"Call me Narcissus; I'm the one you came to see."

My Ao3: Here (You will not find all of my posts there 'cause I'm lazy & bad at tagging).

I like movies.

Asks are always open (but I will pick and choose-- if there's not enough info, I will not do it).

Requests for other characters are also very, very welcome! If I'm not well versed in them, I'll look into them for you, and get back to you about whether or not I am capable (Don't be shy if you can help it!)

I am never not writing… but I am new to this entire thing, and thus will be stumbling through it all and clumsily posting & then running away screaming. Author is a loser everybody... booo!! booo!! tomato tomato tomato!!

Entirely a Male-reader [maybe gender neutral] blog, and I am a subtop/top male reader truther.

I can and probably will write for other fandoms, of course. Any I'm into, or for any character I have similar feelings for. Author is all over the place, everyone. Who's shocked?

I will NOT write; Rape, Sexual assault, or anything of the like that is Illegal or harmful. Do not expect that here, and if you end up requesting, I will not respond to anything the above in this passage.

I try to post regularly/semi-regularly, just for the fun (and the attention.. wait, who said that?) of it. Posts are not promised, of course, because I post the same day I write.

If you're out conquests with other knights together, you will find him near constantly around you— silently checking, soothing the worries in his head, making sure you're not too harmed from the ragged terrain or battles.

He won't be overbearing, though; that's not the the type of partner he is. No, he's quiet about his care, his concern. He's gentle. If you're somewhere private or you catch a moment alone together, he's stepping up to your side, gaze as soft as always, his eyebrows furrowed as he, asks are you well? Or, is something the matter?

He's not very big on PDA, I can imagine. He likes to keep those softer moments between the two of you— not out of secrecy, but because he cherishes those moments together so much he doesn't want anything to stain them.

Of course, that doesn't mean he doesn't touch you at all outside of your bedchambers. He's an emotional lover; he cares for you with his hands as much as his heart. He'll ghost his fingers over the back of your palm, curling them to tangle with yours, or offer a small soothing gesture to the low of your spine.

Loves temple kisses, and those short, sweet, corner-of-the-mouth kisses.

On the topic of kissing, he's slow with how he does it with you; again, gentle. He holds any moment with you dear to his chest, and he never wishes to rush— if something happened to him — or God's forbid, you — he'd loathe something rushed being your final moments together.

I think his love languages would be acts of service, quality time, and physical touch. Any time with you is sent from the will of the Gods, easing both his anxieties and his stress with one ghost of your presence alone.

Adores bathing with you— the quietness of it, the vulnerability, the sweetness of cleansing each other from the horridness of the days. He'll lay back against your chest (or you on his), your fingers intertwined over his heart, your arm curled around him, and he'll just… talk. Lowly, earnestly, about anything, whilst running a soothing pattern to the back of your hand.

Cannot hold a secret in his LIFE with you, unless it's to protect your feelings— and even then, he believes you deserve to know anything that might influence your heart.

Writes you letters when he (or you) is away; what he saw that day that you would've liked, what the breeze felt like, what the view was, how the sun laid to rest in a pretty concoction of orange hues and light pinks (that reminded him of the flush along your cheeks, when he'd get you flustered).

Big dancer. Sorry not sorry. Even in silence or draped within birdsong, he'll take you by your hands and lead you into a sway beneath the firelight.

Loves pressing his forehead into yours; the closeness, the eye-contact, how barrier-less it feels; how honest. You cannot lie through the eyes— they'll spill every ounce of feeling you have within the cage of your ribs, and he'll take you all in your worth and understand all of you.

Big cuddler, especially under the tongue of winter. He's not a large man. He gets chilly, so let him steal some of your heat and enjoy the drum of your heart beneath his ear, yeah?

On that note, one of his favorite things in life is listening to your heart beat, and, if he feels so daring, trying to sync your rhythms of breathing into one tune.

LOVES your hands. He'll play with them when he's bored or when you're laying together, talking quietly or trying to fall asleep. He'll even twist any rings or the bracelet daeron made for you as a child.

On the talk of daeron, that boy is practically his son— yours, too, with how he comes to the both of your for solace. Gwayne absolutely adores how much daeron loves you; it makes him happy and glad to know that Daeron has someone else to trust and look to if he's not around.

Twists his mother's ring (the one that hangs from a strip of leather from his neck) when he's lost in thought or nervous. He'll run his thumb on the indents of her name carved into the silver, as it is the only thing that lets him be close to her no matter where he is.

Big sigher. Clothing uncomfortable? Slightly annoyed sighs. Scabbard belt too tight? Sighs. Too cold? Sighs. You get the jist.

EXPLICIT:

Again, closeness. He physically cannot feel good or cum if you're not touching everywhere you can— he wants you draped over him like a snake coiled to prey, he wants to feel your breath, your life, your pleasure.

Kissing. All the way. He wants to kiss when you're inside of him (or he's inside of you), to swallow your moans, to take you in all your honor and your glory. He wants to leave nothing behind, nothing he could miss, nothing at all left unobserved and unattended to.

Mild moaner, I'd say. If you hit one of his sweet spots, his mouth will curl up and he'll moan or whine, but in general, he's more of a panter/heavy breathing clipped with whimpers.

He likes to bury his nose into your throat when he cums— he'll cradle your head, keep you in place gently, and just… breathe you in, let you muffle his noises.

Biting/marking. Suck a bruise into the side of his neck — but not high enough to be truly risky — he'll have to cover later, leave little cuts of the points of your teeth into his hip, nip at the underside of his jaw. He's yours. He likes to feel your touch, the remnants of you, even while you're separated.

He likes to give and receive. Your pleasure is his pleasure, but if he can't make the both of you feel good at the same time (and, thus, orgasm at the same time too), he'll do whatever he can to make sure he can change that. It doesn't feel nearly as pleasurable if he knows you don't feel as good as he does.

Hand holding; hold his hand. PLEASE. The warmth your hands offer — both emotionally and physically — is something that is so sacred and unique to you, it can never be replicated; he needs the reminder that, yes, he (and/or yourself) is a knight that kills people for the crown, but he's also just a man. One that can be gentle. One whose hands that don't just kill, but can cradle, too.

Aftercare is something he cannot live without— the idea that two people connect in such a celestial, vulnerable way, and then just proceed to roll over and go to sleep is blasphemy to him. To him, it's such a level of intense affection and love, that it has to lower slowly. Through the damp swipe of a cloth or the warmth of a bath as you talk about your days, not through something as blunt as sleep.

"Seven hells," He breathes, pausing in his pace to catch his breath, "I do hope we never encounter a bog like that again— lest we've to have another go at this."

He's covered in filth up to his knees— it's wet and cold, staining more than his clothes and his patience, but his warmth also. The early nightfall doesn't help the rather… unfortunate situation, neither; the chill has him sticking close to himself, longing for the warmth of Oldtown, praying to the Mother that she'll allow the two of you to survive the morrow without catching an illness.

"Seven hells indeed," You agree, and he observes you picking a few thorns from your sleeve, checking that you lay untouched from injuries… or any more of them. The reminder has his expression twisting in distaste. "I pray there comes no need. Are you alright, Ser?"

He nods, swallowing shallowly as he steps forward. His body sings hymns of tiredness at every minute movement, making him slightly more sluggish than usual as he returns to your side. "I am. And about yourself? I caught you slipping once or twice in your footing back there, my knight."

My knight. The nickname comes easily from his tongue, even in the circumstance; as it is one that's slipped from his mouth simply since you were appointed his Sworn Shield almost seven years ago, come winter. You were a damn good knight then, and you're even better now; you do not dull within the years.

He hopes it remains that way— you're less a Shield and more a companion these days.

One he trusts.

One he loves.

Although he attempts to hide his affections, he's in doubt that it works.

But he can't help the mild hum that slithers from his throat as you shake your head; pleased that you're okay. "All is well. We should continue to move forward, set up a camp for the night. Are you well enough to do so? You seem worn."

"That is because I am worn," He mutters, leading the way with a slight tilt to his head, "We've been on our feet all day, moving only within the forests and the tallest weeds seen to man. Are you to say you're not worn down to bone?"

It's a mild jest.

He's more than aware of how tired the two of you are, and it'd be impossible for you to not tire under all of your armor and the weight of supplies along your spine. Sure, he may be more exhausted and mentally dreary than a milking cow in the summer, but the mood has to uplift somehow— and he refuses to lose you to pessimism.

He'll gladly take post as the one to joke and jest if it means you stay sane and within his bubble.

Nonetheless, as he moves, he checks back to you over the curve of his shoulder, making sure you're keep up pace close enough behind him— only, he slows his gait to make sure of your place abreast of him, not willing to take the risk of you falling behind or being taken for stray prey.

Not that he imagines that happening to the likes of you anytime soon.

"No," He catches your huffing, "I am not to say that."

At that, he can't help the tiny, amused half-grin that pulls upon the corners of his mouth; though he leaves it be, saying nothing after yourself.

It stays that way until the two of you finally reach a somewhat habitable spot within a small clearing, aside from a few bothered and snide comments about the weeds or the thorn-bearing plants.

He stills at the front of the clearing, sighing lowly as he looks around. The grass is neither smothered nor tampered down like it was walked upon, no traps he can spot thus far, and no sign of human trace.

It's good enough.

"This shall work," He sighs, resting his hand along the hilt of his sword as he glances over to you, "Do you agree?"

The nod of acceptance you grant him is small enough; he's sure that if he was anyone else who knew less of you, he wouldn't have caught it.

"Yes. It is too wet for a fire to catch," You shrug off the sack tethered to your shoulder by leather strap, propping it against a nearby tree, "Should I assist in setting up the tent or shall I go hunt for nearby game?"

He hums, only to shake his head right after and release the hilt of his sword.

Then, at the thought, a half-smile takes a corner of his mouth as he drops his own bag, setting it down by his feet. "You can help— I'd rather not lose you to exhaustive carelessness, lest you fall asleep in the forest and get mistaken for a carcass. That would be fairly unfortunate, don't you think?"

The tiny laugh that pulls from your chest and tumbles from your mouth feels better than the caress of victory; it has his shoulder releasing some of their tension, a coil in his chest soothing, the chill of the cold easing, all in one breath.

Your breath.

Warmth blooms from his insides as he smiles — sincerely, full-heartedly — a minute laugh of his own following yours as he watches you pull the tarp from your sack. When you hand it over, he accepts it, slower than needed, before his gaze tracks you as you go search for the needed earth-borne materials for the camp.

"Maybe we could get lucky with some kindling," He pipes up, forcing his gaze away and his mind to obey his own wills, "I do not believe all hope is lost for warmth. We still have the woodstrips, no? That shall make a fine fire."

For a moment, you don't respond— all he's left with is the rustling of the grass around you as you search for a branch large and thick enough to be of use, until you clear your throat. "I don't believe so, Ser. We gave it to Jylnn, as his was wet."

His eyebrows furrow. "Hm. Did we really?"

"…Yes, ser."

"Shit," He exhales, running his tongue along the inside of his cheek. "…Well, have you at the least found a branch that fits our needs? I'm getting wet over here waiting for you."

"Yes, ser." You repeat.

Your voice comes clearer this time as you return from the shadowing, surrounding space, less muffled from the slight distance— though, it's raspier, in the way he's known to tie to exhaustion. Rougher, almost; it has his head tilting faintly in concern as his eyes finally latch to your person.

"Tired, are you?" He muses, stepping out of the way of you, giving you space to maneuver the branch as needed without whacking him in the process. "It has been a terribly long day, I'm afraid."

All you offer him in response is a barely-there grunt, lodging the branch between two trees and making sure of its stability— as soon as you're sure, you reach over for the other side of the tarp, helping him position it correctly to offer sanctuary for the night.

He exhales slowly as he moves back to his bag, untying the knot keeping it closed and together and pulling some of the needed items from within; blankets to lay on the ground, fabric to cover yourselves with…

It's silent as you two finish setting up, both soaked from the never-ending, light rain. He crawls within as you get the water canteens appropriated to catch some rainwater over the morrow, chewing on his bottom lip as he fiddles with the scabbard of his sword, having completed what needed to be prepared.

