to say you don’t know that, but you also don’t want to put that kind of energy into the universe. So you settle for sticking your tongue out like the mature, well-adjusted adult you are.
Jimmy chuckles. “Seriously, I don’t know how you two keep this up. It’s exhausting.”
You roll your eyes and turn back to your computer, not yet caffeinated enough to have this argument. Again.
“Why won’t you believe me?” he presses. “He’s into you. I know he is. Why would I lie—”
“Would you keep your voice down?” you hiss, brows pulling together. “I don’t need the entire bullpen hearing about my pathetic crush on my best friend slash coworker.”
Jimmy snorts. “But you’re fine with the entire bullpen seeing it?”
Your chair squeaks as you whip around to face him. “What do you mean, see it?”
“The way you two are constantly falling all over each other,” he says, eyebrows raised as he drops into his chair. “I mean, come on. The man brings you coffee—good coffee—twice a day, gets you snacks, picks up your mail, walks you home every night, gives you his jacket when it’s cold or rainy. And newsflash—most friends don’t hold each other by the waist in the printer room.”
Your cheeks go hot, your pulse skipping once before slamming into a frantic rhythm. The memory of Clark’s hands—big, warm, wrapped around your waist like they belonged there—flashes through your mind. The press of his fingers, the solid weight of him so close, the ghost of his breath against your neck. It’s enough to make you squirm, thighs squeezing together as you hope to hell that Jimmy doesn’t notice the way you shift in your seat.
“That’s just… Clark,” you argue. “He’s nice. He was raised well. He’s a gentleman, Jimmy. More than anyone can say about you.”
Jimmy’s brows shoot up. “Okay, I’m ignoring that insult because I know you’re just deflecting, and you know I’m right.”
“I know you’re delusional.”
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“Because,” you say, sitting up straighter, “Clark knows I have a crush on him. Okay? He knows. So if he liked me as anything more than a friend, he’d ask me out. But he doesn’t. Obviously. And I’m fine with that.”
Jimmy frowns, leaning back in his chair with his legs stretched out. “He knows?”
You nod. “He knows.”
“How do you know he knows?”
Well, that’s… complicated.
You can’t exactly say oh, because I’m pretty sure Superman can hear my heart go feral whenever he so much as looks at me. Or that he can probably see it pounding and feel the heat rushing through your veins. Or—hell—you wouldn’t even be surprised if he’s picked up on other… reactions. Like that first time you saw him in the suit up close. Or the time he came over to help you move furniture wearing just a tank top and shorts, and—okay, you need to stop thinking about that before you pass out in the middle of the newsroom.
“I just know,” you mutter. “Intuition. Or whatever.”
Jimmy groans and tips his head back like he’s talking to the ceiling. “You know, for journalists, the two of you are really bad at using your words.”
You glare at him—eyes narrowed, jaw tight—wishing you could come up with something snarky to snap back with. But you can’t. Your brain is a mess of Clark’s big hands, his broad shoulders in a tank top, and the way that goddamn suit hugs his thick thighs.
So, with a frustrated huff, you turn back to your computer and try to focus on work. You finish your first cup of the Planet’s signature sludge by the time Cat breezes in, giving you a wink and a smile before settling at her desk. Lois is next, muttering to herself as she drops into her chair and starts furiously typing whatever it is she’s afraid she’ll forget.
Your eyes flick up to Clark’s desk every few minutes, and occasionally, you make the mistake of glancing at Jimmy, who is watching you with a very amused grin. He raises his brows, smirking, like he’s daring you to admit that he’s right. You try to ignore him, but after the third look, you can’t stop yourself from scowling and mouthing at him to fuck off, when—
“You’re very late this morning,” Lois says.
Your head whips back toward Clark’s desk—eyes wide, heart thudding—and there he is.
You think you’d be used to him by now. Those bright blue eyes, the unruly curls, the dimples framing those full, stupidly pretty lips. But somehow, every time you see him—which, by the way, is a lot—you feel like you can finally breathe again. Like you’ve been holding your breath without realising it, and now that he’s here, smiling sheepishly and looking perfectly dishevelled, your lungs remember how to work.
“Yeah, I overslept,” he says, voice low and still a little rough with sleep.
Your heart stutters when his gaze lands on you, and it’s moments like this that make you wish you could control your own damn body—because how could he not know? Your entire nervous system launches into full red alert whenever he’s within fifty feet of you. And you know he can see, hear, feel everything.
“Overslept but still had time to pick up coffee?” Jimmy asks, grinning as he swivels in his chair.
Clark’s eyes flick to him, his brows drawing just slightly, but he doesn’t answer. Instead, he grabs one of the two coffees he’d set down and steps toward you, holding it out.
Your fingers brush his as you take it—just for a second—but it’s enough to make your breath hitch. His skin is warm, steady, and now yours feels like it’s buzzing. You pull back quickly, your traitorous heart hammering like it’s trying to tell on you.
“Thanks, Kent,” you mutter.
He smiles—soft and quiet, blue eyes sparkling behind his glasses—and you try not to melt. Or stare. Or do anything suspicious, like sigh wistfully and start fanning yourself with a stack of misprints.
“So,” Jimmy says, still grinning and clearly unperturbed, “excited for your date tonight?”
You take a sip of coffee—good coffee—and sigh. “Nope. Cancelled.”
“What?” Cat pops up at her desk, frowning. “Why?”
You shrug. “Apparently something came up.”
Clark raises his brows, but his eyes stay glued to his screen. “Like a prior conviction?”
You give him a flat look. “Funny.”
His gaze flicks up, lips twitching. “I’m just saying. Your taste in men is—”
“Very inconsistent,” Jimmy cuts in, smirking at you.
Your cheeks heat—you know what he’s trying to say—but you ignore him. Your eyes stay locked on Clark. “What’s wrong with a guy who sells hand-forged artisanal blades?”
“Where? From the back of his van?” Clark asks, the corner of his mouth curling. “Nothing wrong with that. Sounds very entrepreneurial.”
You narrow your eyes, running your tongue across your top teeth as you fight back a smile. Because how is it fair that he looks this goddamn cute while mocking you? While teasing you for getting dumped by some knife-collecting ex-con you met on Hinge.
“At least you’re giving Superman the night off,” Steve mutters, appearing beside your desk with a half-eaten bagel and a mug that says World’s Best Grandma.
You turn to him, brows drawn. “Okay, for the last time, I have not been saved by Superman that many times.”
“Um,” Jimmy says, “yeah you have. You’re Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen.”
Lois spins around in her chair. “Yeah, what are we up to now—like, five or six?”
“I thought it was five,” Steve says around a mouthful of bagel.
“Actually,” Cat pipes up, “I think it’s more than that.”
“It’s not that many!” you argue. “I counted last night—it’s only been four.”
Everyone stops, eyes flicking toward you.
There’s a beat of silence.
Lois frowns. Jimmy raises a brow. Cat giggles. And Clark looks... smug.
You blink. “What? What’s everyone looking at?”
“You counted?” Lois asks.
Clark smirks—he actually smirks. “You keep track?”
Your eyes go wide. Your whole face catches fire.
“Oh God,” Jimmy sighs. “Don’t tell me you’ve got some weird crush on Superman.”
“No,” you reply, too fast. “What? No, I—obviously not. Why would I—?”
“Oh, yeah,” he chuckles. “That’s real convincing.”
You groan and drop your face into your hands. “I do not have a crush on Superman.”
“Oh, come on,” Cat says brightly. “There’s no shame in it. The guy’s built like a Greek statue and has the jawline of a god.”
“And the thighs,” Steve adds. “Don’t forget the thighs.”
“I’ve never even looked at his thighs,” you lie, still mumbling into your palms.
There are a few snickers. Jimmy mutters something to Steve about, “Thighs? Really, man?” And then—
Clark coughs. Once. Loudly.
You swallow hard and peek through your fingers, just in time to see him lift his coffee to hide a smile.
“Wait,” Lois pipes up, her tone light but undeniably playful, “didn’t you say the other day when we were watching that live feed of him saving those puppies that you needed to go home and take a cold shower?”
Clark chokes. Your heart stops.
He coughs into his fist, turning away slightly like that’ll help disguise the pink creeping up his neck—and the ridiculous grin stretching across his lips.
Jimmy bursts out laughing. “Oh my god, that’s right. I heard that.”
“It was a joke,” you say quickly. “I was joking. And I only said it to Lois—”
Lois grins. “You also said, and I quote, ‘he could break your back and you’d say thank you’.”
Your eyes go wide. Your pulse spikes. You feel like you might faint.
And across from you, Clark is coughing harder.
“Oh no,” Cat gasps, rushing toward him. “Clark, are you okay?”
He’s hunched over now, still trying to hide his face. “I—I’m fine,” he manages. “Just... swallowed wrong.”
“Wow,” Jimmy sighs, leaning back in his chair with a wicked grin. “I guess you don’t really have a type then.”
God. If only he knew.
“It was a joke,” you say again, sharper now. “It was late, we were all mad about staying back, the breaking news started playing and I made a joke to lighten the mood, okay?”
Steve snorts. “Then why are you so defensive?”
Your eyes snap toward him. “Why are you still here?”
He holds his bagel up like a white flag and turns back to his desk.
Then Perry’s voice booms across the newsroom, calling Jimmy into his office, and the buzz of conversation quickly dies. Lois spins back to her desk, Cat returns to her phone, and the bullpen slips back into its usual rhythm—paper rustling, keys tapping, the occasional frustrated sigh from someone fighting a deadline.
With a deep breath, you sit up straighter and try to focus on your inbox. But it’s hard. Because across from you, Clark—apparently recovered from his dramatic coughing fit—is sipping his coffee like nothing happened, eyes fixed on his screen... but there’s something suspiciously smug about the set of his mouth.
When his gaze flicks up to meet yours, you lift an eyebrow. “You good?”
His lips twitch. “Didn’t realise Superman made that kind of impression on you.”
Your breath catches. There’s a spark behind his glasses, barely-there but undeniably real. A little teasing. A little warm. A little dangerous.
You clear your throat and look back to your screen. “I really was joking.”
“I know,” he says softly, but you’re not convinced he means it.
Because for the rest of the morning, his eyes keep finding you. And you can feel it. The weight of his gaze is heavy—too deliberate to ignore—and you can’t help but meet it. Every time. Even when you’re halfway across the newsroom chatting with one of the copy editors, or heading to the breakroom for your third—or fourth—cup of coffee.
By lunchtime, you feel wired. Not from caffeine or overtiredness, but from the way Clark Kent hasn’t let your heart settle all goddamn morning. And if he smirks at you one more time, you’re pretty sure you’re going to go into cardiac arrest.
“You busy?” Perry asks, startling you as he appears beside your desk.
You clear your throat and glance up at him. “Always.”
“Good. Then you’ve got time to help me.”
You want to roll your eyes, but you don’t. You haven’t been here as long as the others, but you’ve pretty much clocked Perry—and when he’s in one of these moods, it’s best not to argue.
“City Council’s pulling the same shit they tried back in ’07, and I need ammo,” he says. “Go find Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign exposé. Should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back. Try not to get lost in there.”
Then he’s gone, and you’re left staring blankly across at Jimmy—who is chuckling and shaking his head.
“Right,” you mutter, pushing up from your chair. “And I’m assuming he means second shelf, far back... in the archives room?”
Jimmy nods. “Yeah. Down the hall, past the printer room, last door on the right.”
“Great. Thanks.”
You tuck your phone into your pocket—just in case you do get lost—and head toward the archives room, without looking back at Clark.
You reach the end of the hall, just as Jimmy had instructed, and push open the last door on the right with a loud creak. It’s dim inside, with no windows and only half of the overhead fluorescents working—some of them flickering ominously. Metal shelving units packed with labelled boxes line the room, everything smelling faintly like dust and yellowed paper.
You take a deep breath—then immediately regret it, coughing softly as you start down the first aisle. Your eyes skim the labels on the boxes, your brain trying to decode whatever terrible filing system is in place. It’s not alphabetical, not by date, not even by section. You can’t make any sense of it—
“It’s chronological.”
You yelp, spinning around just as you reach the end of the aisle.
“Jesus Christ, farm boy,” you gasp, pressing a hand to your chest. “Why would you sneak up on someone in a creepy room like this?”
Clark chuckles quietly. “I wasn’t sneaking.”
“You didn’t knock.”
“I figured you’d hear me.”
“Well, I didn’t.”