It's small inside; there lays just enough room for the two of you and your supplies and armor, and even less so to fit — even a small — a fire for warmth to stave off the sharp teeth of the cold. He stays on his side as his brain gnaws at his consciousness in a mindless, antsy wait for you to return.

It's strange— unsettling, even. He knows you're right outside, he always does, yet his body tenses for a battle expected to come the moment you're not within sight.

And, of course, his ribs release the grip on his heart the second you crawl through the tents entrance, dripping and panting, the water along your form shining in the dim lamplight.

His eyes jump to you instantly, as if subconsciously checking for any further wounds— though, something flares in his chest at your appearance; forcing his chest to expand in an unsteady, broken inhale. The feeling has his eyes narrowing in suspicion over himself, casting a slight shadow of doubt.

Yet, concern for your mental and physical well-being lies dominant in his worries, snuffing anything beneath it out like a tongue to flame.

"Is everything well?" He implores, his gaze tracking your every move, your every signal, as you find home on your side of the temporary sanctuary.

You settle atop your pile of fabrics, appearing to, feebly, try not get anything wet as you wriggle out of your armor; it's a useless battle, and you visibly lose more and more care with the more you sluggishly take off. "Yes. I got the… canteens set up in a hole with leaves to lead water inside of them. It should hold, so long as it keeps raining."

He nods, slowly, as he watches you make your form bereft of your gloves, then your arm guards…

"I doubt that will be a problem," He muses, a weak attempt of a grin following, "Seen as it has been pouring all evening without halt."

"You're not wrong," You reply, setting each and every piece of your armor aside and out of the way meticulously; your routine is one he's observed for years, from childhood to knighthood. It brings comfort, alike your tired, mildly distracted voice. "But, I fear your tongue has the ability to alter our fate. Recall that trip to flea bottom?"

He smiles, amused at the memory. "I'm afraid it'd be hard to forget, my good Ser. It was quite the special errand."

"Yes, indeed, Ser."

Maybe, just maybe, he'd happened to be a mildly mischievous child; one in doubt of the closeness the two of you were destined to form, and he'd made an attempt to scamper away whilst you were distracted by something he'd pointed out. He'd teased that you couldn't catch him then, that he was fine without you "always on my case."

He'd succeeded, of course… For a moment, and got the two of you in heaps of trouble for it— his arm still bears the scar of when he'd tripped over a loose brick and fell into the broken glass of a window pane in his escape.

He hasn't run from you since.

And though he'll hesitate to admit it, sometimes, when he's lost in the mist of thought or sleep is evading him, he'll run his thumb over the tiny white line; just as a reminder of what could happen without you.

What would happen without you— if he was in the absence of your company now, he doubts it'd just end up in a lack of protection of his rear. He felt bare without you for just a day, and he's afraid to think what would happen to his mind to imagine you gone for good.

…Yet, here he was, putting you in constant danger.

It's a struggle to remind himself that you're in his service, some morrows.

You make such good a companion, it's easy to forget. But, that's a good thing, he supposes. He'd rather trust you whole-heartedly and without doubt, than be in endless peril over whether you return to someone else in silence and sell his secrets.

Hells, you know so many and so much of him, you'd make good coin that way.

Is that a sign? That he gives too much to someone within his employ?

It doesn't feel that way— or wrong.

He clicks his tongue against the back of his teeth quietly, glancing down to his hands and inhaling. "I… Apologize, for dragging you back with me so… hastily. I suppose we could've gone a little slower, for comforts sake."

When he glances back upward, he shivers, curling his fingers into his palm— he'd yet to take anything but what's left of his armor off and his scabbords tie to his waist, and the water and mud soaked into his doublet keeps the cold close and warmth farther; quite the opposite design of its making.

You've most of your armor off by now, never having paused when he'd gotten distracted. All that is left clinging to you is your breastplate and your shoulder-guards, but the latter is soon to join the pile of steel with how quickly you move to be rid of it.

You don't stall, even as you shake your head. "No need, Ser—"

"Gwayne," He interrupts, startling even himself; he hadn't meant to, it just… slipped out, and rather childishly. "P— Please, just call me by name."

Oh, seven hells.

What was he doing?

Yes, he despises — and always has, without failure — hearing the formal names from your tongue for himself, but he's never truly… made it known. Nor has he even attempted to be so… forthright, so bold, about such a topic.

But, truthfully, he's unsure of how many times the vine of hatred has stuck its thorns into his insides upon hearing formalities from you, and he's aware it's coiled around his throat more times than he's cared to count.

How many times his intestines have twisted together in anxieties and nervousness at the thought of you actually calling him by name; nor the flowers blooming in his chest at the (rather endless) thought alone of it.

He wishes to hear neither his title, My lord, nor Ser Gwayne, or anything else. He wants to hear Gwayne.

Just Gwayne.

And, tonight, he thinks he might die a rather dramatic death if he hears one more gods-damned Ser from you.

Either that will kill him, or the cold.

At your stunned silence, he stares, clearing his throat as his mouth parts at the slightly confused, slightly shocked expression contorting your face; your hands are paused at your collar, like you were previously beginning to attempt to get yourself from your breastplate.

"It's a rather… needless tradition, for people of our caliber of closeness, no?" He fumbles, wincing slightly. "Or, so I'd like to believe. Do you not think of it the same? That we must always use our formal titles for one another?"

You wiggle in your spot appearing miffed as your tongue pokes out just slightly at the corner of your mouth— his focus slips down to it instantly, succumbing his will to falter, even a little.

"Well… I suppose it is a rather new, er, revelation. You never expressed any prior interest in dropping formalities, S—" You pause, catching yourself at the last breath of the second.

He observes as you do, forcing himself through his doubt as he quirks a brow; attempting to behave like what'd truth spilled from himself was on purpose, and not entirely accidental in its birth.

"…Gwayne."

He exhales.

It feels like his chest collapses in on itself.

Is that dramatic, a play of words?

Maybe.

But it's in truth, and the second he finally, finally catches what his name sounds like from your lips; what it sounds like draped within your voice and honeyed in your cadence, he wants to hear it again.

And again.

Preferably forever, truly.

Slowly, an earnest smile makes home of his mouth, giving way to pleasure— and, even, a small bout of weary excitement. It feels good, to hear his name from your throat, and he's sure he's making it subtly obvious as he adjusts in his seat and attempts to make it less so.

He hopes you continue its use in the future. Now that he's had a taste of what he sounds like from you, he's unsure that he'd be pleased if you reverted backwards, to return the use of formalities.

He'd be lying if he'd said he hadn't dreamt of it— of you. They always leave him waking in longing, feeling an unnamed tide rage within the cage of his chest; but, deep below that sea level, he thinks he knows why.

He hums as he acknowledges the thought, nodding slightly in tired approval as he looks over your condition once more. "That wasn't so bad, was it?"

Watching as you shrug, it's clear to him that you use getting out of your breastplate as a distraction; you offer little more than an idle shrug before leaning forward, grabbing the steel by the collar and pulling it over your head.

"Not nearly as awful as the chill, nonetheless," He continues, pulling lightly at his muddy sleeve, "I suppose tonight will be a cold one, my knight."

"All of them are, these morrows," You reply, setting your breastplate aside before reaching for your bag. "Winter is coming."

He nods, leaning forward and gently setting his sheathed sword aside, next to your own, before retreating to his spot on his blanket.

"I cannot say I don't miss my featherbed," He murmurs, lazily accepting the dried meats you offer from the depths of your supplies. "Or the warmth of a bath."

Glancing down to his hands — of which the preserved meat lay within over a cloth, — he mindlessly gnaws on a slice of the meat, sighing after he swallows. The cold seeps into his bones, making him shiver faintly as his breath fogs in front of his face.

He looks over to you after a moment, letting his gaze drag over your form like a familiar, ghostless touch.

Your hair is wet and muddied like his own, your face streaked with the lines the rain carved through the dirt on your cheeks. You keep your own eyes downcast as you eat; distractedly content, like usual. The curve of your shoulders is lowered, giving way to how tired you truly are without saying a word.

Your hands shake with overexertion.

He tilts his head, his eyebrows furrowing slightly at the sight. Yes, you were one resilient, somewhat quiet creature of knighthood, but under his command, he attempted to make sure you were well slept and equally fed.

He can't say the same for the command of Ser Criston Cole, of whom never wished to take any breaks unless the men were collapsing— and even then, he was sluggish to offer peace. It was annoying and painful then, but it rouses more irritation and anger than anything else, seeing its toll on you.

He didn't like it; seeing you worn, ruined, and cold, though you'd never complain of it.

Not quite like himself.

The wind laps at the tarp offering the two of you sanctuary, writhing against the stakes keeping it down beneath the rain; it's noisy enough to never be silent, a never-ending source of back noise.

"How exhausted are you?" He blurts, his head raising an inch before his eyes leap to your face to catch your expression. "Truly."

"I could go on," You respond, your own eyebrows drawing together. "Is there something that needs completing?"

Ah.

Of course, you'd say something like that— he'd imagined you would, but he's unsure of how much he appreciates being correct, this time.

He wishes for you to be honest. Truthful about how much you ache, how you feel, what you want to do.

Oh, seven hells.

He wishes for you to be more than his knight; more than his appointed sworn-shield. To drop the chivalry and professionalism like he has.

"…No," He shakes his head, dropping his hand to rest in his lap. "I do not wish for you to… lie, to me, about your condition. I, myself, am fatigued. We will make tonight an early one. Are you ready for bed?"

You pause — like you were caught trying to do something forbidden, — your eyes finally locking together as you look up; and as he sustains the eye-contact, he can see your wavering will within the coiling colors of your iris'.

You look as tired as you are filthy.

"Who will take first watch?" You implore, a confused expression taking over your face. "If we are both asleep, then—"

"Then it will be fine," He interjects, voice softer as he nods slightly, "There is very few within these parts, and we have no fire, no smoke, to alert any living being of our position. But, if there is, I am assured you will wake before anything comes to happen. It will be fine."

You exhale, sticking to your silence at his soothing.

It was like trying to tame a wild beast, with you; though you were neither beast nor wild. You just happen to be very… driven, precautious. Caring. And, in a way, he likes that aspect to your character; how willing you are to sacrifice parts of yourself for the protection of others.

You are a good knight.

A good man.

You shall make a gracious husband for anyone you please to wed.

The thought feels almost bittersweet.

"So?" He muses, finishing off his food and wiping his hands along the cloth before tossing it aside and tucking his hands close to himself, "Shall we rest?"

Your affirmative nod is sluggish, almost slow, as you complete your own meal.

He watches as you gather both his and your foodcloths, tucking them back into your supply bag, then as you begin removing anything you don't need on your person— your secretive dagger, your scabbard, and any other weapon you have.

It's slightly amusing, how many you have.

Though, it becomes less so as he realizes why exactly that is; how paranoid and worried over his likeness you must be to keep extra protection in case of emergency.

"It's a wonder how you can move as quickly as you do with as many of those you have," He murmurs mindlessly, inching forward before laying back. He tucks his arm beneath his head as a replacement for the pillow he doesn't have as he brings his blanket up to his waist, sighing at the lack of warmth as sleep begins to gnaw at his eyelids. "And here I thought I knew all of your secrets, Ser Secretive."

His own jest has a minute grin taking to the corners of his mouth, only to disappear at the ache in his body— the ground is wet and cold alike the air even in spite of the fabrics he adorns and lays upon, allowing a chill to nip at his flesh like a wolfs maw to a hare, driving off any advance sleep makes.

"Maybe I will learn all of yours, someday," He continues quietly, tilting his head to watch you undress yourself of your extra cloths and Knightly accessories, "As you have mine. Or is that too hopeful?"

"Only slightly," You muse, your breath turning to mist in front of your lips.

"Only slightly?" He echoes, a small, weak laugh following. "Well, I suppose that is better than what it could be. I shall accept it without complaint."

As you lay down, his eyes track your every movement, never once leaving your figure until you're laid down on your spine beside him; close enough that your shoulders nearly touch.

He can feel your warmth from here already.

It makes a shudder slip down the notches of his spine like tree leaves in fall, lingering for just a moment afterward— it makes him want to inch over, to smother the space between your forms, to use your warmth for himself.