He tilts his head, lips curling, dimples creasing. “Probably because you were muttering to yourself.”
You roll your eyes and turn back to the shelves, trying to ignore the way your pulse is still climbing. “Whatever. It’s not chronological, though. These dates don’t make—”
“Based on when the reporter started the investigation, not publication date,” he says.
Your jaw drops. “You’re kidding?”
He shakes his head, chuckling again. “Nope.”
“Oh my God,” you sigh. “Whoever decided that is evil. Why doesn’t Perry fix it?”
Clark turns toward the shelves and shrugs, his arm brushing yours—just barely—and it takes everything in you not to flinch, or lean in, or breathe weird.
“I think he secretly enjoys torturing us,” he says, glancing sideways. “Plus, who has the time to reorganise the entire archives room?”
Your traitorous eyes drop straight to his mouth, watching his tongue drag across his bottom lip. Your breath stutters. You’re not even standing that close—it’s just too quiet in here. Too dim. And he’s far too pretty to be looking at you like that.
You clear your throat. “Yeah—uh, I guess. I mean, we could volunteer Steve. Not like he does much anyway.”
Clark huffs a laugh. “Hey. Steve does an excellent job of eating other people’s lunches and leaving greasy fingerprints on things.”
“That’s true,” you say with a soft laugh. “I mean, he’s kind of a catch. Don’t you think?”
You turn and continue around the shelves into the next aisle.
Clark follows. “So, Steve is your type then?”
You give him a flat look. “Don’t.”
He presses his lips together to contain whatever smug grin is threatening to break free. “Don’t what?”
“Don’t bring up the goddamn Superman thing,” you say, turning back to the shelves in the hopes that he can’t see the colour crawling into your cheeks. “It was a joke. And Lois… ad-libbed. She made it sound way hornier than what I actually said.”
He lifts a brow, leaning his shoulder against the shelf. “What did you actually say?”
You pull out a box and blow the dust away to read whatever’s scrawled across the top. Not that you’re really paying attention. Your brain is fried—too aware of the huge man standing beside you, watching you with such intensity you feel like his stare could brand your skin.
And, well, it could—technically.
“I said that half of Metropolis is going to need a cold shower after seeing Superman save some puppies,” you lie—through your teeth. “You know, the female half—and gays. I mean, anyone who is attracted to men, really. Because Superman is a man. A big man. And he was saving puppies, so… yeah.”
You peek out the corner of your eye as you pull out another box. He’s full-on grinning now—that cheeky grin he gets when he thinks he’s said something hilarious, or knows he’s winning one of your petty arguments.
“What about the back breaking?” he asks.
You fumble the box in your hands and it falls to the floor, papers scattering everywhere.
That is not something you ever thought you’d hear Clark Kent ask you. And those words—in that voice—have completely short-circuited the connection between your brain and your motor function.
“Shit,” you mutter, dropping to your knees.
Clark crouches beside you and starts gathering the papers just out of your reach.
“I meant—” you start quickly, keeping your eyes on the scattered pages. “The back-breaking thing wasn’t, like... literal. I meant emotionally. You know, like... he could ruin me—anyone, he could ruin anyone… metaphorically.”
He pauses, then glances at you. “Metaphorically?”
“Yeah. Like, Superman, the idea of him, this gorgeous—” you hesitate, almost choking on your words, “objectively gorgeous guy who’s too good to be true. I mean, he could ruin anyone, right?”
Clark frowns. “Right.”
“Besides,” you add quickly, “I have to try and say things that make it seem like I don’t really know Superman because he’s saved me so many goddamn times.”
He chuckles quietly. “That’s just because you’re near him all the time, and he has to get you to safety before all hell breaks loose.”
“Okay,” you mutter, stacking the pages with unnecessary focus, “but you don’t need to mention it in every article you write.”
He shrugs, handing you the papers he’d collected. “Superman likes talking about the people he’s saved.”
“Clark,” you sigh, reaching for the stack of pages.
Your hand brushes his, and your breath catches. You both freeze.
You swear you feel a pulse of heat where your fingers touch—and you know it’s ridiculous, but it doesn’t stop your heart from thudding, or your skin from flushing. He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
And then—
“Hey guys,” Jimmy’s voice cuts through the tension. “I hate to break up whatever’s going on in here, but Perry’s about ready to rip heads off if he doesn’t have those notes soon.”
You jump up so fast you nearly knock another box off the shelf. “Shit, I—um—”
“Mick Reynolds’ notes from the Wallace campaign, right?” Clark asks, his eyes scanning the room.
You know what he’s doing, and it’s at times like this that you’re incredibly grateful for his superhuman abilities.
You nod. “Yep. Perry said they should be in the election coverage boxes—second shelf, far back.”
He steps away, walking along the back of the room before disappearing down a far aisle.
Jimmy grins and wriggles his eyebrows like an idiot. “The archives room, huh? Pretty cozy in here. Tall stacks to hide in.”
“Shut up,” you mutter, shoving the box you dropped back onto the shelf.
Clark returns a few seconds later, holding up a file. “Reynolds’ notes, ’07.”
“I don’t know how you do it, man,” Jimmy says, shaking his head. “No one can find anything in here except this guy.”
Clark just smiles, and you roll your eyes. Jimmy takes the file, shoots you a cheeky wink—as if he has any clue about what’s going on—and heads back out the door.
You turn to Clark, brows raised, lips twitching. “How do you do it, Clark? How do you find things in this terribly organised filing system?”
The corner of his mouth quirks. “Dumb luck?”
“Hm,” you narrow your eyes playfully. “I think you’ve got a secret, Kent.”
You can almost swear you see him blush, but the room is too dark to tell—and you have to look away from his stupidly gorgeous face before you forget how to act like a normal human being.
He doesn’t reply, he just follows you out of the archives room—flicking off the barely-working lights on the way—and up the hall toward the newsroom. You’re just passing the printer room, trying very hard not to think about the way his hands had felt on your waist, when he finally speaks.
“I was thinking,” he says, “movie night tonight, at my place? You know, since your date bailed.”
You glance over your shoulder at him. “Sure you don’t have better things to do on a Friday night?”
“Nah,” he replies with that small smirk—the one that makes your heart stutter. “Metropolis’ most high-maintenance citizen is giving me the night off.”
You roll your eyes. “Okay, for that comment, you’re paying for takeout.”
He chuckles. “I always pay for takeout.”
“Yeah?” You stop just outside the breakroom door. “Well, I’m ordering extra this time.”
“Extra food that I’ll end up eating because you always order too much,” he teases. “Of course. It’s tradition.”
You shake your head, biting the inside of your cheek to keep from grinning. “Whatever. I’m still ordering it.”
And then—before he can see just how much he’s affecting you—you slip into the breakroom and let the door fall shut behind you.
You turn, grip the edge of the counter, and exhale like you’ve been holding your breath for ten straight minutes. Because what the fuck is going on? His voice, his smile, his face, his everything—he’s not even trying, and you’re already halfway to a heart attack.
You’ve known Clark for years—you’ve been best friends for years. And yeah, he’s always had… an effect on you. But this? This is something else entirely. Being around him this much is starting to feel dangerous. Like the longer you stay in his orbit, the closer you are to coming undone. Every glance that lingers. Every touch that means too much. Every smile that knocks the air clean out of your lungs. You keep pretending it’s fine—but something has shifted. And whatever it is, it’s getting harder to ignore.
Jimmy’s words echo in your head, and for one traitorous second, you almost believe them. Almost believe that there might be something real behind the way Clark looks at you.
But no. Surely not, right? That’s not how this works. He’s Superman. He saves cities before breakfast. He could have any woman he wanted.
And you? You’re just the friend. The one who gets takeout with him on Friday nights because he feels bad that your date bailed. The one he teases in the bullpen. The one trying not to fall apart every time he gets too close.
You press your palms harder into the counter, as if you can steady yourself with pressure alone. But your heart’s still racing, and your lungs won’t quite fill.
You cannot keep doing this. Not like this.
Because one of these days, you’re going to look at him and forget how to pretend.
-
You never thought you’d be happy about a hectic Friday afternoon, but today, the distractions are doing a better job than your self-control ever could.
Perry is hell-bent on nailing this latest City Council scandal, and he’s got the entire bullpen scrambling to publish before the end of the day. Cat is helping Jimmy track down incriminating photos, sift through old campaign trail shots, and monitor social media for real-time fallout. Clark’s stuck on the phone with whistleblowers and trying to pin down a statement from any councilmember who’ll take his call. Steve’s out on the street gathering public reaction—loudly complaining the whole time that his Knicks column is getting bumped. And you’re at Lois’s side, helping her fact-check quotes and comb through timelines while she tears through the main exposé like a woman possessed.
It’s chaos—in the best way. Because everyone here does their best work under pressure, with ten empty coffee cups on their desk. And the best part? You’re too busy to risk another lingering moment with Clark. Too distracted to spiral. Too occupied to feel anything.
It’s perfect.
Right up until five p.m., when Perry signs off, Lois hits publish, and everyone starts packing up for the weekend.
“Coming straight over, or are you going home first?” Clark asks, shrugging into his jacket.
From the corner of your eye, you see Jimmy’s head snap toward you—and your cheeks heat immediately.
“I’ll head home first,” you say, trying to keep your voice quiet. “Change into something comfortable before I come over.”
It’s no use though—Jimmy hears everything.
“You know I’ve got a whole drawer of your clothes at my place, right?” Clark says, blue eyes flicking—just briefly—toward Jimmy, who is inching closer on the wheels of his chair.
You let out a small, nervous laugh. “It’s not a whole drawer. Is it?”
“Oh, it is,” Clark replies. “Though I think half of it’s just my old college stuff. Pretty sure you stole more than Ma ever got the chance to donate.”
Jimmy gasps—he actually gasps—like a dramatic little asshole watching his favourite soap opera play out live.
Both you and Clark turn toward him. He’s still sitting in his chair, halfway between his desk and yours, glancing between the two of you with wide eyes. You’re scowling. Clark just looks mildly sceptical.
Then, after a beat, Clark shakes his head and turns back to you. “Anyway. You want me to walk you home?”
“No,” you say—way too fast. “I mean, I’m good. I’ll catch a cab.”
He nods. “Okay. Let me know when you’re on your way?”
“Okay,” you echo, giving him a tight smile.
He tucks his chair under his desk, gives Jimmy a polite—but vaguely curious—goodbye as he steps around him, and walks off through the newsroom toward the elevator. You watch after him until the doors slide shut and the numbers above begin to light up as the lift descends.
Then you turn back to Jimmy, who has now scooted right up to your desk. Arms crossed. Eyes narrowed like a man who’s just connected the final thread on a conspiracy board.
“You’re pranking me,” he says flatly.
You close your eyes, breathing deeply. “Jimmy, just… don’t.”
“You have a drawer. Of clothes. At his apartment.”
You open your mouth, but he holds up a hand.
“No—no. Don’t talk. I need to process. I’m having, like, a full-on event.”
You frown. “An event?”
“You wear his clothes!” he hisses, loud enough to make your pulse spike. “You hang out at his place constantly. You’re going over tonight, after your date bailed—on a Friday—and you just casually told him you were gonna ‘change into something comfortable’ like that’s not the sexiest sentence ever uttered in this newsroom!”
Your face burns even hotter. “It’s not—I didn’t mean it like—”
He gasps again—loudly. “Do you have a drawer of his clothes at your place? If you say yes, I’m pitching Cat a column on office romance and you two are going to be my lead sources.”
“Well—I mean, yes, but—”
“Oh my God. You’re basically a couple without the sex!”
You scowl. “Jimmy—”
“I’m just saying!” He throws his hands up, wheeling backward like he needs a full-body reset. “You’re over there more than his landlord. You do Friday night takeout. You have drawer rights. He gives you heart-eyes every time you speak. And you’re both still pretending this is all just… platonic?”
You stare at him, mouth dry.
“Please,” Jimmy says, softer now, scooting forward again and leaning his forearms on your desk. “Don’t make me live through an unnecessary slow burn. I’m too young to suffer like this. Just jump him.”
You groan and cover your face with both hands. “Oh my God.”
“You don’t even deny that you want to,” he says, grinning now. “You’re just too scared to actually do it.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “Can you please shut up?”
“Nope,” he says brightly. “I’m way too invested now. I’m not going to shut up until I have proof that you two have finally boned.”
You drop your hands from your face with a sigh and push back from your desk. “Okay,” you mutter. “I’m leaving now.”