Nonetheless, he refrains.

As the breeze slips from under the edges of the tarp and brushes against him, he shivers, blinking as he exhales and looks away. He decides to take favor to staring at the ceiling instead, poorly attempting to ignore the teeth of the cold that sink into his bones and welcome the darkness of unconsciousness.

You don't seem to be cold at all— you seem incredibly unfazed, actually, as you blow out the lamp, then adjust and close your eyes.

The dark seeps and shadows around the two of you, turning your once well-light form into just a shadowy, awfully warm figure beside him; you don't move once you settle, nor can he feel or hear you shiver.

Not like he can with himself and his own chilly agonies.

"Are you truly not at all cold?" He questions incredulously, his voice slightly strained as he rolls over onto his side, tucking his limbs closer to his core to attempt to preserve more heat. He keeps his eyes open, ghosting his focus over the dark, vague shadow of your terribly warm body.

He can't see you or anything of the like, so he focuses on his other senses, listening to you breathe in its stead.

"Not quite," You sigh, "Though you word it like you are."

Your voice sounds more layered, like this. When it's all he can pay attention to. The softer, gentler underbelly, the more prevalent, rougher cadence, the small cracks in tone beneath. It's comforting, almost soothing, in a way.

"Well, winter is coming, I'm afraid. I will not pretend I certainly cannot feel its approach."

All you offer in response is a low-effort, quiet grunt of "yes, she is," toward his cloaked misery.

At that, he exhales, adjusting on his bedding again.

It's not uncommon for Knights or men-in-arms to share neither tents nor body-heat — you two have done it yourselves quite the few of times before, on the colder morrows — but he can't say either of you are leaping to do it with one another; even if he doesn't mind.

No "Normal" knight is ever the eager to get close within proximity of his fellow knighthoods, even for survival— and he knows that only to have heard it countless of times, whether in a subtle jab or in disgust to the idea.

He doesn't give it any mind at all, truthfully. He quite enjoys it, though, he will be dull towards admitting that sliver of honesty, especially within company.

He just likes being warm.

When he notices you shift, his eyebrows perk up ever so slightly, only to droop in pleasure as your warmth takes over his side where you place yourself— your heat bleeds into him instantaneously like water to dry dirt, easing the tension of his shoulders.

He has to swallow back a moan as comfort returns to his bones; instead, he replaces it with a blissed, broken and sleepy exhale, being both mindful of the distance and respect between yourselves as he aims to move where he gets more of you.

You feel so good.

Better than a featherbed, arguably— at the least, you make a pleasing replacement of the lack of it.

"Hopefully," You begin quietly, finding your comfort in your acquired spot at his side, "We will not abandon our woodstrips next time."

"I would rather avoid getting your hopes up here," He murmurs, closing his eyes as sleep begins to weigh down his bones, "For fear of breaking your own heart, my knight. I am sure this will happen again some time within the morrows."

When you lay your arm out a little above his head, he hums mindlessly, inching upward just a hairs breadth to use your arm as a pillow— a minute, cheeky, tired smile takes over his mouth, though you cannot see it within the dark like he cannot see your expression.

"Are you not the one always attempting to rise the empty lull of my optimism?" You muse, lazily adjusting, and, thus, pulling him a bit closer to your frame; like you didn't care for his proximity as much as you made it appear so.

His insides untangle, releasing the knot of worries he wasn't quite aware he'd tied.

You continue. "It is not I that has the ever-bleeding heart, I'm afraid."

He laughs quietly as he allows you to push and pull him as you please, aiming for your comfort to be adequately met, as his own has been. "Are you to say I am the reason we lack a fire, little knight?"

"…No, I am to say…" You pause, and he catches the signs within the huff that follows; you're abandoning your weak point. He grins. "I am not little. I am bigger than you, thus, your measly title is unfitting."

"So I should come up with a better one? Is that your meaning?"

"I believe you could abandon the entire thing."

"Is that so?"

You hum a quiet, low affirmative sound, letting the debate over the teasing name-calling settle between the two of you— he does as well, allowing an idle silence to cloak the both of you alike the quiet of the night.

A good moment later, you speak first, half-asleep.

"…Goodnight, Gwayne."

The name makes him smile; pleased, warm.

Sighing lowly, Peter leans forward and props his arm up on his desk, tilting his head to rest his jaw against his fist.

It's late.

Almost eleven o'clock— everyone else had gone home hours ago except for the two of you, and Chief Danvers had ditched with a rough pat to his shoulder and a "See if you can find those detail files on the '88 case for me, will you? I need them. Oh— and the ones mentioning it. Don't forget those." Thrown over her shoulder about… three hours ago?

He's not sure when she left. Or why she needs those files. His brain feels muddled.

He's been here since; stuck at his desk going through the records, whilst you were digging through the files in the file cabinet six feet away for the on-hand ones for the same case.

Both of you have yet to find anything aside from the older, out-dated file, and he's getting bored— ansty. He wants to move. Needs to.

Slowly, his gaze drifts away from the bright-white of his monitor screen, finding its way over to you; The plain of your spine, the curve of your shoulders, the curl of your fingers around the files.

How those hands feel on him, buried in his hair or tangled with his own. How your shoulders look as you're hovered over him and between his legs…

His stomach twists.

Shit.

…Maybe working one-on-one with your spouse is a bad idea when you're that pretty.

You could make any crime look good. Any.

Fuuuuuckkk.

"How's it going on over there on, uh, your end?" He implores, swallowing briefly as you adjust and turn your head, feeling the low of his spine buzz when your gazes lock as you look over.

He inhales as you click your tongue.

"'Bout as good as you'd expect," You sigh, sliding the file in your hand back into the cabinet; utterly oblivious to how bad he wants you, right here, right now. "You? Wantin' a break yet, P? We've been at this awhile."

"Um…" He straightens up, shaking his head a little. "N— no, I'm okay. I found some stuff mentioning the Tallmadge case, but, I, uh, haven't found the actual thing yet. I dunno if it's lost, or Chief just wants to waste our time as payback for what happened, um... yesterday."

"Probably both," You mutter, and he stares as you lean back on your haunches, feeling his gaze drift down— then he blinks rapidly, anchoring it to the side of your face when you glance back over to avoid being caught. "It wouldn't surprise me."

"Yeah." He mutters, agreeing with a mindless, tiny nod. Then, his gaze returns to the pale white of his monitor as he leans back into the spine of his chair, rubbing his eye with the knuckle of his finger to distract himself of how good you look with your hair messy like that and your sleeves rolled up.

But in the middle of the lists of names, contacts, and notes written since before he was born, something catches his eye— quickly, he sits up, his hand jumping back to cover his mouse as he clicks on the file name.

"Hey," He blurts, adjusting in his chair as his eyes flit over the details of the file, "Hey— come look at this."

His focus leaps between yourself and the details splayed out on his screen, his eyebrows furrowing as you stand up and come over. He catches the question controlling your expression rather quickly once he gets a view of your front, a silent what? Molding your features.

"What's up?" You muse, rounding his desk to stand behind him. As you settle into place, your body warms him instantaneously— making goosebumps crawl along his arms as your palm braces against his desk beside him.

"I think I've got something," He continues, looking back to his screen and gesturing idly to it with a tilt of his head. Then, he brings his hand from his mouse, keeping his finger a little away from the screen as he points to a paragraph, looking back to you over his shoulder.

"See this? Everything mentioning James Tallmadge in the records are, uh… gone. Someone deleted the files."

A second after he feels your hand grab the back of his chair, he's pulled away from his desk, being nudged out of the way wordlessly by you as you step up to his computer— he grabs onto the edge of his desk, pulling himself closer and watching when you start typing something into the system records.

As you lean over his desk, his focus slips down to your hands, his tongue slipping out to wet his bottom lip subconsciously as he watches your fingers move.

You straighten up. "They left Alyissa Tallmadge in the system. Why remove just his?"

"Maybe it was an accident?" He wonders, dragging his gaze back up and away from the sight of your hands — the same ones that have him picturing some bad things to be thinking about at work —, toward your face, feeling his own get hot thanks to his imagination. "And they just didn't fess up to it?"

"Could be," You mutter, and he watches as your expression scrunches, then your chest rise as you sigh. "It was awhile ago when they were logged. They could've just forgotten about it."

"Yeah," He agrees, nodding slightly. "Can you see how long ago they were deleted? Look in the, uh, the system restore points."

When you lean back over his desk, he can see the muscle of your back through your shirt; the flex of your bicep as you hold yourself up, the way your shoulderblade rises when you move your arm.

He exhales shakily as you start looking through the system memory, typing in something he can't care less about at the moment— not with you in front of him like this.

He leans back.

God, he thinks, swallowing shallowly, How can you be this pretty at work this late? I look like shit after a normal shift, but you can look like a model right now in front of me? At eleven PM?

"Nineteen eighty two."

He jumps. "What?"

"Nineteen eighty two," You repeat, unfazed. "That's when they were deleted. I'm surprised no-one has removed the system history— 's probably why the shit is so buggy; It's holdin' stuff from before Danvers was hired."

This time, it's your turn to point something out, as you step out of his view of the screen — and, thus, remove the gorgeous painting that is your back from his sight — and show him the system record date at the top.

Fuck, your voice sounds so good.

Does that make him a bad detective?

Shit, he's an awful detective— he can't even focus when you're around, talking to him, figuring stuff out with him, looking at him like you are now.

It's like you were specifically designed to never let him pay attention to anything else, but in a good way. A very good way.

"It's, uh, it's practically ancient, then." He mutters mindlessly, feeling his chest stutter with an inhale as he looks between you and the date quickly. "I'll— I'll tell Chief tomorrow, and she, uh, she can get it cleaned out."

"Noted. That's probably a good idea, but…" His eyes follow your hand as you drop it from the screen, staring as you lean back into his desk and idly curl your fingers around the edge of it.

"But?" He echoes, glancing back up to your face and licking his lips.

"It means we've gotta wrestle to find the actual files— when they're probably somewhere with your pops, or in Danvers' attic, molding."

He winces. "Uh… yeah."

Tapping his fingers against the armrests of his chair, he thinks about it, trying to focus on the professional train of thought in his brain to deduce where they would keep files from the sixties— if at all. ..

"They, uh, they could be in the basement?"

You pause. "Down near the old evidence stuff?"

"Yeah," He nods, "Somewhere down there, at least. Or, in— in Chiefs attic, like you said."

"Okay, well, I doubt Danvers would be happy if we bothered her now, so we'll just keep looking here," You push off of his desk, straightening up and fiddling with your sleeve; and he watches as you roll it back up where it slipped down your forearm. "You okay with that?"

"Yeah," He repeats, flitting his gaze back up to your face as he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip, just for a second— but when you move to go back to the file cabinet, he catches your wrist, moving on instinct.

Your arm is warm beneath the coil of his fingers, and if he presses his index in a little more, he could feel your pulse; calm, compared to his.

Instantly, you still.

He flushes, his hand shaking as his grip loosens, dropping down to hold your hand. "But, uh, maybe we could take a break first? Please?"

You're not shy to return his hold, but, unfortunately, you quickly notice that something's "off" with him— he knows that you know, too, because your eyebrows furrow as you squeeze his hand.

He squeezes right back, trying to push away the… distracting part of his brain; it doesn't work, only latching on to the feel of your callouses in your palm, how warm your hand is, how gentle you are with him.

How easily you notice something is wrong— how easy it would be to just… give it a rest for tonight, go home, and tire yourself out some more a different way. A more pleasurable way.

A way that didn't give him a goddamn headache or make him want to give up on everything.

The coil in his tummy warms more and more the longer he stares and thinks about it, feeling his breathing get thrown out of whack— he can picture it almost perfectly; the way you'd clumsily kiss over the center console going home, how you'd rush getting undressed going to the bedroom…

"'Course," You nod, continuing after a second. "You okay? Your breathing's all weird."

If his face wasn't on fire before, it absolutely was now.

"Um, Y— Yeah, no, I'm okay. Just the, uh, the lights are giving me a headache, I think." He fumbles, clearing his throat awkwardly afterward.