Jimmy just watches you—arms crossed, smug as hell, like he knows something you don’t. You pull your jacket on, pack your bag, and sling it over your shoulder.
“Just do yourself a favour,” he says. “Stop pretending this isn’t exactly what it looks like.”
You give him a look. “Jimmy—”
“Trust me,” he says, rolling back toward his desk. “You don’t end up with a drawer at someone’s place and standing Friday night plans by accident.”
You roll your eyes. “It’s not like that.”
“Sure it’s not,” he chuckles.
You huff and hitch your bag higher. “I’m leaving now.”
He turns to face his screen, still grinning. “Have fun, and don’t be shy. You might be… surprised.”
You stand frozen for a second—heart pounding, thoughts tripping over themselves—then spin on your heel and walk away before you can say something you’ll regret. Before Jimmy’s cryptic nonsense makes your brain explode.
He’s just messing with you, obviously—he’s teasing, making things up. Because there’s no way a drawer and some clothes and a Friday night movie night means anything more than friendship.
Right?
It’s just takeout. Just TV. Just Clark.
You jab the elevator button harder than necessary, tapping your foot impatiently while you wait for the doors to open. The second they do, you slip inside and start digging through your bag for your headphones. You need distraction—a podcast, an audiobook, something. Anything to stop thinking about Clark fucking Kent before you’re sitting beside him on the couch.
A breath apart. Bodies warm. Pulse thrumming.
God. You are so monumentally screwed.
As soon as you get home, you head straight for the shower, hoping the hot water might help rinse away all your spiralling thoughts. You take your time washing your hair—twice—and exfoliating everything before simply standing under the spray, trying to remember how to breathe. How to be human. How to stop over-analysing every little thing Clark has ever done for you.
Curse Jimmy Olsen and his stupidly smug words and overly supportive encouragements.
By the time you step out, you smell like coconut, vanilla, and just a hint of panic. You quickly dry off before picking out a soft pair of sweats and your favourite movie night hoodie. Then you open your underwear drawer—and pause.
You stare at the unorganised mess of cotton and lace for almost two full minutes.
It’d be ridiculous to put on something cute. Right? This is just movie night. With Clark. The same Clark who’s seen you eat popcorn off your hoodie while ugly crying over Marley & Me. There is absolutely no reason to wear something small or uncomfortable or even remotely pretty.
Tonight isn’t special. Nothing is going to happen.
But then Jimmy’s stupid voice echoes through your head, making everything feel a little less certain.
“Ugh. Fine,” you mutter, grabbing a pair that could generously be described as a little nicer than usual.
They’re not scandalous—or over the top—just better than the ones you wouldn’t want found on your body if you got hit by a bus. Which, honestly, is a pretty low bar, but whatever.
After getting dressed, you quickly pack your bag—keys, wallet, snacks—and slip on the first pair of shoes you can find before heading out the door.
You’re halfway across the lobby when your phone buzzes with a text—from Clark:
Something came up. Spare key is under the mat. Won’t be late.
Before you can question it, a breaking news alert flashes across your screen:
BREAKING: Robot Attack in Downtown Metropolis
Authorities are responding to a violent incident involving an unidentified mechanical threat near the 6th & Hadley tech district. Witnesses report strange gas emissions and widespread damage. Superman has been spotted at the scene. Officials urge residents to avoid the area until further notice. More to come.
You quickly hail a cab, fall into the backseat, and bring up the live feed of the attack downtown. There’s not much to see from the helicopter camera—just the blur of scattered civilians, crumbling storefronts, and a distant flash of red and blue cutting through the smoke.
Your chest tightens. Your heart starts pounding harder. You know he’s Superman, and he literally does this kind of thing at least twice a week—but still, every single time, you worry.
What if this is the one time things go wrong?
What if this is the time he doesn’t get back up?
What if you lose him before you ever get the chance to tell him how you feel?
Thankfully, you don’t live far from Clark, and it isn’t long before the cab pulls up just outside his apartment building. You pay the driver, slip out, and hitch your bag higher on your shoulder as you approach the front door.
You’re here so often that the lobby staff don’t even bat an eye as you walk past. You slip into the elevator, ride it up, and walk the hallway like you know this building better than your own. Then you stop at his door, lift the welcome mat, and spot the little silver key that had been tucked beneath it.
Of course Clark Kent is naive enough to leave a key under the mat—like that’s not the first place a burglar would look. He’s lucky he doesn’t live in Gotham. You know for a fact he’d have been robbed at least once by now—probably more.
You step inside and try not to breathe in too deeply like a total creep, but it’s hard not to when the whole place smells like him—familiar and clean, with the faint, crisp edge of cold air from his frequent trips to the Antarctic.
You kick your shoes off, drop your bag on the kitchen counter, and head into the lounge room to flick on the TV. You settle on the couch and flip through channels until live news coverage of the attack pops up.
“We’re receiving confirmation that the area has now been cleared of civilians, and that Superman has successfully neutralised the mechanical threat responsible for tonight's attack,” the female news anchor reports.
You let out a breath you didn’t realise you were holding.
“Authorities remain on the scene, working to identify the strange gas released during the incident. While it appears to be non-lethal, several sources—including a spokesperson from the fire department—have confirmed that individuals exposed to the gas are experiencing some unusual side effects.”
You lean forward, the curious journalist in you coming to life.
“In what can only be described as one of the stranger developments this year, witnesses and responders alike seem to be... unable to lie. More than that, they’re being compelled to speak—blurt out personal details, opinions, even long-held secrets.”
You frown. “Like... a truth serum?”
“We now go live to Darren McMillan, reporting live from the scene. Darren—what more can you tell us?”
The feed cuts to a man in a plain surgical mask—which you doubt is doing anything—standing outside a half-burnt bakery.
“Thanks, Elsie. I’m just outside the perimeter, where hazmat teams and emergency services are still assessing the area. The good news is, no major injuries have been reported. And while the gas remains unidentified, officials say there’s currently no evidence of toxicity or long-term danger.”
The camera pans out slightly.
“That said, the psychological effects are harder to pin down. One first responder told me he hasn’t been able to stop talking about his childhood hamster for twenty straight minutes. Another admitted—without prompting—that he once embezzled over four thousand dollars from his mother-in-law. And personally, I—uh—”
The reporter freezes, eyes wide as he makes uncomfortably direct eye contact with the camera.
“—I think I might be in love with my barista. Also, I’ve been cheating on my girlfriend with someone from accounting.”
There's a split-second of stunned silence, then the camera wobbles—and the feed cuts back to the studio.
“We... seem to have lost Darren for the moment,” the anchor says awkwardly. “We’ll continue following this story as it develops. In the meantime, residents are advised to avoid the area until the all-clear has been given.”
You snort a laugh as you push off the couch and wander back into the kitchen. You reach for a wine glass from one of the higher cupboards, then spot a bottle of red sitting by the stove—Clark might be immune to alcohol, but he always keeps a bottle around just for you.
You crack the lid and start to pour—only to somehow misjudge the angle and splash red wine all over your hoodie and down the front of your sweats.
“Shit,” you mutter, quickly setting the bottle back down on the bench.
With a sigh, you peel off your hoodie and make your way toward Clark’s bedroom, ignoring the way your heart does that annoying little flutter when you step inside—even though you’ve been in here a hundred times before.
You go straight to the second-top drawer of his dresser, where he keeps the clothes you usually wear, and grab a pair of old sleep shorts and a threadbare Metropolis University shirt—both clearly his. He wasn’t kidding when he said you’d stolen most of his college wardrobe.
You change quickly and throw your wine-stained clothes into the hamper by the door on your way out. You know he won’t mind. He never does. Then back in the kitchen, you mop up the spilt wine before pouring yourself a generous glass and leaning back against the counter to scroll through your phone.
You’re mid-sip when you hear the soft thud of feet on the balcony.
You glance up, heart hammering, and see Clark step inside. His face and suit are streaked with ash, hair wind-tousled, eyes dark and unreadable. He’s looked better, but he’s definitely looked worse—and for the first time since that breaking news alert popped up on your phone, you feel like you can breathe again.
“Clark,” you say, stepping forward. “Are you—”
“Wait,” he says—not loud, but firm.
You freeze.
He takes a breath, jaw tense. “You shouldn’t be here.”
You blink. “What? But you told me to—”
“I mean,” he says quickly, “it’s not that I don’t want you—” He cuts himself off, mouth twitching like the words are fighting their way out. “It’s... not advisable.”
“Clark,” you say slowly, “are you okay?”
He nods—then immediately shakes his head.
“Are you hurt?” you ask, setting your wine down on the counter.
“No,” he replies. “But the gas—the stuff from the attack—it has... some kind of neurological effect. I don’t know how long it’ll last.”
Your brows lift. “Wait... it affected you too? But you’re—”
“I know,” he says with a small, strained smile. “I’m trying to fight it.”
“Oh. So,” you step forward, lips twitching, “you’re telling me you can’t lie right now?”
He nods again. “Yes, but it—it’s more than that. I—” His voice catches, his hands curling into fists at his sides. “I want to say things. I want to just blurt everything out.”
Any trace of amusement falls from your face, and your eyes go wide. “Oh, shit. Like—you feel like you’re just going to fly out there and tell the world that Clark Kent is Superman?”
He huffs a soft laugh. “Not exactly what I’m worried about—”
“Wait,” you cut him off. “Okay, first, we need to lock the doors. I know you’re you, so it doesn’t make much of a difference, but I’ll still feel better if they’re locked, okay?”
You don’t wait for him to reply—you just start moving through the apartment, slamming shut every window, locking the balcony door, then the front door, and double-checking each one. Twice.
When you return, he’s still standing exactly where you left him—caught between the lounge room and the kitchen, jaw tight, shoulders stiff.
“I swear I’m going to do everything I can to help you,” you say, your hands starting to tremble. “I know I can’t actually stop you from flying through the window, but—I’ll try.”
He lets out another soft laugh, low and a little tense. “I’m not going to—”
“How do we get this out of your system?” you ask, stepping in close and crossing your arms over your chest.
Clark opens his mouth—then hesitates. His eyes flick down, and his brow furrows, like he’s only just noticed what you’re wearing.
“That’s—um. That’s my shirt.”
You glance down. “Oh. Yeah. I spilled wine on mine.”
He nods, slowly, jaw clenched like he’s physically holding back the rest of the words—but then his eyes drop lower, and his voice slips out before he can stop it. “You look good in my clothes.”
Your heart stutters. “What?”
He visibly winces, because he definitely hadn’t meant to say that out loud. “I mean—you always wear my stuff, I know that, I just—” He stops and takes a deep breath. “Forget I said anything.”
You take a step back, flustered, hoping he’s too distracted to notice the heat creeping up your neck. “Okay. Um. What do you need? Should you eat something? Try to sweat it out? Or—I don’t know, take a cold shower?”
He doesn’t answer. He just keeps standing there, stiff and quiet, like if he says even one word, the rest might follow whether he wants them to or not.
Your arms fall to your sides as you let out a soft, breathless laugh. “Well... at least we don’t have any secrets.”
Clark huffs—one breath, sharp and low. “Just one,” he mutters.
You blink. “What?”
But he’s already turning away, scrubbing a hand down his face. “I’m gonna take that shower.”
And then he disappears into his room without another word, leaving you dazed, confused, and—yeah—a little horny after seeing him in that goddamn suit.
As soon as you hear the shower start running, you turn and scull the rest of your wine—wincing as it burns your throat. You set the glass back down on the counter with a soft clink, then brace your palms against the cool marble and draw a few deep breaths, trying to stop your thoughts from spiralling.
Just one.
Just... one?
What does that even mean? What kind of secret? Something big? Something small? Something life-ruining? Oh God—what if it’s something serious? What if he’s dying? Or secretly married? Or, like, used to be evil?
You groan and drop your forehead to the counter.
No. You need to stop. This is ridiculous.
It’s normal to have secrets. Everyone has things they keep to themselves. That doesn’t make it shady—or bad—or dangerous. It’s probably just something awkward. Or embarrassing. Or, knowing Clark, so deeply uncool that it makes him cringe to even think about it.
Yeah, that’s it. That’s definitely it.
He’s not dying or secretly married or evil—he’s just Clark.
And he doesn’t owe you everything. He doesn’t even owe you anything.
You’re lucky to have as much of him as you do. You don’t need to know every little thing. Besides—he’s got a secret. So do you. And despite Jimmy’s encouragement, you’re pretty damn sure you’re never going to tell him.