Focus, moron, he thinks, giving your hand another squeeze as he offers a small, shy, unsteady smile, You can't be doing this at work. You're gonna fuck things up like an idiot.

"I think there's Tylenol and ibuprofen out in the car still," You murmur, letting go of his hand to gently press your palm into his forehead, like you were checking for fever.

He leans into your touch, exhaling shakily as he closes his eyes.

It doesn't help the fire lapping at his insides, or the fluster currently taking over his face, staining the tips of his ears for reasons he doesn't want to say aloud.

Even though it's because of you.

You continue. "I can go get some for you? Or a water?"

"No," He replies, shaking his head lightly against your palm, "It's alright. I'm, uh, I'm fine. You're helping."

"You're sure?" Your hand slips from his forehead, fingers tangling in his hair as they move to cradle his head, drawing him closer to rest against your stomach. He does so without resistance, inhaling your scent brokenly and swallowing the moan that nearly escapes his throat.

You smell so good.

Too good— both something like home and something he wants to bury himself in.

"We could go home, too, if you want. If this shit is that important, we can just… come back early tomorrow." You add.

God, does he want to go home. You'd make a much better night than these bright lights and tiny fonts, but…

He doesn't want to get another scolding from Danvers. She's mean, and kind-of rude.

When she doesn't get her way, anyway.

"Yeah… I'm sure," He mumbles, voice muffled into your shirt. One of his hands drop to rest behind your knee, the other coming up to wrap his arm around your middle and keep you close. "It'll go away on its own."

"'Kay, but the offer still stands, yeah? I wouldn't mind leavin' a little early."

As your fingers scratch lazily into his hair, he shivers, his hand twitching to hold on a little tighter around your leg— his stomach jerks when your nails ghost over the sensitive spot there, forcing a sharp inhale.

"Mmnh." He hums, pushing his head into your hand. When you do it again, his thighs part on instinct, his eyes squeezing shut as his body listens to a specific part of his brain; the same part that's got half the mind to beg to go home just so you can make him feel good.

The same part that's got him picturing you crowding him against his desk, warming him up with yourself, letting him grind against your thigh messily…

He adjusts in his chair as he feels his blood rush southward, proceeding to ignore the plead for friction there— even if, subconsciously, he re-adjusts to give it, moaning lowly into your stomach as your fingers run through his hair.

"Pete."

Pete.

God, he loved it when you called him that— or anything, really. You could call him an idiot and he wouldn't care a lick, because he'd know you mean it affectionately and not literally.

Plus, the way your voice drips over petnames…

Shit, consider him a dead man.

"Peter."

"Mmn."

"We finishin' this so we can go home?"

"Mmhn."

"Is that a yes or a no?"

When your hand tightens into a fist in his hair, he groans open-mouthedly, letting his eyes stay closed as you gently pull his head back and away from your stomach.

"Danvers will get mad at us if we don't find her the, uh, the files." He finally replies, licking his lips, attempting to calm his heart… and his wild brain.

"Who cares?" You mutter, easing your grip and moving your hand, instead resting it around the back of his neck. "If not for this, she'll get mad at us for something else. It's an endless cycle, sweetheart. It's useless to prevent it."

"I do," He sighs, slowly prying his eyes open; and the view of you, staring down at him like this, helps soothe nothing of the storm in his stomach. "I don't want to piss her off, and— and this shouldn't take… too long."

"Okay," You relent, sliding your thumb over his adams apple, "We'll finish this, then."

Not until I focus and get my head out of the goddamn gutter, anyway, he thinks, watching your head tilt and your eyebrows furrow. But I want to kiss you so bad.

It's a weak fight, to set himself straight. Thinking about you just… feels way better than anything else. Everything else is boring. You? You're so far from boring, it's not even funny.

He inhales as he leans forward, dropping his head to rest back into your stomach, a little over the waist of your pants.

"I love you," He mumbles, his voice muffled as he runs his thumb back and forth over the fabric of your pants, etching little invisible patterns to drag himself away from the heat bubbling in his insides; hot for you.

"I love you too," You repeat, tucking a few strands of his hair behind his ear— it tickles, making him twitch and hide a smile in your shirt.

Dragging you closer, his hand tightens around the back of your leg, his brain taking the little surprised grunt you make and swallowing it whole.

He shifts as your hand grips the back of his chair beside his head to keep yourself upright, then as your knee slips between his leg to rest on the seat; to both keep you balanced and let him get away with keeping you close.

It was a win-win— even if he has to choke back a moan when your knee brushes his too-sensitive thighs, poorly attempting to hide how worked-up he is and how easily you could get him hard when he's like that.

He tilts his head back to rest against the spine of his chair as your other hand curls around it on the other side of him, staring up at you as you settle.

He's never been more pleased with himself.

"Peter."

"…Yeah?" He replies, his hands snaking to rest on your hips— if he was in a better, more fortunate world, you'd be at home with your shirt off, and he'd be able to feel you properly.

But this is good too; great, actually. Perfect.

You're warm.

You hum, leaning back a little. "You don't really have a headache, do you?"

His face flames, hot with embarrassment and slight shame.

Shiiit.

Busted.

"Um…" He wiggles in his chair, sucking in a sharp breath when that makes your knee brush against his groin; like an accidental, self-punishing, pleasure. You don't move an inch. "W— Well, kinda? I mean, I wasn't lying, but, I, uh, maybe made it seem… worse? J— just a little."

"You gonna tell me why?"

You're playing the fool.

He knows you know all the whys; why he's blushing, why he keeps moving in his chair, why he pulled you closer, why he's been staring and chewing at his lip…

You just want him to say it.

"Come on, [Name]… please?" He sits up a little, his eyebrows drawing together desperately as his thighs tighten around yours, just a bit.

You tilt your head, feigning idiocy like he can't see the way your demeanor cracks, even slightly. "'Please' what? What's wrong, huh?"

"Please, I don't— I'll… I'll be quick."

"You're gonna ruin your pants if we do this, you know." You mutter, and he shivers as you drop your hand to rest on the back of his neck, tangling your fingers in the short hair there.

"It'll be, uh, it'll be fine," He fumbles, his back curving into a small arch when you shift over him; pressing your knee more into him. He chokes. "Hnng— Not like— anyone's, um, coming an… anyway."

You tighten your grip.

"Or so you guess," You mutter, leaning down as your other hand drifts slowly against his side, making him gasp and twitch— until your hand stils around his thigh, nudging it open to give yourself more room.

He takes the gamble.

Whining lowly through his open mouth, his head drops back, his fingers tightening desperately around your belt loops— then, one of his hands dart upward, curling around the back of your head to drag you down into a kiss.

The instant you connect, he's moaning into your mouth and trying to pull you down closer, trying to touch all of you at once; none of it feels like enough.

He grabs at your hair, your shirt, and your hip as continuous, small huffs and whines spill into your mouth, desperation coating each one in-between short kisses.

His hips jerk weakly against your knee as you push him further into his chair, purposefully leaning more weight on the leg between his— when you pull back, he presses his forehead into yours, his fingers tightening in your shirt to keep you as near as possible.

"That feel good?" You pant, keeping yourself balanced with a hand coiled around the armrest of his chair as you check-in. "You okay?"

"Y—Yeah," He gasps, his back arching as he grinds against a good spot against your leg; you're warm, even through the both of your clothes. It feels fucking heavenly. "Please— please, mmnh, please don't move, just— S— stay right there."

When he aims his thrust just right, he ruts into the seam of his boxers, ripping a broken groan right out of his throat the moment he repeats it.

He does it again, and again, and again, feeling the pleasure in his stomach tighten, pulling taut like a rope; one he should be cautious about snapping, especially at work, but…

Fuck, he feels too good.

"I— I'm, um, I'm — Hnng — c— close," He breathes, his legs spreading only to close around your leg again right after as he tosses his head back, clinging to your hand.

He continues to grind against your leg, his rhythm jerking and stuttering when he feels you mouth and bite at the underside of his jaw; he's sensitive there, and you plauge on it knowingly and mak a weak, broken whimper tumble from his mouth.

"Unng— S— Shit," His stomach twitches as his hips roll needily, aiming to find that spot— and he nails it right on when you adjust the placement of your leg.

He cums immediately.

Holding your hand to his chest, he caves into you, the rhythm of his thrusts snapping into little jerks as he works himself through his orgasm. Then, he drops his face into your shoulder, burying his nose deep into your pulse point and inhaling; attempting to muffle his sounds as his thighs twitch.

He pulls back after a minute, giving you a quick kiss— only to follow that up with a deeper one until he slows his hips, shaking from the aftershocks and still clinging to your intertwined fingers.

You pull back first, and once you do, he slumps into his chair, panting.

"Still okay?" You murmur.

"Y— Yeah."

"How's your, uh, your headache?" You muse, voice light; teasing.

He can't help but crack a grin, even if it's still laced with pleasure and the leftover of his high.

Stepping up onto your front step, his breath fogs in front of his face; forming a pale, ephemeral cloud until his next replaces the last one.

The snow on your porch is raggedly cleaned away, so he can't see if you're home or not by your footprints. You haven't answered his text or his calls yet, either.

He adjusts his bag's weight on his shoulder as he sighs, being lazily careful of the ice slicking up the next step up until the flat plain of your porches wood. Reaching up, he pushes his coats hood off of his head before running a hand through his wind-messy hair, trying to subconsciously fix the mess.

Then, he aims for his keys, isolating his copy of your house key before stepping forward and pushing it into the keyhole of your doors knob— once it clicks, he pushes it open and slips inside, noting the fact no lights are on as he shuts it behind him.

So… not home after all.

He toes his boots off by the door, dropping his bag beside him to shrug off his jacket. It smells like you in here— it's comforting, soothing, in a way…

But he'd much rather you be here. Not just your scent.

Hooking the hood of his coat onto the empty space you'd place yours, he bends his knees and snags his bag by the handles, moving further inside of your house and flicking on a light or two along the way.

It feels like home in here— whether that be by the fact you'd been his slice of home for your entire lives or by how much time he'd spend here, he's unsure.

He's lost count of how many times he's crashed here for a week or two (or sixth months).

How many nights spent on your couch goofing off or talking about everything between something and nothing, how long he's crawled back to here for sanctuary when he feels burnt out or helpless.

And, well… Tonight, he's back again for a repeat offense of the former. This time, only for a few days. At least, he hopes so.

He drops his duffle on your couch on his way to the kitchen, his shoulders drooping a little more at the familiar creaking of the floorboards beneath his weight as he moves.

His house never creaks. He's not one-hundred percent why that is, exactly, or why yours is so noisy, but sometimes it feels weird when he's so used to yours.

The light over your kitchen table flickers once, twice, before steadying out as he turns it on to see— he moves to snag a drink from your fridge before ruffling through your cabinets, stealing a bag of his favorite chips from inside before closing it.

He's loud with how he opens his snack, only alerting him further on how quiet it is inside, that it's only him here; no TV constantly going like his, no wind whistling through the gap under the door, no kid giggling or wandering wife.

He moves on.

He abandons his drink on the counter but brings his chips with him as he does so, munching on them as he steps over into the living room, beginning to fumble about opening his duffle as he leans over the back of your couch.

Once the zipper finally drags undone, he pulls his laptop out from between the twist of clothes inside, bringing the bag of his chips up and holding it between his teeth as he uses his hands to open and carry his laptop back to the island, typing his son's birthday into the PASSWORD screen as he walks.

If you're not here, then work is the only option for him left to do. He doesn't want to just sit here, loiter, and watch TV without you— he could, but it'd feel weird.

Instead, he plops down into a chair at the counter, setting his laptop down in front of him before dropping his chips to be situated facing him next to it.

First, he goes through his Emails, answering a few when he sees them; some from Chief sending him stuff to study or asking about case details, others from different co-workers about future meeting dates or get-togethers, the rest just being phishing ads or getting deleted.

Shoving a handful of chips into his mouth, he disregards his inbox, switching tabs to active case records and studies and reports.

But when he gets there, all he does is stare at it, more lost in thought about everything but the messy, gorey details in front of him and the reports he should be filing.

He…

He doesn't really want to do any of this.

His sigh is loud.

Dropping his hand, he reaches down into his pocket, wiping the crumbs off of his hand and onto his pants on the way before fishing his phone out of his pocket— he has to wiggle to get it free, eventually bringing it up and propping his elbows on the counter.

Sliding his thumbs across the screen, he unlocks it with the seven number combination, licking his lips as he drags his finger up to bring up his open apps display.

Then, he taps the Messages app, bringing up your contact to check to see if you'd answered— not that any notification on his homescreen was lit up with your contact name.

And, unsurprisingly, you hadn't. Haven't even looked at his messages yet, so, subconsciously, he re-reads your latest conversations.

Yesterday, he'd texted you first, saying, "You see that new game yet? Heard there were good plays on both sides. Saw some stuff that could prove it, too. It's sick. I can come over if you want to watch it together?"

"Not yet. Your missus won't be upset 'bout you leaving her for the night? I could head over instead if she's cool with it. I wouldn't mind the time with the gremlin." You'd answered, about twenty minutes after he sent them.

"Nah, she'll be fine. She's used to me coming and going… plus, I'm pretty sure I've been getting on her nerves lately. She's gettin' kinda bitey," He'd said, "And you'll see Darwin tomorrow. So am I coming or not? I could bring dinner?"

"Alright, OK. Sure. Be careful over on the 8th— it's slick."

That was last night.

This morning, though, had been a mix of topics; the game you'd watched, what time you'd come over earlier today to hang out with everyone and help with some stuff he needed you on, and a bunch of other small things.

That was all before Kayla and himself ended up getting into an argument, mid-dinner, over something he saw as menial.

Admittedly, it… it kind of ruined the whole thing.

You ended up taking Darwin with you to give the two of them a break and time to talk things through, but they'd barely gotten ten minutes into their "talk" before she'd announced, rather hurtfully, that he should "probably go."

Glancing over his cracked phone screen, his teeth sink into the plush fat of his bottom lip, forming little divots as he reads your messages.

"Everything OK?"

You'd sent that about a half-hour after dropping Darwin back off. That was… almost five hours ago.

He replied two minutes afterward. "I don't know. I guess so. I'm in the doghouse again."

"Sorry. Need anything?"

"Nah. I'm okay… I dunno. But that might change in an hour. Who knows."

"Noted. If it does, let me know."

Thirty minutes ago in the form of two missed calls and a handful of desperate messages, he'd done just that— sitting in his car after throwing his bag in the backseat and proceeding about ten minutes of staring at your contact name.

"Hey. You busy?"

ONE MISSED CALL.

"I kinda need a favor."

"I pretty big one I think."

ONE MISSED CALL.

"Are you doing something? Sorry."

1:51 VOICE MESSAGE.

"Can I crash at your place?"

"If I breathe the wrong way, I just set her off. N she's got class n stuff tmrw. She needs to sleep and I guess I aggrivate her too much for her to be able to when I'm around. Our couch is a no-go cause it sucks. Can I come over?"

You'd yet to answer any of his messages— rather needy and clumsy ones, at that, which just makes the heat of embarrassment warm the coil in his chest.

But… he doesn't think you'd mind. You'd done this one thing for him a million times before without complaint; even when he'd steal your clothes and use your soap in the shower or chat your ear off while you'd cook.

That happened nearly every time.

You were his best friend.

Sighing shakily, he licks his lips again, typing another message and sending it before he can start second-guessing.

"So, I, uh, maybe dropped by?"

For a moment after sending it, he stares down at the blinking cursor, feeling the urge to type another bubble up.

"I brought my stuff this time. I won't have to steal yours. Are you coming home anytime soon?"

"Also heard you were busy with Ms. Ruth. How is she?"

"And I'm sorry. About… all this. Dinner on me tomorrow? As an apology."

Right after he nudges the button to shoot that last one your way, he turns off his phone, tossing it down to lay idly next to his laptop and abandoned snack— then, he brings his hands up, burying his face in his palms and sighing into them.

He kind-of, sorta, needed you to answer. At least once; just to make sure you hadn't died or anything and you were, in fact, just a busy bee.

But instead of feeling his phone light up or buzz with a reply, he jumps at the sound of the door opening— his head lifting and turning quickly towards the door, spotting your figure before you spot him.

There's no way you don't know he's here, though. You'd paused at the sight of his shoes and again at his jacket, so…

You hadn't received his messages. You weren't ignoring him. Or dead.

He sits up, turning towards the door a little in his chair.

"Hey, man," He greets, clearing his throat awkwardly— before following that up by clumsily wriggling out of his chair, peering over the edge of the hall as he steps over to you.

You clear your throat, but…

He continues to talk before you have the chance, watching you shrug off your jacket and get out of your boots as he does so. "I, uh… I texted you, but I— I don't think it went through. Sorry."

Right as he finishes, and almost comedically, your phone proceeds to go off about twelve times in your pocket— every single one being the chime you've set for him.

His mouth parts, a flush crawling on his cheeks. "Uh, yeah. That— that's all me."

As you straighten up and put your jacket on its hook, his eyes follow you, tracking your movements as he winces faintly in embarrassment.

"What happened? Everything okay?" You question, nudging your shoes out of the way and heading past him— he steps away to get out of your way, trailing after you as you go into the kitchen, right past the station of his open-laptop, abandoned snack, and half-open drink.

"Y-Yes," He fumbles, nodding slightly. "Just, uh… Kayla needed space, so…"

He stops at the counter whilst you venture over to the fridge, gnawing the inside of his bottom lip as he glances away; down to his laptop, his hands, the crumbs on his shirt, then back to you.

"After your argument? I thought you were cool. Still not good?"

He nods.

"Yeah, um, after. I dunno. I— I guess she didn't think so, but… uh," He pauses, swallowing. "Anyway, I forgot to thank you yesterday. For taking Darwin out with you."

Leaning forward, he runs his tongue over the front of his top teeth, pressing his palms into the cold counter.

"You didn't need to— I wanted to, you just gave me a time. I didn't wanna disrupt anything beforehand, either." You shrug, nudging the fridge closed with your knee as you move away, settling at the counter in a spot opposite of him after getting water. "It worked out."

"No— no, I should've. He didn't need to hear any of… that." His thumbs tap into the counter as he talks; lightly antsy over everything. "And he really liked your time out together, so… Thank you. Seriously."

Sinking his teeth into his bottom lip, his eyebrows furrow slightly as he looks over to you, watching your mouth pull at the edges as you down some of your drink.

"Yeah, okay," You relent, "You workin' or just staring at documents?"

He straightens up a little at that, snapping back-to and away from his lingering distraction over Kayla. "I was answering emails, but, uh, you know how that goes. Boring."

Moving over to his laptop to close the open files, he shoots glances between you and the screen as his index runs over the TouchPad, hitting the little X in the top right corner on the documents. "Heard you went to Miss Ruth's. Everything okay over there?"

You click your tongue. "Yeah. Nothin' big. You?"

"Me?" He questions, the corner of his mouth tugging back slightly; confused.

"Yeah. Are you okay?"

"Oh, um…"

He's not really… sure. If that makes sense. Yeah, her saying she needed space from him stung and made something in his chest ache, but he hadn't truly though about it. He didn't like to, after arguments like that.

He preferred to pretend they didn't exist.

"Yeah, I, uh, I think so?"

Your head tilts. He watches it happen.

"That seems like a question, P. You not sure yet?"

He licks his lips as he lightly shakes his head, exhaling through his mouth. Then, he stares down at a random point at the counter and slowly closes his laptop, a moment passing before he finally drags his gaze back up.

"Y—Yeah, I guess so." He shrugs, not completely sure. "It's a little bit weird. I kinda want to talk about it, but, uh, on the other hand, I really don't want to. I want to— to wake up, and for it to be over already, so I can go home."

"You can't tell her this, either, can you?"

"She… No, I already tried. She, um, won't answer me. Has my notifications blocked or something. She doesn't even read them— and she was just… riling herself up, almost the entire time we were arguing. I could barely get a, uh, a word in before she was telling me to— to get out."

You stay silent.

Sucking in a breath, his nose scrunches slightly. Then, after a moment, he weakly adds, "…Which is kind-of why I'm, uh, here. At least for a night or two, so she'll… cool off some. And then I'll go back."

He glances down to his hands, feeling slightly vulnerable and a little embarrassed; talking about emotions was one thing, but about arguments with his wife (that were increasing pretty quickly)?

It's an entirely different ballpark.

"Well…" You start, only to pause, your expression pulling together as you scratch the back of your head. "It'll be fine. You two always make up. But… in the meantime— you wanna watch something? Go to sleep? Get your mind off it a little?"

He swallows, nodding slowly as he picks at his thumb nail. "Yeah, we, uh, we can watch something. I don't feel that tired… yet. What do you wanna watch?"

When he spots you moving in his peripheral, he looks up, his gaze tagging you as you round the island and head into the living room.

"I might've picked something up for you," You mention, ruffling through the cabinet of your TV stand.

He perks up instantly. "Like what? What is it?"

"Just something. You'll see once I find the damn thing."

Once he remembers his bag is on the couch, he follows after, grabbing it from over the back of the couch and setting it down behind it— before moving over to plop down, get comfortable, and wait for you.

He crosses his legs beneath him, tugging a throw pillow over his lap and resting his arms atop of it.

"You find it yet?" He chirps, staring at you, then at the thing you finally pull from the cabinet. He quickly recognizes it as a DVD case, the movie name following—

Holy shit.

"No way, dude! You found it? H— Uh, How did you…?"

The grin that spreads across your mouth is like poison; triumphant, as you push the cabinet closed and move to get the DVD into your player. "'Cause I'm a great buddy, obviously. Very skilled at movie-finding."

"No, seriously. Where'd you get that? How, uh, how long was shipping? It takes forever to get stuff here."

His focus doesn't once leave your back, even as you get it situated into the player and continue to get the rest of it set-up, so you both can watch his movie— the one he used to watch all of the time with his mom before she left.

She took that DVD with her.

He's been searching for a replacement since, but… he couldn't ever rememeber the movie title. He'd recognize it a mile away, though.

"Been a while," You shrug, stepping back and dropping down beside him on the opposing side of the couch. "But it finally got it here yesterday."

He stares at the side of your face for a second, before playfully shoving you in your shoulder. "You— you didn't need to do this, [Name]. You should, um, let me pay you back. Be serious, How much was it?"

"That's none of your business," You mutter, shoving him in return— he can't help but laugh, even only slightly.

His heart feels a little lighter.

"It's a gift. You don't pay for gifts," You continue, "So shut up and enjoy this for once in your life."

Scoffing, he makes a face at you, but he can't help a smile as the beginning credits of the movie start. "Hey, I, um, I enjoy things. Plenty of them. Everyday."

"Right, right. No more talking— and take this," You toss the remote on to the pillow in his lap, "You're the volume captain now."

He raises a brow, laughing under his breath. "Volume captain? You're, uh, stealing lingo from my kid now?"

"Yep. Shut up 'n pay attention."

He grins.

This dude CANNOT swim. He's doggy-paddling for his LIFE. I can imagine he's okay with getting in the water, up until it's likely around his knees, but he'd be sluggish to go farther than that unless with someone else. He's more than content to just sit in the water and chill, to be that "butt in the sand, toes in the water," guy on the beach.

HM: gets sunburnt sooo fast. He's making himself look paler than a ghost with how much sunscreen he puts on to avoid it— and you can bet your money he's making sure you're covered nice 'n good, too.

You bet your cheeks you can find this man, like clockwork, feeding the geese after work/on his way home. He'd be soo serious about not giving the ducks/geese bread because it's "bad for them and the water!" (HM: would 100% go inform people he saw feeding the geese bread so they would know better.)

There's no chance this man does not talk during movies. He's either dead silent or never shutting up.

Would totally drop some random, teenage-ish/chronically online lingo out of nowhere. "What? Janet taught me that one— it means (whatever)! They use it all the time."

⬆️ Will use what knowledge he does know just to make the kids wince in embarrassment when he drops it in the middle of class.

I can picture Ryland taking either ten minutes in the shower or an hour and a half (and of course it's going to be boiling, steam-so-thick-you-can-choke-on-it hot). Leaning towards the latter for more in general, but when he's tired, bro has to get out before he falls asleep in there (Sings terrible pop-songs during, too).