Okay. You need to stop freaking out.
You need to focus on helping Clark through whatever this is before he accidentally tells all of Metropolis that he’s Superman. You need to find a way to flush this toxin—or whatever it is—out of his system.
And if you can’t do that?
Then you need to distract him until it wears off.
By the time Clark’s bedroom door cracks open, you’re back on the couch. The news is still playing, volume low now. The anchor is saying something about clean-up efforts and eyewitness accounts—but you’re not listening. You can’t. Not when Clark Kent is walking toward you in a pair of low-slung dark blue sweats while he’s halfway to pulling a shirt over his head.
It’s not like you’ve never seen him shirtless before—you have, occasionally. When you went to the beach together. During that horrible June heatwave. That time he spilled hot soup on himself.
But still. Seeing him like this, fresh from the shower, curls damp and clinging to his forehead—it hits different. It makes your breath hitch, your skin flush, and that spot behind your hipbones ache.
“Hey,” you say quietly. “Feeling better?”
“I feel cleaner,” he mutters, dropping onto the opposite end of the couch—as far from you as it’ll allow.
You swallow hard and shift a little, turning more toward him than the TV.
“Okay,” you start, “first—I just want to say, I totally respect you having secrets. It’s normal. I mean, Lois and Jimmy are always joking that we’re too close, but we still have things we keep to ourselves. Not full-on secrets, but—like—it’d be weird if we knew every single thing about each other, right? No—wait, that’s not a question.” You let out an awkward laugh. “I swear I’m going to respect your privacy. I’m not going to ask any questions you don’t want to answer. And I’m sorry—I know I’m rambling. But—” you take a breath “—I was thinking, if you can’t just sweat it out or whatever, then we need to keep you distracted. Stop you from flying out there and announcing your secret identity to half the city. So… what if we just talk? Anything. Everything. No secrets. Just... stuff I might not know. Like—I don’t know—when did you first figure out you could fly?”
Clark just stares at you for a moment—unblinking, brows raised, the slightest twitch pulling at the corner of his lips. He looks a little less wrecked than he did earlier, a little amused, and there’s something else in his eyes you can’t quite place. A look you only catch sometimes—fleeting, private—one he’s usually quick to hide.
But not tonight.
“Uh,” he says eventually, voice a little hoarse. “Okay. Flying was… weird. At first.”
You tilt your head. “So, you just—what? Floated off the ground one day?”
“Pretty much,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was in high school. Fourteen, maybe fifteen. Hard to say—everything was happening at once.”
You snort softly. “Puberty was a little rougher on you, wasn’t it?”
“Yeah,” he chuckles. “It was.”
“Do you know what triggered it?”
“The microwave,” he mutters.
Your brows rise. “The microwave?”
“It kept burning my popcorn.” His expression turns sheepish. “I yelled at it and then, next thing I knew, I was on the ceiling. Ma screamed so loud I thought I’d broken something. Which—I did. I crashed into the dining room light trying to get down.”
You bite your lip to hide your grin. “That’s actually adorable.”
He shrugs, gaze dropping to the floor. “I’m pretty sure I cried. I, uh… cried a lot back then.”
Your throat tightens and that soft ache in your chest sharpens. “Clark.”
“No, really. I was a very emotional child. Also, kind of flammable,” he says with a tight smile. “The heat vision was a nightmare. Powers come first, control comes later.”
“Oh my God.”
“There’s a reason I was homeschooled for two years.” He pauses, his smile softening. “Well. That, and I had a crush on my tenth-grade teacher and Ma said I was dangerously distracted.”
You laugh again—quietly—and drop your eyes to your lap, hoping Clark doesn’t notice the way your body flushes with heat. Because seriously, who gets jealous of their best friend admitting he had a crush on his teacher over a decade ago?
“Okay,” you say, eyes flicking back up. “This is good. Is it working?”
“Yeah,” he says. “A little.”
“Good. Next question, then.”
He lets out a low, quiet laugh and leans back, eyes fluttering closed for a second. “Alright. Hit me.”
You clear your throat, shifting to face him more fully. “What do you think about when you’re flying? Just flying—not in the middle of a fight or racing back to your fortress to heal. Just... in the air.”
He opens his mouth. Pauses. Closes it. Opens it again. His expression twists, jaw tightening like he’s trying to hold it in—like whatever he’s trying not to say is fighting its way out.
You open your mouth to tell him he doesn’t have to answer when—
“You,” he says, voice strained.
You blink. “What?”
“And—and my parents,” he adds quickly. “When I can see Kansas. I think about work, too. A lot of things. But I think about you a—” He cuts himself off, hands curling into fists in his lap, brows furrowing. “I think about you a lot.”
Your breath catches. The room feels suddenly very, very still. Your pulse is loud in your ears—too loud—drowning out the sound of the TV and your own uneven breathing.
He thinks about you. A lot.
What does that even mean—and what the hell are you supposed to do with it?
“Ask me another question,” he says abruptly, almost desperate. “Please.”
You blink at him. “What?”
“Just—change the subject. Anything else.”
You panic. Your thoughts scatter. Your mouth opens, closes—opens again, and then—God help you—you blurt out the first thing that hits your tongue.
“Are you a virgin?”
Clark makes a sound halfway between a cough and a gasp. “What?”
“I don’t know!” you exclaim, throwing your hands up. “I panicked! And—and I’m just curious because... you’re Clark. I mean, you’re so kind, and sweet, and polite—and you’ve never even had a real girlfriend the whole time we’ve been friends, so I just—”
“Yeah,” he mutters, tone dry. “Funny, that.”
You frown, heat creeping up your neck. You want to ask what the hell he means by that—but you know you can't. Not right now.
“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” you say instead, softer now. “I’m sorry. It’s just—it’s a thought I’ve had for a while, and it sort of just... slipped out.”
“No,” he says, voice steady. “I’m not a virgin.”
You nod, lips parting like you might say something—maybe to apologise again, maybe to change the subject—but nothing comes out. Your brain short-circuits. You feel warm all over. Too warm.
Clark clears his throat. “Still trying to distract me?”
“Yeah—” you reply, blinking fast. “Yes. Of course.”
He gives you a lopsided smile—shy, but trying. “Then ask another question.”
You hesitate, voice catching as your conscience flares to life. He seems almost normal now—still a little flushed, a little off—but mostly back to himself. Maybe his metabolism is quickly burning off the effects of the gas. Maybe he’s not feeling so compelled anymore.
Maybe you should take advantage of this while you still can.
No secrets. Just one question. The one that’s been burning a hole in your chest for years.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “Have you ever been in love?”
The second the words leave your mouth, you want to take them back. Clark stiffens—not in a sharp, startled way, but more like someone trying to hold back a shiver.
“Yes,” he says, immediately—because he couldn’t stop himself if he tried.
Your mouth goes dry. You want to ask who, but you’re not sure you could survive the answer.
“What about you?” he asks.
Your breath catches. “Me?”
He nods.
“I—I’m not the one in the hot seat right now, I—”
“Is it Jimmy?”
Your eyes go wide. “What?”
“Are you in love with Jimmy?” he presses, brows pulling tight.
You just stare at him, stunned, voice caught somewhere in your chest as your brain struggles to catch up.
“It’s fine,” he says, gaze dropping to his lap. “I get it. You spend a lot of time with him. You’re always talking about him. He makes you laugh. Your pulse goes crazy whenever—”
“Clark,” you cut in, sharper than you mean to be. “I’m not—what? No. I’m not in love with Jimmy.”
Clark blinks at your denial like he doesn’t quite believe you. Like maybe he wants to—but can’t.
“Wait,” you say suddenly, narrowing your eyes. “You said—my pulse. You listen to my pulse?”
He tilts his head. “I can’t really help—”
You frown. “I know you can hear it, Clark, but I’m asking if you actively listen to it.”
“Yes,” he mutters—even though it’s obvious he didn’t want to say it.
Your cheeks burn. “How often?”
“I don’t know.” He shifts awkwardly in his seat. “Some—most of the time.”
You blink. “What? So you just... tune in? Like I’m a podcast or something?”
He groans, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”
“No,” you fire back. “I’m not stopping. Because you just accused me of being in love with Jimmy fucking Olsen. And then you admitted you listen to my pulse like it’s your own personal metronome. And before—” You stop, heart pounding so hard it feels like it might crack a rib. “Before, you told me I looked good in your clothes. Clark, I’ve been wearing your clothes since college, and you’ve never said that to me.”
He meets your stare—eyes wild, jaw tight, brows drawn. He looks like he’s on the verge of saying something he’s not sure he’s allowed to say. And maybe that’s exactly what you need him to do.
“I know we’ve always been close, but—but working together—” Your voice shakes. “It’s different now. We’re too close. Something’s shifted, and I don’t know what. Yesterday in the printer room. Today in the archives. You’re acting weird. I’m acting weird. Everything is weird. And now, somehow, you think I’m in love with Jimmy?”
“Your heart beats like crazy whenever he’s around,” he says, the words falling out fast, like he’s been holding them in for too long. “You—your whole body flushes. Your hands start trembling. I can see it, hear it, feel every reaction you have when he’s around and it—it—” He cuts himself off, raking a hand through his still-damp curls.
You watch him for a beat—heart racing, skin burning. The silence stretches between you, taut and heavy. It feels like the same tension that clung to the air in the printer room. And in the archives. Palpable. Suffocating.
“Jimmy?” you say softly. “Whenever I’m around... Jimmy?”
He nods, stiff and careful. Like opening his mouth might let too much out again.
You take a deep breath, shifting a little closer on the couch. “Then tell me, Clark…” Your voice drops, quieter now. “What am I feeling right now?”
His eyes flit over your face, searching. You watch him track your expression, the set of your mouth, the line of your shoulders. Like he’s trying to solve you. Like he already knows—but doesn’t understand.
“You’re... flushed,” he says first, voice low. “Your skin’s hot. Your pupils are huge. You’re... you’re breathing hard.”
He swallows, brow furrowing in concentration.
“You shifted closer, too. You do that when you’re comfortable, or—or trying to be comforting, but—” His gaze flickers downward. “Your hands are shaking.”
You don’t answer. You just watch him. Let him keep going.
“I can hear your pulse in your throat,” he says, eyes there now. “It jumped the second I started talking. And it hasn’t slowed down. Not even now.”
He shifts, clearly flustered, and you swear his gaze flicks to your mouth before he catches himself and looks away—back to your lap, your hands, your shoulders. Anywhere but your eyes.
“I—I don’t know what you’re feeling,” he says finally, and he sounds so lost—so completely confused—you almost feel bad. “I know what your body’s doing, but I don’t know what it means.”
You blink at him. “You really don’t?”
He exhales, voice dropping low. “I don’t want to get it wrong.”
That’s it. That’s all it takes for your last thread of patience to snap. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears—your whole body humming, trembling—and still, he just sits there blinking at you like he’s never once considered the most obvious thing in the world.
“God,” you mutter, pushing to your feet with a frustrated huff. “Clark—it’s you. It’s not Jimmy, it’s not even Superman. It’s you. I react like this around you.”
His eyes widen—just slightly. He blinks up at you—once, twice—like his brain is buffering, trying to reboot.
You let out a breathless, incredulous laugh. “I cannot believe after all these years, you’ve only just figured it out. And you thought it was because of Jimmy?” You tip your head back, squeezing your eyes shut to keep the emotion from spilling over. “I thought you fucking knew.”
“You thought I knew?” he asks, his voice low, rough—a little wrecked.
You look at him again, expression tight. “Yes, Clark. I thought you knew. I thought it was obvious—because every time you look at me, my heart races and my whole body gets hot and—Jesus Christ. It doesn’t even matter, okay? You’re you, and I’m me, and none of this makes sense, so just forget it.”
You move past him—but his hand catches yours before you can get too far. It’s gentle, but there’s tension in it.
You freeze.
“Wait,” he breathes. “Please.”
You take a breath—but before you can fully turn around, he tugs. Hard.
Suddenly you’re off balance—caught, pulled, guided down into his lap like gravity made the decision for you. Your knees hit the couch on either side of his thighs, your hands braced against his chest, and the space between you disappears.
Your breath catches. His does too.
You’re so close you can feel the shape of his next exhale against your lips. His hands hover at your waist like he’s not sure he’s allowed to hold you.
“I’m not lying,” he says quietly, eyes locked on yours like you’re the only thing that matters. “I mean—I can’t. I just… I never thought you could feel that way about me. Never even considered it. Not after all these years. Not until thirty seconds ago when you told me—because I’m an idiot.”