We all know you can't catch this man cooking for anything (cause it's canon he sucks at it), but you *can* catch this man making a family-sized box of Mac 'N Cheese if he doesn't want to go out. Which is... somewhat often.

Ryland gets sick So Often. Like, twice every four months often— either from his kids being sick and spreading it by not staying home, or whatever. But he's bed-bound, whining, sniffling, the whole nine-yards; every time.

Sorry, but you can't tell me he does not cry over the End-Of-Year letters from his students, or when they sporadically tell him they're his favorite teacher. He's a softie for his kids (and in general).

He also doodles on his kids' homework (like a little god-awful cat or something, or a smiley face) when he gets a little side-tracked grading them. He'll purposefully make them horrible or silly when he can tell the student was having a hard time on the work (then proceed to go over it again the next day, if he can).

HM: also says "Collywobbles," instead of "Butterflies," in terms of the feeling. Prove me wrong. I'll wait.

Slides around in his socks in his apartment when he's bored. No exceptions (he did stop for a little after he busted his booty being silly, though).

Keeps a red apple on his desk for the "An apple a day keeps the doctor away," joke. & the fact his science teacher, as a kid, always had one on their desk.

Huge cuddler. Sorry. If you're in bed together — especially late at night — he's huddled up against you like a second skin, blabbering in your ear about whatever he did that day/something he wants to talk about. Only feels slightly bad when he keeps you up.

Has a letterboxd… but only uses it to keep track of what he HAS watched, to make sure he doesn't accidentally get through half a movie before realizing he's seen it before (happened multiple times).

Sticks his students' drawings on his fridge at home or on a board in his class— he always boosts creativity, encouraging his students to try new things, test their hypothesis', see what they're into.

Hates parent-teacher conferences, aside from a few parents he truly likes. Not sorry about it either. Hates when he has to answer their dumb emails, too (canon).

If you're in the break/lunchroom with him, he WILL talk to you. No escaping it.

Do not tickle this man. You WILL get a rather boney elbow to your side and a loud yelp.

In a relationship, i'd have to say he's pretty affectionate; always asking how your day was, massaging your shoulders if you're achey, doing his best around the apartment (His favorite thing is pressing himself against your back, kissing your temple as his hands snake around your waist, and asking what you'd been up to before coming home).

Would do very rash things for a jawline or a forehead kiss. Anything you ask of him? He's doing it and expecting you to pay the kiss tax for it.

Super huffy 'n puffy if he's tired; there's no way you can't NOT tell he's sleepy and ready for bed if you're watching something or busy. (IE: Sighing dramatically loudly, dropping hints like, "Mmm… bed sounds nice, right? We should go lay down," And spreading himself out like a cat over the couch (and you) and feigning falling asleep on your lap. Fake snores and all.)

Pushing his glasses back up the bridge of his nose, he sighs, clicking his tongue against his cheek as he checks the time, again.

What's this time? The hundredth-millionth-bagillionth?

He's lost count, but…

It sure felt like it.

The two of you were supposed to get the Celebration clothes today— made specifically by the "Best Garment-makers on Erid," according to Rocky, set for two weeks from now. He's known about the celebration for awhile; Rocky and Adrian had brought it up millions of times since a month ago, when it was officially scheduled.

And, yeah, he's done the same. Sue him— It was alien culture, of which he's been actually dying (or pretty close to it, on the way here) to know more of. Who wouldn't be shaking in their bones to see what their clothes-making skills were? How'd they'd adapt to the Human physique and create something for the two of you to wear that's connected to everyone and their history?

Especially when it was for celebrating work he'd been a big part of.

Saving Erid, and — hopefully — Earth. Their stars, too.

Big stuff.

Amazing stuff.

"Elevated Stress Levels Present," Armando calls from the other room, stating what he already knows. "Advising Relaxation Protocols for Doctor Ryland Grace."

He grumbles.

"Yeah, buddy, I know," He huffs, tugging his glasses from his face only to sink down and cross his forearms over the table, nudging his forehead into his arms. "I know. I'm just excited. I mean— come on! Getting to try clothes made from a separate species on their planet! What's cooler?"

"Elevated Heart-rate Present, Advising Relaxation Protocols for Doctor Ryland Grace." Armando dead-pans, emotionless and cruel. "Advising Contact with Crew mates… Requesting Captain—"

Huh. Looks like Armando still has some old programming from the ships system; you and Rocky missed that part.

Or left it in on purpose.

Who knows.

"Wha— You're no fun." He interrupts, groaning. "You're ruining my vibe."

Ruining my vibe? He questions internally, his eyebrows furrowing slightly as he picks his head up from his elbow at the sound of the bathroom door. Well… It works. I didn't even think I'd remember that… Just Another lingo to steal from my probably-now-adult students.

Catching your form in the corner of his eye, he perks up, his gaze flitting over to you to watch as you come in. Instinctively, his shoulders droop a little, along with his gaze— his attention slips from your face, shower-messy and damp hair, to your shoulders, to your tummy, to the low slope of your hips…

"Who's ruining your… 'vibe'?" You question casually, slipping your arms through the arm-holes in your shirt. "Armando?"

He swallows.

Forcing his gaze up, he nods, grabbing his glasses from in front of him. "Yeah. They threatened to tattle on me," the arm of his glasses poke at his bottom lip as he brings them up, loosely crossing his arm over his lower stomach as he continues, hoping to avoid explaining why. Nonetheless, by the look on your face, you can likely already tell. "The shower work okay?"

Even as he's talking, his brain loses traction on his thoughts. Instead, they change course and latch onto you, never lessening in their intensity.

And By gosh, do you look good— even now, on a random day on a completely different planet than your shared home one, you look awfully amazing. He has to mess with his hair in the mirror for ten minutes every morning to get it looking even somewhat okay, yet you can wake up or shower without all of that and still be as beautiful as ever.

It was unfair, really.

"Mhmn," You nod, bringing your arms up and shoving your head through the neck hole of your shirt, dragging the fabric down roughly. You leave it as is, though it's not all the way down, leaving just a peek of your happy trail. "Have you just been obsessively checking the time, or…?"

Shoot.

He fumbles, flushing. "W— Well… No? Maybe?"

On habit, he reaches up, messing with his hair as he chews on the end of his glasses arm.

As you step forward and lean against the counter, his focus naturally shifts to track the movement, knowing already that you know him all too well. You could practically read his mind.

You had him figured out; knew that he could cry he was so excited and overwhelmed, that he was antsy and likely couldn't take another hour waiting.

He'd been like this for days now.

"Maybe?" You echo, raising a brow and tilting your head.

He presses his lips together around the tip of his glasses' arm, looking away to look right back.

If anything crawled on his face — it didn't even have to settle — you'd have deciphered and came up with a solution before it even left, always evolving around what he'd end up liking most. And as much as he enjoyed it, it freaked him out a little that you could just... do that, so simply.

You knew what he wanted way before he did.

It was as aggravating as it was helpful.

"Yeah, maybe." He repeats, more confidently this time, digging his fate a little deeper. The points of his teeth dig into the plastic earpiece on his glasses, adding to the littering evidence of past repeat offenses.

"So you haven't been pacing and thinking about it the entire time?"

"Nope. Totally not. I… would not do anything like that. Ever!" He lies.

He's not smooth at all.

It's obvious.

"Then why's your hair all messed up?"

Pausing, he lifts his hand and runs it through the front of his hair again— he doesn't even have to see it to realize it's got I've been stress-messing up my hair, all over it. His fingers catch on a small knot before they're even halfway through the crime.

He crumbles.

"Okay, okay, fine. I was pacing and losing my mind a little— But just a little! Nothing major. Just… casual, completely normal nerves!"

Sighing, he sinks into the edge of the counter, finally pulling his glasses away from his mouth and tucking them into their home on his face. He gnaws on the inside of his bottom lip, his hands dropping to curl and mess with the edge of the countertop, just to give him something to fiddle with.

After a moment, he lifts his gaze — not quite unlike a guilty puppy — and drags his attention to the look on your face; expectant, unyielding, but also strangely knowing. It's a weird mix, but it makes honesty bubble up between the spaces of his ribs, fighting their way to his mouth.

"Okay, I…" He exhales, digging his teeth into the fat of his bottom lip anxiously. The nail of his thumb picks at the edge of the counter; an output of his over-abundant energy. "I am… slightly nervous about the clothes. Garments. Whatever it is they're called."

At the sound of you moving, he glances up, watching you push away from the counter and come over. He forces his hand away from the countertop, opting to pull his glasses from his face again and mess with those.

"Because…?" You nudge, settling into place beside him— not quite touching, but close enough to.

"What if something goes wrong?" He questions, staring down at the hinge of his glasses as he opens and closes the arms, folding them up only to drag them back out. It squeaks slightly with every repetition, warning of their impending doom.

They are old, after all. Slightly. This is his last back-up.

"What if there's a problem and we don't get them in time? Or— or somehow we can't make it to the ceremony? Or I get sick again and can't see it?" He rambles, letting his nervousness tumble from his mouth without restraint; it feels both good to get it out and bad, because he's putting these thoughts out into the ether.

Who knows. He could jinx it.

It's happened before.

"I don't want to miss it," He mumbles. "This is once in a life-time. I'd regret it forever."

His shoulders drop weakly, and he sucks in a broken inhale, blinking quickly to calm himself down— and to further achieve that, he steps over to you, lowering his head and resting it on your shoulder.

You're warm, and you smell a lot like your soap; it's a good thing. It always smells a little different on you than him, for some reason— better.

"It'll work out, Ryland," You press a kiss to his temple, and his back tingles where you rest your hand there. "It'll be fine. These people are geniuses. If anything does happen — which it hopefully won't — they're smart enough to work around it. It'll be alright."

"I know," He grumbles, his voice muffled from your shoulder. He reaches around you, ditching his glasses on the counter to bury his nose further into you, exhaling slowly. "I can't help but think about all the possibilities anyway."

"Think about it from their perspective," You continue, "This is bigger than anyone here. You saw how Rocky and Adrian would chitter and do their little jazz-show when they sung about it— it's more than just a celebration to them. They wouldn't let anything get in-between it and its success, so, you bet your ass it'll work out perfectly fine."

Sinking into your side, he repeats what you've said in his head, letting it sink in. It was likely that you were right, per usual— you didn't quite wallow over the bad rather than the good like he had a habit of doing. Anything good he'd achieve, it'd get soiled by his brain automatically shifting to attach to his mistakes, or what big thing would have to happen next that he'd have to do.

Yeah.

It'll be… okay. It'll work out.

Hopefully.

"You're probably right," He huffs, pulling his head up from your shoulder to let his gaze roam your face. Your eyebrows are drawn together in seriousness, your expression settled like you were both trying to reassure him and get him out of his own over-thinking at the same time.

It works, even just a smidge.

He continues, managing a shaky smile at the feeling of your hand running up his spine, dropping and repeating to create a rhythmic motion. "Like usual. You're the clear thinker here—" He pauses, his expression scrunching. "Clear-er thinker. Yep. That's the one."

"Jeez," You laugh at him. Something in his chest untangles at the noise, steadying his grin. "Glad to know where I stand as the 'clear-er thinker.' That's what you think of me, huh?"

"Well, if we're being truthful—"

The sound of the doorbell interrupts him mid-way, and he stiffens, making a split-second of eye-contact with you before he's shoving himself back, his socks sliding on the floor in his urgency. Your laugh rings out again behind him, and he mirrors it breathlessly as he opens the door and stares down at whoever is beyond it.

It's Rocky, of course, in his own little xenonite sphere. With the garments.

Heck yes!

"Why Grace laughing, Question?" Rocky implores, chittering lowly. "I bring the Ceremonial Clothes! They have finished their 'detox,' statement. Ready for use!"

"Hey, Rocky," He greets, leaning against the doors threshold to catch his breath— it wasn't necessarily the sprint over to the door that got him, but more of his elevated Heart-rate. "What took so long?"

Okay, and maybe a little of the running. He hasn't been doing much of that lately.

Maybe he should.

"Grace too impatient, statement. Not take long at all!" Rocky argues, knocking into his leg as he pushes past him to get inside. "Bad bad bad trait."

Ryland's eyebrows raise as he steps out of the way, a shocked, small giggle being pulled from his throat. It wasn't too surprising, not really. He's heard more than enough "Calm down, you're being impatient,"'s in this lifetime.

Gosh, and to think he's said that same thing about a million times to his students back at Cleveland middle.

Yikes.

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," He huffs, pushing the door closed and trailing after him towards the kitchen. "You say that so much I think I've gotten the point by now."

"Have not, statement." Rocky defends. "Grace still Impatient. Grace no understand point."

Scoffing lightly, Ryland scrunches his nose at the back of Rocky's carapace, sticking his nose out at him— when Rocky suddenly turns, Grace straightens up, acting like he wasn't doing anything at all.

"Grace-friend, Grace make a stinky face at Rocky, statement!" Rocky tattles, clambering over in his sphere to stand beside you before he sets the Ceremonial clothing down.

"Wha— Hey, how do you know?!" Ryland huffs, crossing his arms over his chest defiantly. He continues on into the kitchen, stopping at the curve of it and glancing between the two of you. "I was behind you, there's no way you could've seen me. I was just walking— I wouldn't do a thing as such… It's childish!"

You don't have time to say a thing before Rocky continues, his carapace vibrating lightly. "Grace lie, statement. Rocky saw stinky face. Rocky knows. Rocky has better vision than stinky Grace."

"Grace is not lying." Ryland argues, scrunching his nose at his perpetrator; the Eridian two feet to his left— but once he remembers he is, in fact, not wearing his glasses, he snags them off the counter and shoves them on his face. "And I don't stink!"

Rather desperately, Ryland looks over to you, making a lazy, clumsily hidden "you're supposed to take a side," gesture with his hand as he shifts on his feet.

In return, all you do is shrug, making a face that just yells "No thank you."

He exhales.

"Rocky saw Grace move hand, statement. Grace bad at hiding."

"We're moving on now," You interrupt, breaking eye-contact to look down at Rocky. "Tell us about the clothes, would you?"

Ryland perks up, stepping closer to peer down at him and the clothes too. They're all sorts of different colors, shining in various hues of the overhead lights, and they make small noises when the fabrics shift against one another. "Yeah. What're they made of? Will they hold temperatures well? Are they breathable?"

"Rocky is an Engineer, not ceremonial garment-maker. Knowledge of these is beyond Rocky's capabilities." He chirps, fiddling with the clothes with the smaller, "touch-stuff" part of his sphere. He grabs one with his claw, holding it up.

Quickly, Ryland grabs it, assessing the feeling of it. It's both smooth and firm, oddly enough. Like it was a recreation of their own, more fire-resistant, fabrics.

So awesome!

"How long do these typically take to make?" He asks, turning it over in his hand before he holds it up in front of him. It's far from a full-body piece— there's many gaps with little sewn-in gems or sigils tied between them. The biggest breaks are around the ribs, the stomach, and the back.

More markings and symbols are imprinted into the fabric itself, telling stories he can't quite understand yet.

"Two Earth years," Rocky states, handing you a different piece for you to look at one too. "Not very long."

Glancing over, Ryland looks over your expression— and, as usual, you look silently intrigued at what's in your hands. But yet again, you let him blabber out all of his questions instead of voicing your own. When he'd brought it up before, you'd said it didn't bother you any and that you were content to sit back and let him talk, but still.

He looks away.

"Huh…" He hums, turning back to Rocky. "These are amazing, buddy! Do you know how they made the fabric? What is it exactly? Is it like yours?"

"Rare plant fibers, statement. Many many many. Take long time to dry."

Plant fibers? He thinks, Rare plant fibers to make ceremonial clothing— I wonder which ones. The blue plant? The pink… aphrodisiac… one? The thick red plant? So awesome!

"Okay, what do the markings mean? I keep seeing all these little sigils 'n stuff. What're they about? For good luck? History-related? Experience or event-related?"

Rocky sings a low tune, adjusting in his Xenonite ball. "All of the above, statement. Little 🎝 ♩ 🎝 🎝 means success. Other ♩ ♪ 🎝 means bravery. Too many to explain, statement."

"Okay, cool," He says, looking over the garment in his hand again. "I'm seeing lots of empty space. Is there any reason for that, or…?"

When you lean against the counter and set your piece beside you, he glances over briefly, only for his brain to tug him back to his curiosity. He wanted to know— for these guys, almost everything seemed to have certain meanings. It'd taken awhile to log all of the ones he's seen before, and that was a quarter of what's sewn into the clothes in front of him.

He's in for a long night tonight.

"Standards," Rocky replies. "You are mated, so gaps are to woo mate. When not mated, no gaps! No point to show off for no mate, statement."

What?

"Mated…?" Ryland echoes, feeling his cheeks heat up as he pauses— on instinct, his gaze jumps back over to you to see what you're thinking, more interested to know your opinion on the matter than the word mated being tossed around by Rocky so casually.

I mean, sure, he's not wrong, Ryland thinks, staring at your face, per-say.

Your expression shifts every so slightly, and he catches the change the second it happens. Your head tilts faintly and you straighten up a little, but that's about it. You don't look over once, as if it doesn't make you perk up any; like you were more than comfortable with the term.

His tummy heats up at the thought.

"We call it dating on Earth," You pipe up, adjusting in your spot. "Or marriage, but not all of us are monogamous. We often go through bunches of people before we find ours."

For the first time, Ryland keeps his mouth firmly shut, quickly looking between the two of you.

"🎝 ♩ 🎝 🎝 ♪ 🎝 ?" Rocky repeats, chittering. "Why not 🎝 ♩ 🎝 🎝 ♪ 🎝, question?"

"Uh… It's more of a lifestyle choice. Some marry early 'n stick with their choice, some bounce around like a ball. Most don't pick one and stay, but a lot do."

"And this is Standard, question?"

Ryland clears his throat, speaking up for you when you make little move. You weren't quite the teacher like he was, but he didn't mind it any— in fact, he kind of liked it. "Yes. Very standard."

"Gross gross gross. Rocky like Adrian. Rocky not want anyone else... No one compare."

"Cute," He nods, setting the garment in his hand down beside yours on the counter. "We're happy for you, Rocky. You deserve it."

"Yeah," You agree, exhaling slowly.

"Yes, yes, yes," He says. "Rocky understands. Rocky very lucky. Happy happy happy."

A soft laugh tumbles from Ryland's mouth, calming and shifting to a small, comfortable smile. It was always great to see Rocky and the others so secure in their bonds, so sure in themselves and their mates.

It was very adorable.

Rocky perks up in his sphere, his carapace swaying just slightly. The Xenonite of his ball clicks quietly against the flooring with each one of his movements, keeping it from true quiet in the brief lull of conversation. "Garment-makers add mating gifts, statement!"

Grace's eyebrows tick up. "Gifts? For what?"

"Yes, gifts. As thank-you!" Rocky pauses, excitedly chittering as he grabs the other two garments off the floor and hands them to you, revealing two others beneath them. "For Grace and Grace mate!"

Oh my God.

"Take!"

"Wha— what are these?" Ryland sputters, slowly accepting the two clothing pieces forced into his hand. One looks suspiciously like the bottoms of a Lingerie set, and two looks awfully like a matching top. "Rocky, where did you come up with this?"

It's even got a cute little bow.

Quickly, Ryland tilts his head toward you, making eye-contact the moment you register what the actual frick it is. Heat swallows his face, covering his cheeks and the back of his neck in a hot, probably horribly obvious blush— he goes to toss the two onto the counter to get it out of his hands, only to realize right before that it might look like rejection towards the gifts.

He swallows, reluctantly keeping them close.

"Found similars on Human Technology! Adrian said would make nice gift before big ceremony for mates," He says. "Garment-makers accepted good idea, statement. Gifts!"

"Why were you look at Lingerie on the laptop?" He blurts, slightly exasperated, slightly scared.

"Why was it even on the laptop?" You add, shooting a questioning look to the (arguably) pretty clothing set in his hands, to his face, then down to Rocky.

"Where did you even find it?" He continues. "I didn't think anything like it was even on there."

"Grace worry too much," Rocky muses, his carapace resuming the little happy swaying motion. "Do you like your gifts, question?"

Okay.

Okay— well, shock aside… no, shock not aside. This is crazy.

"They're, uh…" Ryland pauses, clearing his throat in a poor attempt to focus. "They're awesome, buddy. Thank you."

In his peripheral, he catches as you turn your head away and bite your bottom lip; like you were flustered and/or about to laugh.

He huffs.

"Rocky glad. Yes, yes, yes. Garment-makers too! And Adrian— Adrian!"

Suddenly, Rocky turns in his sphere, bolting towards the door. The Xenonite has no traction against the flooring of the house, so he slips once or twice, only to sing chords Ryland hasn't exactly heard before once he gets to the door.

"Why not open?! Rocky need to tell Adrian good news!" He chitters angrily, pushing his ball into the door repeatedly— until Ryland's brain kicks into gear and he moves over, quickly opening it for him before he damages anything or hurts himself.

"Slow down, Rocky— You have plenty of time to tell Adrian before you bust a hole in our door!"

Rocky continues his pace even as he stumbles down the few front steps and into the gravel, practically running towards the exiting door and ignoring what had been said to him in favor of repeating alternate versions of Adrian needs to know!

"That's one way to drop off Lingerie," You mutter, "Force it over and book it for the hills. My kind of guy, really. Saves the embarrassment."

"Not funny," He grumbles, shutting the door with his foot before he makes his way back into the kitchen. "What are we gonna do with this now? Put it on Armando?"

Admittedly, it was a little funny.

Maybe a bit more than that.

"Is it for Chicks?" You snicker, the heels of your palms pressing into the counter beside your hips. He can feel your eyes track every single one of his movements— and normally, that makes him flustered enough, but with lingerie in his hands?

Just turn him back into stardust.

"I don't know, I didn't check," He responds, trying and failing to ignore the inferno making home of his face— it's not only embarrassing, but, oddly enough, humiliating. In a weird way. "He didn't give me the chance before running off."

He did not want this in his hands— or anything sex-related, really. That was bedroom stuff. Not… kitchen stuff. Or "anywhere outside the bedroom," stuff.

It just felt wrong, plain and simple.

When he spots the gimme it gesture you make, he quickly tosses it over, exhaling shakily once it's out of his hands. He stares as you catch it, watching as you toss the top part down on the counter next to the other non-sex related clothes.

"What are you doing?" He questions, licking his lips nervously.

"Looking?"

"You… know the difference between male and female lingerie? Why do you— how do you tell?"

"It's obviously for women 'cause it comes with a lacy bra, baby. I'm just seeing all the symbols on it— these are different than the ones on the ceremonial stuff."

Why would they make it for ladies if neither of you are women? He thinks, What the heck does that even mean? What does it entail? Do they think one of us is a girl? Huh? I'm so confused.

He clears his throat, shifting his weight on his feet. His eyes flit from your face, down to the lingerie, back to your face, back down…

"What do you think those mean? Good… fertility?" He winces, running his hand through his hair and lightly pulling on it. "Good bonding? Long relationships? I— I mean, we do know that reproduction for Eridians is quite dangerous if not done carefully. Maybe they're wishing us, uh, luck?"

"Maybe," You shrug, rather careless about the whole thing. "Wanna try it on?"

You grin, holding the lacy, see-through panties off of the edge of your finger, out to him.

He chokes on his spit.

A rope of heat knots in his stomach as he shakes his head rapidly, coughing into his elbow before swallowing harshly. "No!"

He's not sure which is more dominant: Embarrassment or heat. Both suffocate his insides and his face, making his heart-rate tick up a few notches and his breathing fall out of rhythm.

"Why not?" You muse, stepping back only to hold the panties over his lower half, closing one of your eyes like you were picturing him in it. "You'd look good in it, you know. Like you do with everything, so… There's no need to be nervous, Ry."

"Quit," His voice cracks awfully in his desperation as he moves to hide behind the counter, his face aching with the embarrassment latched onto it. "That— That's not amusing. I'd look terrible in that— I— I doubt it'd even fit! I mean, look at me!"