For a moment, he just stares at you—like he can’t quite believe that you’re real. That you’re here, straddling his lap, flushed and breathless and saying all the things he never let himself hope to hear.
And then—
He grins.
Not the awkward, bashful one you’ve seen a hundred times before. Not the polite press of lips he gives strangers on the street or the sheepish half-smile he shoots you across the bullpen when you catch him watching you.
This one is brighter. Slower. Wider. It blooms across his face like a sunrise—like he’s seeing you clearly for the first time and can’t quite handle it. His eyes crinkle at the corners, blue as heaven, and the dimples in cheeks deepen in a way that makes your stomach flip. It’s the kind of smile that punches you in the gut. The kind that says you are everything.
It steals the breath from your lungs.
You don’t even realise you’re leaning in until his hands finally cradle your waist—steady, warm, reverent.
“Can I—?” he murmurs, voice barely above a whisper.
But you’re already nodding. Already closing the gap.
And then he kisses you.
It starts soft—tentative, like he’s afraid he’ll break you. But it only takes a second for instinct to take over. His hands slide down to your hips, pulling you in closer, tighter. His mouth moves with yours like he’s learning, adjusting, finding his confidence with every brush of lips, every quiet breath shared between you.
You feel him exhale through his nose—shaky, relieved—like he’s never been this close to peace before. Then his hands glide up your sides and back down again, broad and warm and possessive. The kiss deepens. The tension that’s been wound tight between you for years finally begins to unravel.
His tongue flicks against your bottom lip, and you open for him without hesitation. A soft moan breaks from you—and a ragged one answers from him. He kisses you harder, needier. His fingers flex at your hips, anchoring you, dragging you impossibly closer.
“I used to dream about this,” he breathes against your mouth. “Every night. You. This. Just… you.”
You whimper—actually whimper—and grind down against him before you can stop yourself, chasing the pressure, his voice, his hands, him.
He groans—loud and helpless—his grip tightening until you gasp.
He pulls back, just barely, his lips parted and kiss-bruised. His eyes scan yours like he’s checking for damage, guilt flooding in.
“I’m sorry,” he says hoarsely, breath hot against your cheek. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Clark.” You cup his jaw. “Tell me what you want.”
He stills beneath you, swallowing hard.
Your voice drops. “The truth. Say it.”
His breath catches—your thighs tight around him, your chest rising and falling against his. His fingers dig in again.
“I want…” His voice cracks. “I want you to stay right here. I want to kiss you. I want to feel you—all of you. I want you to keep grinding on me just like—”
You do—grinding down, slow and precise.
He groans—chokes on it—his head tipping back, eyes fluttering shut. “Gosh.”
You lean in, lips brushing the line of his jaw. “What else?”
“I want to touch you,” he breathes, helpless. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want—”
You press your hips down again.
“Please,” he whispers.
“Tell me.”
He looks at you—eyes blown wide, voice nothing but want. “I want to fuck you.”
You gasp, your mouth falling open in stunned silence.
Clark Kent just said a bad word.
Your brain stalls. It short-circuits. You blink down at him, lips parted, heartbeat pounding somewhere in your throat. In all your years of friendship, you’ve never heard him swear. You’ve barely heard him curse—maybe the odd Jesus Christ or damn it—but a full-on fuck just fell from those perfect, full lips.
“Did you just say… fuck?”
His cheeks turn pink—he actually blushes—and he ducks his head with a low groan, hiding his face against your neck like he might disappear into your skin. You feel the grin spreading slowly across your throat before his lips press there—soft and reverent, trailing heat as he speaks again.
“I—” He lets out a breathless, choked laugh. “I can’t lie right now. It’s not fair.”
You bite back a grin, drunk on the heat of him. “Are you accusing me of taking advantage of you, Kent?”
His mouth finds your neck again—slow and sure, like a secret—and he hums against your skin. “You’re absolutely taking advantage.”
You laugh—quiet and shaky—and curl your fingers into his hair, gently tugging until he looks up at you again. His eyes are blown wide, dark with need, but still soft around the edges—Clark, always Clark.
And you love him for it.
You want him for it.
You need him.
“Come on, then,” you murmur, brushing your thumb along his cheek. “Show me what you’ve been holding back, farm boy.”
His breath catches. His hands tighten at your hips.
“You sure?”
You barely have time to answer before his hands slip lower—and then he’s moving. Effortless. Strong. He rises to his feet with you in his arms like it’s nothing, like you weigh nothing at all.
You yelp, startled, arms flying around his shoulders. “Clark!”
He grins again—that Clark Kent grin—bright and wide and unfairly charming, even with kiss-swollen lips and pupils so blown you can barely see the blue. “I thought you liked being carried by Superman.”
You narrow your eyes. “Do not start.”
His smile only widens as he carries you toward his bedroom like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “What? I think it’s cute that you have a crush.”
Your mouth drops open in mock outrage. “I told you that was a joke.”
“Oh, come on.” He’s laughing now—full and warm—and you hate how much you love it. “What was it you said? That he could break your back and you’d say thank you?”
You slap his shoulder. “I cannot believe you’re bringing that up right now.”
He just shrugs, eyes sparkling. “You said it. In front of several witnesses.”
“You’re the worst.”
“And you,” he murmurs, voice dipping low as he nudges the bedroom door open with one foot, “have been in love with me this whole time.”
You open your mouth, but no words come out. He’s still grinning—but it softens the second he lays you down, slow and careful, like you’re something priceless. Then he settles between your legs.
Your breath catches at the sight of him. On top of you. And then—
“Favourite colour?” you blurt, just to feel steady again—just to see if he still can’t lie.
He blinks. “Blue.”
“First thing you ever noticed about me?”
“Your laugh.”
“What’s your biggest fantasy?”
He groans. “You. In this bed. Right now. Can you—can you not?”
You smirk. “Ever jerk off thinking about me?”
He flushes scarlet. “Yes. Obviously.”
“Say something filthy.”
He makes a strangled sound, then mutters, “I want to come with your thighs around my head.”
You blink, stunned—and a little breathless.
He groans again and buries his face in your neck. “Stop taking advantage of me,” he mumbles against your skin.
You laugh—helpless, delighted. “I literally can’t. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
His mouth finds the curve of your throat again—hot, open-mouthed, worshipful—and his hands tighten where they’re splayed across your hips. The teasing slips, melts away, becomes something quieter. Something serious.
“I mean it,” he whispers, lifting his head, his gaze burning into yours. “I want you. Not just right now. I want you. Forever.”
The words hang in the air between you, soft and searing, and for a moment, all you can do is stare at him—this man, this impossibly good man—whose weight is pressed heavy and solid between your thighs like he belongs there.
Because he does. He always has.
Your fingers slide up his neck, into his hair, pulling him down again until his mouth finds yours—hot and slow, like he means to burn the shape of it into his memory. His body moves with yours, a slow, rolling grind of heat and muscle and want. There’s no rush in it. Just need.
He kisses you like he’s waited a lifetime. Like he’s going to spend the rest of it making up for lost time.
When he breaks away, it’s only to press his lips to your cheek, your jaw, the hinge of it, then lower—trailing kisses to your throat like he’s tasting every inch, like he’s been starving for it. For you.
“I used to lie right here and imagine this,” he breathes, voice cracked and close, hot against your skin. “You. Under me. Wanting me.”
You gasp when his teeth graze your pulse, when he suckles gently at the spot. Then he soothes it with his tongue and lifts his head—eyes dark, full of heat and something more dangerous now. Something utterly undone.
“I have to get you ready for me,” he says softly, almost apologetic—but his hands are already moving, slow and sure, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. “I don’t want to hurt you.”
Your breath stutters. Your thighs squeeze tighter around his hips.
God, Clark Kent is going to ruin you.
“Take your time,” you whisper, voice barely there. “I’m not going anywhere.”
He smiles—something small, crooked, adoring. And then he leans down, kissing you again, deeper this time, while his hands begin to explore.
He pushes your shirt up inch by inch, his palms dragging over your ribs, your sides—careful and reverent, like he’s learning, memorising, all of it. Like this is something sacred. His breath hitches when he bares your chest—and the lacy, nothing bra you’re wearing—and for a second he just stares, like he just can't believe you’re real.
“You’re beautiful,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Gosh, you’re—”
You pull him back down to kiss you, fingers fisting in his hair, and he moans into your mouth as your hips rock up, seeking friction. His hands bracket your ribs, firm and warm, steadying you—grounding you—and when he pulls back again, it’s just far enough to press his lips to the centre of your chest.
“I want to make you feel so good,” he says, kissing lower. “I want to hear all the sounds you make. I want to watch your face when you come.”
You shudder, eyes fluttering closed.
“And I want—” He kisses your sternum. “To take my time.” Another kiss, lower. “So slow you beg.” One more, right above the waistband of your underwear. “So deep you scream.”
You gasp, your whole body arching up into his mouth—and he smiles against your skin, sweet and filthy and so, so in love it makes your head spin.
One of his hands slides under your thigh, lifting it gently, while the other tugs your shorts—his shorts—and panties down with aching care. He kisses the inside of your knee. Then the top of your thigh. Then a little higher.
You can barely breathe.
When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up—blue eyes blown dark but still so brilliantly, impossibly Clark—and the heat in them nearly knocks the wind out of you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that’s ever mattered. The only thing he’s ever needed.
“Okay?” he murmurs, voice wrecked and low.
You nod—frantic. “Yes. God, yes.”
And then he lowers his mouth to you.
You cry out, fingers flying to his hair, hips jerking before you can stop yourself. His tongue moves slow at first, like he’s savouring the taste, mapping you out, learning every reaction. You feel his groan vibrate against you—feel the subtle roll of his hips into the mattress, like he’s not even aware he’s doing it.
Holy shit.
Clark Kent is between your legs. Clark Kent is making you feel like this. You can barely comprehend it. You’d laugh if you weren’t already half-shaking.
He hums again when you tug at his hair. His hands tighten on your hips like he’s grounding himself, like he needs you to stay still so he doesn’t lose control. You can feel it now—just beneath the surface—something wild and aching in him, restrained only by the thinnest, fraying thread.
And when you look down again, his eyes are still on you—bright blue, locked with yours, so full of hunger and wonder and want that you can’t breathe around it.
“Clark,” you whisper, almost a prayer.
His eyes flutter shut. He groans into you like the sound of his name on your lips might be his ultimate undoing.
And then he starts to really eat.
There’s no other word for it—he devours you. All soft lips and filthy tongue and low, guttural sounds that vibrate straight through you. His hands are everywhere—steadying you, spreading you open, holding you down like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
You feel like you might pass out. Like your whole body has been waiting years for this—desperate, unsatisfied, quietly starving—and suddenly it’s too much. He’s too much. Too strong, too good, too fucking Clark.
You’re gasping his name on a loop, tugging at his hair, barely holding on—and then you feel it—the sharp, sudden snap of your bra giving way.
You startle. “Did you—?”
“I’m sorry,” he mutters against your cunt, voice rough with need. “I’ll buy you a new one.”
And then he’s back at it, moaning into you like he needs this more than the goddamn sun. Like he might die without it.
Your head tips back, a choked sound leaving your throat. You’ve pictured this. A thousand times. In a hundred different ways. But your imagination was subpar at best—because nothing, nothing, could’ve prepared you for the reality of Clark Kent between your legs.
Those bright blue eyes flicker up at you—needy, glassy, reverent—and the second your gaze locks, he groans again, fucking into you with his tongue like he’s trying to ruin you. The sight of him like this—desperate and devout—makes you shudder.
And then he gives you more.
One of those impossibly large hands curves up over your chest, thumb brushing your nipple, and the other slides between your legs—slow and careful, but sure. His fingers are thick, coaxing, stretching you open with gentle precision, and the pressure of them alongside his tongue makes you keen, hips lifting helplessly into the rhythm he sets.
“You feel…” he breaks off, voice muffled against you, breath ragged. “You feel so good. You’re so perfect.”
You can barely think. His mouth is relentless, his fingers maddening, and he’s everywhere—too much and not enough all at once. He groans again, this time deeper, more desperate, like he’s unravelling by the second.
“You’re so tight, sweetheart,” he murmurs, the words slipping out like he couldn’t stop them if he tried. “I need you to be ready for me. I—I’m trying to take my time, I swear—”
He’s losing it. You can feel it in the way his hand tightens on your breast, in the way his hips grind slowly down against the mattress, seeking friction. Superman, falling apart. Big, strong, godlike Clark Kent on his knees for you, coming more and more undone with every breathless moan you make.
You thread your fingers through his dark curls, tugging, trembling. “Clark—oh, fuck—please—”
“I’ve got you,” he breathes, voice wrecked. “I’ve got you. Just let go for me.”
And with his fingers curling just right, his mouth wet and hot and hungry, you do.
You come with a gasp and a full-body jolt, your hands in his hair, your thighs clamped around his head—but Clark doesn’t stop. Not even a little. His tongue keeps moving, slow and thick and dizzying, and his fingers never falter. You're writhing under him, trembling, oversensitive—but he’s got you. One hand bruises into your hip, fingers curling, holding you down like you weigh nothing at all, and his other forearm braces across your pelvis, anchoring you to the mattress as your body bucks helplessly against his mouth.
“Clark—please—” you gasp, too gone to string anything else together.
He’s whimpering into you now, low and desperate, hips grinding down against the bed like he needs something—anything—to keep from falling apart completely.
“Gotta get you ready,” he mumbles, voice deep, breath hot against you. “Need you open for me. You taste so good, sweetheart—so good—”
Another breathless moan spills from your throat. You’re shaking under him, thighs trembling, vision going a little white around the edges—but his mouth is still on you, relentless, adoring, starved.
You twist a fist in his hair and pull—hard—and he groans at the sting, finally lifting his head.
“Clark.” Your voice breaks—your whole body is flushed and ruined, but still you want more. “You said you wanted to fuck me.”
His eyes flicker—wide and dark and frantic.
“So fuck me.” You tug again, urging his face up toward yours. “I’m begging you. Fuck me.”
His restraint snaps with a full-body shudder, and suddenly he’s surging up over you, mouth crashing into yours, and it’s wild. Nothing soft about it. It’s teeth and tongue and groaning, desperate need, like he’s been holding this back for as long as he could—and now there’s no going slow.
He pulls back just enough to look at you—barely—but his hands are already moving. You can see them tremble as he pushes his sweats down his hips and kicks them off, like he’s barely holding on to enough control to get undressed. You glance down and instantly gasp.
“Oh my God.”
He chokes on a laugh—flustered, flushed scarlet—but it doesn’t slow him down. His chest heaves as he settles between your thighs again, mouth brushing yours with a shaky sort of reverence.
“You—you okay?”
“Take your shirt off,” you whisper, dizzy with need. “Please.”
He fumbles it over his head, tossing it aside in one swift movement—and you’re left blinking up at him, dazed and desperate, with nothing but his bare skin and broad chest and huge arms above you. He’s gorgeous. Flushed and beautiful and too damn much, and he’s yours.
“You’re staring,” he murmurs, a little breathless.
“You’re massive.”
His breath stutters at that, and he grins—but it’s helpless, strained, the kind of grin that says he’s one second from losing all control. “Yeah, I—should’ve warned you.”
“You kind of did,” you murmur, legs wrapping around his waist. “You said you had to get me ready for you.”
“I did.” His voice drops to a rasp as the head of his cock drags against your slick. “You feel—gosh, you feel like a dream.”
You blink. “Gosh?”
He groans, forehead dropping softly against yours. “Sorry. I’m—”
“Say it dirtier, Clark.”
“What?”
You grin, wild and breathless. “Come on. Tell me something filthy. I know you can do it. Just let go.”
He hesitates, clearly fighting every instinct in his wholesome Kansas-raised body—but then he curses under his breath and mutters, “You’re so fucking tight, I’m gonna lose my mind. I want to fuck you so deep you forget your own name.”
Your breath catches. “See?” you whisper. “That’s more like it.”
“I blacked out a little,” he mutters, still flustered.
“Say something else,” you breathe.
He groans again—almost a whine—his whole body practically trembling with restraint. “You’ve tortured me for years. Every time you smiled at me. Every time you touched me. Every time you fell asleep on my shoulder—I wanted this. You. All of you.”
And then he’s reaching between you, holding himself against your entrance with shaking fingers. You both gasp when the tip pushes in—just that—and it’s already too much.
“Oh my God,” you whisper again, clinging to his shoulders, the stretch impossibly intense even before he’s really in. “You’re not gonna fit.”
“I—I can stop—”
“No.” You’re shaking your head, eyes wide. “Don’t you dare. I want you. I want all of you.”
He lets out a soft, strangled moan, almost losing it then and there. “I’ll go slow. Just—just breathe.”
And then he starts to push in. Inch by slow, burning inch. His hands firm where they cradle your hips, his breath ragged against your cheek as your body tries to take him—tries to stretch around something impossibly thick, impossibly deep, impossibly Clark. Because of course this gorgeous, sweet nerd has an enormous cock.
You keen, nails digging into his back. “Jesus Christ—”
“Tell me if it’s too much,” he pants, voice cracking. “Tell me to stop and I will. Just—ugh, you feel so good. So perfect. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You’re not,” you whisper, eyes glassy. “You’re ruining me, but you’re not hurting me.”
He lets out a shuddering groan and kisses you—soft and aching and full of so much love you could cry. “I don’t want to ruin you.”
“Too late.”
You both laugh—helpless, breathless—and then he slides in just that little bit deeper, and the sound turns to a moan. You’re gasping, trembling, stuffed full, but you don’t want him to stop. Not for anything.
He kisses you through it—your mouth, your jaw, your throat—whispering apologies between every shuddering breath. His hands roam your body like he’s trying to worship it, like he’s trying to ground himself in the feel of your skin, your warmth, your everything. One hand splays across your ribs, thumb brushing the curve of your breast, the other grips your thigh, gently coaxing you open as he sinks deeper.
“I’m sorry,” he murmurs again, wrecked. “You feel so good, I can’t—I’m trying—gosh, I’m trying—”
You can tell. Every inch he gives you is slow, reverent, but barely leashed—like his self-control is hanging by a thread and the only thing keeping it intact is you, trembling beneath him, arms locked around his neck, whispering please into the shell of his ear.
His nose nuzzles your cheek, your temple, his breath hot and uneven. “Tell me if I hurt you.”
“You’re not,” you gasp, even as you clench around him, every muscle taut and trembling. “You’re perfect. Just—just keep going.”
He kisses you again, deeper this time, a soft groan rising from his chest as he finally presses all the way in.
Your body tries to adjust around him, stretched and aching and overwhelmed, but all you can feel is him. Every solid inch. Every trembling breath. Every whisper of your name like a prayer. And then—he stills.
Buried to the hilt. Inside you.
Clark Kent, inside you.
You can feel his heartbeat against your chest. Feel him shaking, still trying not to move.
And then, in the quiet between two shared, ragged breaths, you realise—he’s crying.
Just a little. Just barely. But it’s there, glittering at the corners of his impossibly blue eyes as he looks down at you like you’re something he never thought he’d be allowed to touch.
“I love you,” he breathes. “I’ve always loved you.”
Your heart cracks open at the sight of him—this incredibly strong, impossibly good man trembling above you, full to bursting with love. You reach up, fingers brushing the corner of his eye, wiping the tear before it can fall.
“Clark,” you whisper, your own vision blurring. “I love you too.”
His breath hitches again, and for a second it feels like the whole world stills—just the two of you, wrapped in each other, like everything is finally aligned.
You cradle his face in your hands and press a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Then another. Then you press your forehead against his and whisper, “Now fuck me like you promised, Kent.”
His eyes flutter closed, and a groan tears from his chest.
“I can take it,” you murmur, arching into him, your body already pulsing around the impossible stretch of him. “You’re not going to hurt me, so stop holding back.”
He pulls back just far enough to look at you, gaze wild and reverent all at once. “You—you’re sure?”
You nod, fingers threading through his hair, grinning now. “Fuck me.”
And just like that, whatever thread of control he was clinging to snaps.
He moves—finally, fully—and the sound he makes is feral, low and broken in the back of his throat. His hips snap forward once, then again, rough and barely restrained, and your whole body jolts beneath the force of it. He’s huge, maddeningly deep, the stretch still toeing the edge of unbearable—but you don’t want him to stop. You want more.
You rake your nails down his back, gasping as he fucks you with slow, jolting thrusts, like each one is him trying not to break—but the way his breath catches says he’s not going to last much longer. He’s flushed and wrecked and shaking, sweat collecting at his temples, strands of dark hair clinging to his forehead.
And he’s so fucking pretty.
That face—those big, blue eyes gone half-lidded and dazed, those kiss-bruised lips parted with every gasping moan he tries to bury in your neck. The muscles of his back flex beneath your hands, corded with tension. His shoulders shake. His grip bruises—literally—where he holds you.
He’s trying. Trying so hard to be careful.
But you don’t want careful.
“Clark,” you gasp—and his head lifts instantly, eyes locking with yours like he needs you to ground him, to steady him, to keep him from flying apart.
Your hands slide down his chest, nails dragging lightly over sweat-slicked muscle, and the sound he makes is barely human. The stretch still burns—you’re trembling, gasping—but you love it. You love him. You dig your heels into the backs of his thighs, pull him deeper. But it’s still not enough.
You lean up, mouth brushing his ear.
“Stop being careful,” you whisper. “Stop pretending you haven’t been dying to fuck me since the day we met.”
That’s all it takes.
He shudders—like the breath has been ripped from his lungs—and then he really snaps. Gone. Whatever shred of control he had left disintegrates, and he drives into you like it’s instinct, like it’s prayer, like he’s been holding this back for too long and can’t any longer.
“Sweetheart—” he chokes, forehead falling to yours as his hips pound into you, rough now, relentless. “You have no idea. I’ve wanted this—I’ve wanted you—for so long I thought I might lose my mind.”
His voice is thick, shaking. And his hands don’t stop moving—sliding up your ribs, cradling your breast, gripping your hip tight enough to leave marks like he still can’t believe this is real.
And all you can do is take it. Take him. Let him love you like this—with every shattered breath, every desperate thrust, every reverent inch of him finally, finally letting go.
He’s everywhere. Surrounding you, filling you, pressing you so deep into the mattress you don’t know where you end and he begins.
His mouth finds yours again—hungry, open, all tongue and teeth and need—but there’s nothing rushed about the way he kisses you. Even now, even like this, he still tastes you like you’re precious. Like you’re some kind of miracle.
And he won’t stop touching you. His hands roam your body like they’re mapping it, like he’s waited a thousand lifetimes to commit every inch to memory. One cups your breast, thumb circling your nipple until your whole body arches into him. The other drifts down your side, over your thigh, then back up again, everywhere at once, like he can’t bear not to be touching you.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmurs, his voice low, wrecked—soaked in worship and disbelief. “You always have been.”
He thrusts deep, a little slower, and your breath catches. His name tumbles from your lips again, desperate.
“I’ve thought about this so many times,” he confesses, hips rocking into you with aching precision. “But nothing… nothing ever came close to this. You—” he groans, kisses the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your throat “—you feel like heaven.”
You cling to him, your fingers tangled in his hair, your legs wrapped around his hips. “Clark,” you breathe. “You’re gonna make me—”
“I know,” he whispers, kissing the tear that slips from the corner of your eye. “Me too. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you.”
And then he changes the angle—just barely, just enough—and you both feel it. You cry out, clutching at him as your whole body starts to shake. His rhythm falters for a second, stutters with the force of how much he’s holding back.
“I—I’m not gonna last,” he pants, burying his face in your neck. “You feel too good. You feel too good.”
“Don’t,” you whisper, heart pounding. “Don’t hold back.”
He lifts his head to look at you—his face so full of love it hurts—and then he kisses you like he’s saying goodbye to every year he had to pretend that he didn’t want this. That he didn’t want you.
And then he starts to move again—harder, rougher, deeper—and the heat builds sharp and fast, curling low in your belly as the whole world narrows to him. His body. His mouth. His voice rasping your name like it’s a holy thing.
You’re close. So is he. And you can both feel it.
But then he shifts—sits up on his knees, never slipping out of you—and the new angle punches a gasp from your throat, your back arching hard against the mattress.
“Clark—”
His hands find your waist, and his breath catches. For a second, he just stares—like he’s not sure he’s seeing right. Then one of his palms flattens against your lower belly, fingers trembling.
He can see himself—a thick, impossible bulge stretching you from the inside out.
“F—fuck, sweetheart,” he groans, voice wrecked, “I—I didn’t think…” He trails off, too far gone to finish. Too undone by the sight of what he’s doing to you.
The thrusts are deeper now, angled just right, and every drag of him against your walls you makes your vision go white. You’re a mess beneath him—head thrown back, hands tangled in your hair, then palming at your own breasts, too overwhelmed to know what to do with yourself.
And he’s watching all of it.
“You’re gonna break me,” you gasp, almost sobbing on a moan. “You’re gonna—Clark, I can’t—”
“Yes, you can,” he pants, dragging his thumb over your nipple, thrusting harder, faster, like he’s chasing something just out of reach. “You’re perfect. You’re so perfect—look at you—look at you.”
Your body starts to lock up, the orgasm barrelling toward you like it’s being pulled from your soul. You try to fight it—try to hold on for him—but he hits that perfect spot again and it breaks you.
You shatter around him with a scream, legs shaking, fingers digging into your thighs to ground yourself, and he feels it. Feels the way your body clamps around him, fluttering and pulsing, and it sends him reeling.
His thrusts lose rhythm. His hands clamp down hard—one gripping your hip, the other braced behind him—and he’s trying to hold back, trying so hard.
You force your eyes open just in time to see it happen.
His mouth falls open. A breathless moan rips from his chest. And his eyes—his bright blue eyes flare molten red for a half-second before he squeezes them shut and throws his head back, like he’s afraid of what’ll happen if he keeps looking at you.
A raw, animal sound tears out of him as he comes—deep inside you, again and again, his whole body shaking with it.
He’s trying not to break the bed. Trying not to break you.
And the heat of it—him, all of him—it feels endless.
Then finally, he stills.
You don’t know how long the silence lasts.
Long enough for your pulse to slow, your body to stop trembling, for your senses to crawl their way back into place—though you still feel wrecked, in the best possible way.
Clark leans over you, his body a trembling wall of heat. His arms are braced on either side of your head, eyes still squeezed shut, and his jaw is slack, like he’s still riding the aftershocks.
Then he exhales a shaky breath, nuzzles into your cheek, and whispers, “Are you okay?”
You hum, blinking up at him. “I think I saw God.”
That makes him laugh—soft, breathless, a little stunned. He presses a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth.
“Sorry,” he murmurs, still catching his breath. “I was trying really hard not to… you know. Lose control. Burn a hole through the ceiling.”
You smile, boneless and glowing beneath him. “I think you did great.”
He kisses you again, then slowly, carefully, pulls out—and you both gasp. The stretch, the ache, the sudden emptiness—it makes your hips jolt, your fingers curl, and Clark wince in concern.
“Sorry—sorry—” he breathes, already reaching to cradle your waist, pulling you gently into his arms. He shifts you both onto your sides, wrapping around you protectively, like he’s trying to shield you from the whole world.
You melt into him, sighing as your limbs tangle together, his bare chest warm against your back, his hand stroking lazy circles over your belly.
After a minute, he presses a soft kiss behind your ear. “I think the gas has worn off,” he says quietly.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. I mean—” he trails off, then grins against your skin. “I still want to say filthy things, but I'm not being compelled to.”
You giggle, turning in his arms to face him. His cheeks are flushed pink, his hair a mess, his blue eyes so soft you could cry. Again.
“You’d say them anyway?” you tease.
He brushes your hair back from your face, thumb tracing the curve of your cheek. “If you asked nicely.”
You pretend to consider it. “What if I get on my knees and beg?”
A groan vibrates in his chest. “You're a dangerous woman,” he murmurs. “I’m in so much trouble.”
You lean in and kiss him—slow and lingering, tasting the smile he can’t seem to get rid of. And then you whisper against his mouth, “I’ve been in love with you since the day we met.”
He pulls back just enough to look at you—eyes wide, like he still can't believe what you’re saying.
He cups your face, forehead resting against yours, and whispers, “Good. Because I’ve been in love with you for years.”
You blink up at him, smiling. “Years?”
“I told you,” he breathes. “You’ve been torturing me.”
You kiss him again, a little giddy now, your whole body aching and your heart so full it might burst.
And then, nestled against him, sleep starts to pull at you, but you fight it long enough to mumble, “Clark?”
“Yeah?”
“Do you think it’s too late for pancakes?”
He chuckles softly, tugging you closer. “You really are perfect.”
-
You spend the entire weekend at Clark’s apartment. Mostly in his bed—sometimes on the couch, or the kitchen counter, or in the shower. And once in the hallway, because you simply couldn’t make it any further without having him inside you.
By Sunday night, you finally tear yourself away—because you know you can’t show up to work Monday morning wearing a pair of his old boxers and a threadbare Metropolis U shirt.
You make it exactly twelve minutes at home, by yourself, before you’re packing a bag and heading right back to his place—relieved to find he’s just as desperate to have you back in his arms.
On Monday morning, you both wake up with every intention of being on time for work—but it doesn’t quite happen. Because when Clark steps out of the shower, fresh and steamy and completely naked, you can’t help yourself. And you’re starting to realise that he has a very hard time resisting you too.
So, after yet another mind-blowing, back-breaking orgasm, you both finally force yourselves to get dressed and head into the office.
“They’re going to know,” Clark mutters as the elevator doors slide shut.
There’s only one other person inside—an intern whose name you’ve forgotten.
You glance up at him. “How will they know?”
His lips twitch. “Well, for one, you’re limping.”
You bite your cheek to keep from grinning. “I can’t help that. Blame your Kryptonian physiology.”
“Now you’re blushing,” he murmurs, voice low enough for only you to hear. “Your heart’s racing. Your pupils are blown.” His eyes flicker down. “Your hands are trembling, and you’re—oh.”
His breath hitches slightly. You’re not sure if he can see it, feel it, maybe even smell it—but he knows. He knows exactly what you’re feeling right now. And if this poor intern weren’t in here, you’d probably both be halfway to naked already.
Your eyes lock—those ridiculous glasses framing that stupidly gorgeous face, blue eyes dark with want—and the moment stretches taut between you. You’re staring so hard, so heavy, that the soft ding of the elevator startles you.
Clark chuckles, stepping aside to let you exit first.
You try not to limp through the newsroom—but it’s hard. Your thighs are shaking. Everything aches. And you can feel every single bruise his mouth and hands seared into your skin.
“Well, well, well,” Jimmy says, scooting back from his desk with that stupidly wide grin. “Look who finally decided to show up—together.”
You roll your eyes. “We live in the same neighbourhood.”
Jimmy snorts. “Right. And I’m Superman.”
Clark coughs into his fist, clearly trying not to laugh. You shoot him a warning glance.
“I’m serious,” you add, dropping your bag beside your desk. “Same subway line. Total coincidence.”
“Mmhmm.” Jimmy swivels to follow your path, eyes tracking you like a hawk. “And the coincidence wore off on both your faces.”
You frown. “What does that even mean?”
You wince as your ass hits the chair—too fast, too sore. You try to cover it with a cough, but it’s too late. Clark is biting back a smile, and Jimmy’s eyebrows are practically in his hairline.
“You’re blushing,” he says. “Kent is glowing. And unless my hearing’s gone, you just whimpered when you sat down.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees. “Please tell me I don’t have to pretend I didn’t hear that.”
“You didn’t hear anything,” you mutter, shifting awkwardly in your seat.
He’s about to respond when he pauses—squinting at something. His grin widens, eyes locking on to something near the collar of your shirt.
“Oh my God. Is—is that a hickey?”
You slap a hand over your neck. “No.”
Clark chokes on nothing.
“It is!” Jimmy exclaims, jumping up from his chair to get a better look.
“No,” you say again, firmer. “It isn’t. It—it’s a burn. I burnt myself.”
Cat pops up from her desk, squinting. “Looks like a hickey to me.”
Lois spins around in her chair, smirking, arms crossed. “You burnt your neck?”
“It happens,” you mutter, fumbling for your phone to check the damage.
Clark gives you a helpless look over the top of his glasses, mouth twitching with a suppressed smile, cheeks red. And if he didn’t look so goddamn cute, you’d probably hurl a pen at him for leaving a mark so high.
“You’re seriously denying this?” Jimmy asks.
“I’m not denying anything,” you say. “I don’t have to deny it, because it isn’t anything. It’s just a bruise.”
Lois tilts her head. “You mean burn?”
“Yes—burn,” you say quickly. “Whatever. It’s still nothing. Now can we please—”
“Kent!” Perry’s voice booms across the bullpen. “My office. Two minutes. Bring your notepad.”
Clark nods once and scrambles to grab a pen and paper. Jimmy sighs—giving up for now—and collapses back into his chair. Cat drops down at her desk. Lois flicks her gaze from you to Clark, then slowly spins back around.
You sink lower into your chair as your monitor wakes up. You can see Clark collecting his things, tucking in his chair. He starts toward Perry’s office—then stops right beside your desk, and leans in.
You glance up just in time to catch the soft smile on his pretty mouth, his eyes sparkling behind his glasses. Then he reaches out—one hand gently cupping the back of your head—and presses a kiss to the top of your forehead.
It’s so sweet, so simple, it makes your chest ache. You almost—almost—forget where you are.
Until—
“I knew it!” Jimmy shouts.
Cat’s head pops up again. Lois spins around. Even Steve cranes his neck from across the bullpen.
“I was right,” Jimmy goes on triumphantly. “You two finally boned!”
“Olsen!” Perry shouts. “Watch your language.”
“Sorry, Chief,” Jimmy says—though still grinning like the smug little shit he is.
Your face burns as the bullpen erupts around you—laughter, gasps, even a slow clap from Steve. You sink deeper into your chair, wishing it would swallow you whole. And Clark—that traitor—just gives a soft chuckle, his shoulders shaking as he walks off toward Perry’s office, not even trying to hide the smug little smirk on his face.
You glare daggers into his back. He doesn’t turn around, but you swear he knows—you can feel it in the satisfied roll of his stride.
“I knew it,” Jimmy says again, practically vibrating with glee. “I called this weeks ago. Honestly, I feel vindicated.”
You groan, covering your face with your hands. “Jimmy, please.”
“I’m just saying!” he says, unrepentant. “You two have been doing the will-they-won’t-they tango since the Reagan administration. It was painful.”
You peek at him through your fingers. “You're being dramatic.”
“You weren’t even alive during the Reagan administration,” Lois states dryly.
“Exactly,” he says, grinning. “It’s been that long.”
You drop your hands, lips twitching despite yourself. “You’re impossible.”
He shrugs. “It’s a gift. Besides, I had a bet going with Cat, and this definitely means I win.”
“You didn’t win,” Cat calls. “You bet that we’d catch them making out in the office, and that was a forehead kiss.”
You groan again. “You’re the worst.”
“And yet,” Jimmy leans forward, cocking a brow, “I’m still your favourite.”
You open your mouth to argue—but hesitate.
His grin softens. “Seriously, though? I'm happy for you. Both of you.”
You blink.
“Clark’s a good guy, and you…” He nods at you meaningfully. “You deserve someone who looks at you like he does.”
Your throat goes tight, caught off guard by the sincerity in his voice. You swallow.
“Thanks, Jimmy.”
He gives you a mock salute, then leans back in his chair with a dramatic sigh. “Superman’s gonna be crushed, though. His favourite civilian, officially off the market.”
You snort. “I think he’ll survive.”
“Will he?” Jimmy muses, hands clasped behind his head, feet up on the desk. “I don’t know. He always seemed very invested in your wellbeing.”
You shake your head, cheeks still pink as you turn back to your monitor, heart thudding a little too fast in your chest.
Across the bullpen, just before Perry’s office door swings shut, Clark glances back at you.
as much as i loveeeee writing, i love reading, and i LOVE highlighting other writers on this website who deserve their flowers! enjoy! and don't forget to reblog your favorites!
im going to make one for Langdon soon and probably a steve harrington one too because im a sucker for that man.
(can also find all of these under my #jack abbot fic rec tag)
frequent flyer part 1 by @dolloebaby
stop making this hurt by @mercvry-glow
its never over by @mercvry-glow
i can't protect you from everything by @abbotjack
someone new by @quickestgold
strip her by @quickestgold
masterlist by @butyoudidthis4what
bruises series by @glamorizethechaos
all that is lost by @glamorizethechaos
postpartum by @glamorizethechaos
too much by @popcornpoppypop
honesty is the best policy by @moondustfairies
his little secret by @moondustfairies
night shift by @lilyswritings
steady hands part one and two by @springtyme
off day by @lovebugism
soldier boy by @sun-snatcher
conflict by @steamdeckaddict
you've ruined my life by @pencil-n-pen
unspoken conversations by @marvelous-slut
scar tissue by @inlovewithquestionablecharacters
emergency contact by @kalila
let me take care of you by @voidsagent
small is still forward by @optimisticplb
storm warning by @optimisticplb
doc, i think she's crashing out by @softundermoonlight
perhapssss a miscommunication hurt/comfort with jack abbot established relationship happy ending ☺️
okay so I thought in this for kinda a while- like what kind of miscommunication I wanted to do. and I decided to go with the classic, “overheard something in a conversation and thought it was about you but it actually was about someone else” trope. thank you for requesting! I hope you like it! <3
tw - descriptions of a panic attack, Jack’s a d1 loverboy
send me a request!
“I don’t know man she’s just getting annoying.”
your body froze, heat coursed through your body as you stopped and listened, wondering if you heard what you thought you did correctly.
“she’s just always around, feels like I can’t get a break.”
your heart shattered, it had to have been you. you and jack were newlyweds, sharing your new home together, working together, doing pretty much everything together. he was getting tired of you.
you paused in the hallway of Robby’s house. him and heather had been begging you guys to come over since the moment you got back from your honeymoon, wanting to spoil you guys with a nice meal and relaxed evening after all of the chaos of wedding planning and traveling.
and it was nice. it was relaxed.
you just wanted to offer jack and Robby another round of beers, but now you were frozen in the hallway like a deer in headlights.
you didn’t wanna make jack think you were eavesdropping, so you took a few steps back down the hall, pretending you had just ascended the stairs.
“Jack?” you called, trying and failing to keep your voice normal.
you thought about just going back downstairs, but then heather would ask why you didn’t give them the beer. you genuinely thought about just leaving the beer in the hallway and fleeing, but that would be even weirder.
“in here, baby.”
the pet name made you wince.
you entered the room, hands shaking as you handed the two men their drinks.
“Heather insisted I brought you guys another round.”
“good woman.” jack said, clinking the neck of his beer with Robby’s.
a newfound insecurity crept its way into your mind. ugly and sharp. you’d never been that kind of girl before, jack had never pushed you to be that kind of girl. yet here you are.
am I a good woman? what about me?
“sure as hell am lucky.” Robby agreed.
“not as lucky as me though.” jack smirked, grabbing your wrist to pull your body into his, wrapping an arm around your waist and kissing the side of your head.
you nodded, swallowing back tears and tried to smile for Robby.
“you okay?” jack asked in a whisper, as if Robby wasn’t only a few feet away.
“uh, yeah. heather’s waiting for me downstairs.”
jack furrowed his eyebrows. if he noticed your behavior, he didn’t say anything as he loosened his grip on you so you could be free to go downstairs.
the rest of the night was fine. you pushed down whatever feelings you had about what you heard upstairs and continued to drink wine with heather on the couch, talking about nothing yet at the same time, everything.
jack stopped drinking after his second beer you brought him. “precious cargo.” he told Robby as he gestured to you, but really he was ready to leave. you didn’t seem right, and he wanted to get you home and taken care of as soon as possible.
after goodbyes and promises to do this again soon, it was just you and jack. he opened the door for you, and hoisted you up by your waist into his truck, making sure you were situated with your seatbelt on before he shut you in and rounded the car to his own side.
the ride was silent. usually, jack would drive with one hand, the other on your thigh, and you would play with his fingers, or his jacket sleeve, or drag your fingernails up and down his arm.
but tonight, you sat on top of your hands as jack drove, not moving a muscle.
jack was worried.
you were his sweet girl. you always wanted to cuddle, or hold his hand, or find anyway possible to touch him in whatever setting you were in and it never failed to make jack melt.
“are you okay, baby?”
his soft voice made you want to cry.
“just tired.” but you pulled your leg out from under his hand to cross it over on top of the other; leaning your body onto the door of the car to look out the window.
“you talk about something with heather that made you sad?”
“jack i said I’m tired. leave it.” you snapped.
now jack was seriously worried. you never snapped at him unless something was seriously wrong. you couldn’t keep this up for long, he knew you too well.
“alright.” he said, bringing his other hand to the steering well, mindlessly tapping his fingers as he thought.
jack had an inner battle. as much as he wanted to pull the car over and throw the keys out the window and threaten to not drive home until you tell him what’s wrong, he knows that’s the wrong approach. he loves you too much to do that to you. he loves you enough to let you take your time, and come to him when you’re ready.
“have your space, sweetheart.”
jack is starting to wish he would’ve pulled the car over.
usually, when you get upset like this, you come to him after a few hours. all tears and sorry’s as you fall into him and let him hold you.
but it’s been a full 24 hours and you’re still avoiding him. even here at work, where pda was the last of both of your worries.
with you completely quiet at home, just moving around one another, awkward and tense, to now the same thing at work, jack was fed up and it had only been a day.
and he knew he sounded pathetic, but he missed you. he just wanted his best friend and he has no idea why you’re so upset.
it could be your mental health is slipping, it could be heather said something about a patient that unknowingly triggered you, it could be something with your family that you’re not telling him. and the worst one, was that it could be him.
and on top of it all, this damn intern won’t get off his back.
this girl was like a tic that he couldn’t remove. somehow, she slipped onto all of his cases, and she really didn’t try to hide her fondness for him. he tried to be polite, he really did. she was young, bright eyed, excited to be in the ED, eager. but also, just entirely too flirty. he tried to take notice if she was like this with everyone, but he couldn’t tell, not really bothering to stick around her more than he had to.
he decided today that on the way home, he’d pull into McDonalds, sit in the parking lot until you talked, and then reward you with a mcgriddle and orange juice.
he couldn’t take the agony of not being able to help you anymore.
“Dr. Abbot?”
ah yes, his very annoying over present intern.
“how can I help you, Layla?” he kept his tone flat, disinterested as his eyes were glued to his clipboard.
“Dr. Abbot I was just wondering…”
and there it was. her hand wrapped around his arm and it was over. he never even noticed your eyes on him, and you walking away before the whole scene could play out.
he ripped his arm away from her grip.
“Dr. brown, I’d suggest you don’t put your hands on your attendings. especially married ones.”
Layla’s face flushed and her eyes widened.
“right, sorry Dr. abbot I just-“
“don’t let it happen again.” jack still didn’t bother to look at her, eyes focused on his clipboard as he walked away to check on his patient.
you were a complete mess.
ugly, uncontrollable tears rolled out of your eyes, your chest heaved with sobs you were trying to push down, making it sound more like you were choking.
he was tired of you. you were too much. coddling him, crowding him. he needed someone different. fresher. cooler.
you were alone in a central room. you didn’t even check which one. just walked into the first empty one available.
“you have one minute to tell me what’s going on before I get jack.”
you didn’t have time to wonder when he got there, because suddenly Robby’s voice was there, but you felt like you were underwater, every word he said was jumbled and garbled.
get jack.
the last person you wanted to see. but you were having a panic attack, and he was the only person who was ever successful at bringing you back down to earth.
“hey, honey.” jack’s voice filled your senses and you collapsed.
but jack was quicker, locking his arms around you as he lowered you to the ground himself. once you were on your knees, he secured his hands on either side of your face, forcing you to look at him.
“breathe.” he instructed, grabbing your hand to place your palm against his chest so you could feel his steady heartbeat, still keeping one hand on your face to keep your head up.
“follow my breathing, sweetheart. follow my chest.” he said, taking deep, steady breaths himself for you to follow.
“good, that’s good. keep going, honey.” he nodded, encouraging you that you were doing what you were supposed to be doing.
you weren’t sure when it ended, the whole experience being a blur, but it ended, and you could see jack’s face clearly.
“there’s my girl. did so good baby.” he brought your face forward with his hands so he could press a kiss against your forehead. “you’re okay. you’re safe.”
“I’m fine.” you spoke, completely monotone as you pushed jack away to stand up, albeit slightly off balance. Robby secured you with a hand grasped to your shoulder.
“why don’t you lay down in the on-call room until jack’s done?” he suggested as a question, but his face said “I’m not asking, this is an order, go lay down.”
Jack offered to walk you there but you refused, saying something about how you don’t need to be babied and can walk on your own.
once you were out of the room, jack deflated.
“I don’t know what I’m doing wrong.” he croaked, voice raw from the shift and the worry from the state he found you in.
“whatever it is jack, get to the bottom of it. quickly. you talk to Layla?”
jack nodded. “she put her hand on my arm and I told her to keep her distance. I think she got the idea.”
Robby nodded, patting him on the back as he exited the room.
“just glad you didn’t bite her head off, brother.”
Jack’s heart wrenched in his chest when he went to get you from the on call room at 6:30 am. Robby had let him off a few minutes early.
you were sleeping, your face pressed against the pillow as soft snores escaped your lips. you looked so peaceful, and jack hated having to be the one to interrupt it.
“hey, sweetheart.” he shook you gently, just enough to wake you up. your eyes pulled open, it took you a few blinks to get them all the way, your lashes having stuck together with tears and mascara as you slept.
“I got all your stuff in the car already.” jack whispered, not moving his hand from your arm, rubbing his thumb back and forth against the material of your scrubs. “just gotta walk to the car, okay?”
you nodded, and jack took a step back. he didn’t want to annoy you any further by trying to help you up or hold your hand.
which made your heart sink. you wanted him close to you. you wanted him to try.
the car ride home was, unsurprisingly, silent. Jack rolled through McDonalds, ordering both of your usuals, not having the heart to punish you and make you sit in the parking lot til you talked.
he handed you your orange juice, and sighed.
“we need to talk, baby.” his voice cracked at the pet name and you didn’t say anything, just kept your eyes locked on your orange juice.
once you pulled up to your house, jack let you shower first as he ate his breakfast, and you cried in the shower, loud and hard.
jack heard it, but he didn’t move.
this whole situation was paralyzing to him. you hadn’t ever been silent with him for this long before. it was scaring him.
jack got in the shower while you ate your food, surprisingly hungry after being stressed for so long.
once you were both done, fed and showered with your most comfortable clothing adorning your bodies, you and jack sat in your living room.
well, you sat. jack stood up, unable to sit still.
jack broke the silence.
“did- sweetheart did something happen? you gotta tell me, this is killing me.” he clutched his heart as he spoke, which made your lip shake.
“jack, maybe we made a mistake.”
jack’s heart severed completely down the middle.
“what?”
you shook your head refusing to meet his eyes.
“I don’t- I don’t know if I’m right for you.”
jack shook his head in protest whispering the word “no” under his breath over and over as he sank to his knees in front of you, hands gripping the material of your sweatpants.
“baby, you’re my heart. feel-“ he took your hand, placing it against his heart, much like he did earlier, putting both of his hands on top of your hand, securing it here. “feel it. it’s yours, honey.”
he was crying, desperate for you to hear him. to not leave. his tears leaving dark droplets on your grey sweatpants.
“you can’t leave me.” he sucked in a sharp breath, now moving his shaking hands to grip onto your arm, pressing kisses against your sweatshirt.
“whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. please.”
“you think I’m annoying.”
jack’s heart stilled in his chest, his movements freezing.
what?
“who told you that?”
he was mad. someone had told you that you weren’t enough for him.
“you did.”
now he was dizzy.
you read his confused face and continued, “when we were at Robby’s, you said I was annoying and always around, and then that intern-“
everything clicked into place. jack could’ve laughed and jumped up and down right there.
he had an explanation for you. you were crying and heartbroken and defeated and he was overjoyed because he could fix it.
“baby, i was talking about that intern.”
your eyebrow raised.
“she’s been bothering me for weeks, following me everywhere. I was talking to Robby about it because I wasn’t sure if I needed to get him involved or not.”
relief washed over you like gentle wave, but guilt hit you hard, and angry.
you raised a hand up to cover your mouth. “jack I’m so sorry.”
“hey, don’t cry. breaks my heart when you do that.”
jack got up off of his knees to sit next to you on the couch, pulling you so close you were practically sitting on top of him, legs swung over his lap as he held you by your waist, one hand on the back of your head, fingers tangled in your hair.
“I’m so sorry. I- I didn’t-“
Jack just shushed you.
“we can talk about it later. I love you. you’re the only one for me. ”
and you would talk about it later, jack would tell you how you need to be better about communicating, he would admit he needs to start putting his foot down more. but right now wasn’t the time. it had been a long, rough day for both of you, and all Jack ever wants is just to hold you.