Casually — and not looking at him — you lean your weight on your hip, looking down at the equally lacy and see-through bra on the counter, only to look back after a second— He's got a feeling he knows what's going on in that brain of yours, and none of his ideas make the flush in his body go down any.

"I gave them your measurements for the ceremony stuff, remember? They're guaranteed to fit… if you wanna try it."

if.

"That's if they were made for me," He defends weakly, letting his gaze drift back over to you. You're just standing there, panties in hand, with a mildly teasing look on your face. When he looks longer, he finds a few more things; all of which have his stomach twisting with a concoction of emotions. "They could've thought you were the one who would wear it instead, not me— You'd look better in it, anyways! I don't wear lingerie!"

Wordlessly, you raise a brow, putting the underwear flush against your crotch over your jeans— and it becomes blatantly obvious that you, in fact, were not the expected recipient.

Awh, crud.

"See?" You hum, tossing it down on the counter next to its companion. "All yours."

His attention follows as he stares down at it— it's slightly taunting, the stupidly pretty little markings and sigils. It's obvious how much effort was put into it; the thin (but arguably soft) lace, the patterns within it, the detailed waistband. It's even got a little drawstring in the place of elastic.

Oh, gosh.

He's stuck.

If you just tossed in the back of the closet and forgot about it, he'd feel bad for not using a gift that was given to him and made with effort. If he did try it on, even just once, he doubts he'd get those feelings out of his head; whether good or bad.

But, for some reason, the moment wrings an old memory out of his brain— the one time he'd gotten caught by his mom with a certain magazine when she'd randomly cleaned his room as a teen.

He was so embarrassed then.

Quite similarly to now.

"It… It's kind of pretty?" He mutters, glancing back up to your face. "But I don't know. I've never worn anything like… that— or, uh, tried to."

Truth be told, he'd never even thought about the concept. He understood the point, yeah, but didn't find it worthwhile— he was often attracted enough by his partner alone (cough: you) to not need anything else to nudge that along. You alone were more than perfect; way more than anything else he'd need.

"You don't have to wear it, Ryland. I was kidding. If you don't wanna, you don't wanna," You pause, adjusting in your spot. "I don't care what you wear— pretty lingerie, normal clothes, nothing…"

He coughs, looking away.

"I, uh, I think I get the point— please, stop talking for just— just a second."

"…Alright."

Like with a lot of things, he wasn't sure. He's tried skirts on, yeah, on the Mary. Even dresses, again, on the Mary. But never panties. Even just the idea was questionable; he's never worn panties, never even worn lingerie, and didn't even know he was down to try. To wear …it… would just be to see how it was.

An experiment. Yeah.

Gosh. He's told his students many, many times, that if you're unsure about something, you've gotta try it out to figure it out!

Look at him now.

"O…Kay," He finally relents, looking away from the aforementioned set on the counter.

"Okay?" You echo, tilting your head.

"Yeah. Okay." He affirms, nodding slightly before he leans forward, his palms pressing into the counter, like he's trying to stand up to the rather intimidating, lacy, colored set of clothing. "It can't be that bad, right? I mean, it's just underwear. For… sex!"

"Yeah, Ry," You laugh a little, a small smile crawling onto the sharp corners of your mouth. His focus slips downward to the points of your teeth until he forces his gaze back up, swallowing the saliva that'd pooled in his mouth.

God, you— you look so good just standing there. It's torturous, even more-so thanks to the topic at-hand; he's embarrassed beyond belief.

His cheeks hurt.

"That's kind of their entire purpose, sweetheart," You continue, "But we don't have to have sex, especially if you don't want to. You can just try 'em on in your own time, for fun. Nothing has to come of it."

He pauses.

"You don't want to see me try them on?"

"Not if you don't want to show me."

…Oh.

That wasn't even the problem at all; he didn't even think about… well, not showing you. But…

He wanted to; his want and his interest are settled somewhere in his gut, buried deep and swallowed by his embarrassment so well he'd barely noticed it was there.

Until you brought the idea up, anyway.

Ugh…

It could be nice.

Can't knock it 'til you try it, right?

He couldn't just not try it on 'cause he's nervous. That'd be hypocritical.

Finally, he clears his throat, slowly shaking his head. "No, I— I want to. I think it could be, uh… fun? Or enjoyable? At least a little?"

Coming out from behind the counter, he exhales shakily, attempting to change the topic before he ended up dying of embarrassment. "Anyway, moving on! Let's see what's going on with these ceremonial clothes, huh?"

Gently closing the bathroom door behind him, he inhales harshly, forcing it out within the same pace as a feeble attempt to slow his heart-beat down a little, and hopefully make his feelings simmer with it.

It barely works, but it's good enough for him.

Not really.

Tossing the lingerie down on the sink, he stares down at it and messes with the hinge of his glasses. Then, he steps back, crossing his arms over his chest nervously and internally hyping himself up.

People do this all the time, he thinks, chewing on the earpiece of his glasses, It's nothing to worry about. It's entirely cool— he doesn't even care if I wear it or not, anyways!

No pressure.

He was just… making himself nervous. There was no edge to perform, no one but himself to impress— but he still felt like he should try to impress you, just because. It was a natural instinct; to prove himself, to woo you, to make sure you didn't have doubts.

It's not like either of you can exactly get away from each-other, here. He couldn't mess this up like his last ones.

…But, again, you were nothing like the people he'd been with before.

You never got irritated when he'd get overwhelmed or miss his students and get himself all upset, never cared when he always wanted it to be foggy outside, never minded when he'd keep you up talking about random stuff all the time (even when you really wanted to sleep) or when he'd take way too long in the shower.

You were his saving grace. Literally.

So… He could do this for you.

Yeah.

He exhales. "…Okay, I can do this. It's no biggie."

Setting his glasses down on the counter, he drops his hands to his waist once they're empty, carefully grabbing the bottom hem of his shirt and pulling it up, over his head, and off. Gaining a little more confidence, he goes for his jeans buttons next, quickly fumbling to get those undone before he loses his momentum.

He yanks the denim downward as soon as the buttons pop open, accidentally pulling his briefs down a little in his rush— he kicks the fabric off once its down to his calves, fighting a bit to get his other foot out of it and steadying himself with a hand on the sink counter.

He could do this one thing for you— he will do it for you. You expressed an — albeit teasing — interest in it, and he feels like he doesn't give you enough, so this is nothing compared to what you end up silently doing for him.

And, heck, he'd be lying if he wasn't even slightly curious about it; the two of you couldn't wear the ceremonial clothing until two weeks from now, and he wanted to know how the fabric interacted with his movements and his body.

It was a win-win. You get to see him in girly lingerie, and he got to be the first human in history to try out alien fabrics.

Of course, no one would know that but you and him, seen how there's no way to transfer information this far out in space away from the NASA transmitters and receivers, but still. He'd know it.

Nudging his jeans aside with his sock-clad foot, he glances back over to the widely-colored set splayed out carelessly on the counter, feeling himself get slightly flustered again.

He slows down a little, not yet pushing his briefs down in favor to just… think about it for a second longer.

You were busy in the living room fiddling with Armando's movement ranges; not at all in-the-know of what the heck he was doing in here… hopefully. He tried to be as quiet as possible, but he did knock his hip into the sharp corner of his dresser coming into the room and ended up groaning pretty loudly.

You hadn't said anything, though.

He's probably fine.

If he got too embarrassed, he could just pretend he wasn't doing anything but messing with the shower-head again (it had quite the habit of having a few straying streams that always, somehow, ended up directly in his eyes no matter where he stood).

He could shove the lingerie into a dresser drawer somewhere and hide it forever— or, heck, even pretend he lost it, if he got to that point of desperation.

There were many options.

But… He's curious, as any Alien-interested man would be.

And he's also flustered beyond belief.

Aw, heck.

Carefully, he hooks his thumb around the elastic of his briefs, shuddering slightly when the sewing seam ghosts over a sensitive spot on its descent. Once they're down, he steps out of them, using his foot to nudge them over with the rest of his clothes.

He feels bare.

Well, technically, he is— but in a vulnerable sense.

He's putting on lingerie, for the person he loves (and totally not for the fabric), and they're gonna see him in said lingerie. At least until he runs away to go hide.

Uuuugh.

Snagging the panties from the counter, he looks them over for a minute, until pushing past it and leaning down to put them on. He steps through the leg holes first, quickly tugging it up until the waistband circles around the low of his hips.

And Jesus.

It feels… strange. In a weird way— they're comfortable as all fudge, and they fit perfectly, like you said. They're also slightly warm for some reason… but now that he thinks about it, all of the Eridian fabrics he's touched hold some sort of heat on their own.

It actually feels really good.

"Um…"

He reaches up, messing with his hair awkwardly as he tries to settle into being comfortable in them beyond their natural feel. Once he adjusts a little, they feel better, but it takes a few more moments for his shoulders to sink and for him to acclimate.

They're… not that bad.

"O… Kay. This isn't that awful… I think I was being a little dramatic before."

The bra, though, is out of the question. He's got no true need for that— no breasts for it to support or cover, so he's more than happy to ignore its existence and move on to grabbing his shirt. He slips that back on, just to soothe some of the I feel very naked right now sensations and recuperate for a minute, avoiding the reflection of the mirror.

He had very different ways to go about this from here.

One: Just ignore the fact he's wearing them and behave at least somewhat normally to get used to it.

Two: Put his clothes back on and do the same as number One, but try to manage the reveal casually later on. Maybe before bed?

Three: Call you back here now, so he can step over that hurdle and deal with what comes next more smoothly, and not be flustered and nervous and half-hard thinking about it the rest of the day.

Three sounds pretty good.

Abandoning his dirty clothes to rest on the floor, he pulls the door open, getting halfway out of the bathroom before he back-tracks to turn off the light. He keeps one hand over his groin, trying to save a least a little dignity until you come in and… do whatever it is you'll do to him.

He swallows, clearing his throat as he steps over to the bedroom door, calling out into the hallway for you.

"Hey, uh, [Name]? Can you bring me my glasses? I think they're on the kitchen counter!"

He knows he has his glasses; they're in the bathroom where he accidentally forgot them.

He thinks the excuse will work fine.

"Hold on," You reply, "I'll be there in a second, baby. Gotta fix this first."

What are you working on? He wants to ask, but settles on an "Okay," instead, stepping back from the door to sit on the bed. His thighs press and rub together as he sinks into the mattress, thanks to the fact he's not wearing his briefs— he spreads his legs a little to avoid it, softly clearing his throat.

His hands worry over the lower hem of his Star-trek shirt, fiddling with the old and frayed threads slipping from their stitches as he, rather impatiently, waits for you. He both wants you to show up now and also take way more time than you need; just to give him enough time to settle.

But you don't.

This time, when you speak, you're way closer— somewhere in the hall. "Hey, uh, they're not there. Did you lose them somewhere else? Have you checked the bathroom yet?" You push the door open a second or so after, stilling in the threshold.

At your silence, he nervously glances up, his teeth sinking into the fat of his bottom lip as he runs his gaze over your face. Your eyebrows are raised, mouth slightly parted, hands falling away from the door and back to their home next to your sides.

His face flames, his body-temperature kicking up a few degrees. He doesn't move his hands away, but he can see the look on your face; you know exactly what he's wearing without needing to have him move them.

His shirt didn't cover everything, after all.

"…Surprise?" He manages, voice weak; shy. "And, um, I know where I, uh, left my glasses. Sorry. I just… needed you to come."

You lick your lips, adjusting your weight between your feet. "So you… didn't lose your glasses?"

"…No."

You exhale.

"Jesus, Ryland."

The expression on your face makes his stomach curl in on itself like a Black hole— it makes all of his nerves and everything else well worth it.

Your gaze leaves hot blooms of heat along his body everywhere you look, succeeding in doubling his flustered-ness and faint embarrassment for tricking you. Though, he can't miss the way your expression changes; The way you overcome his little ploy and realize what he was doing, how your eyebrows furrow just slightly as your gaze drifts downward to his thighs before back up to his face.

"It's, um, surprisingly comfortable, if you were wondering," He mutters, wiggling in his spot to find his comfort, and to give his body something to expel even a little bit of his nerves. "…Very soft."

"Yeah? It fits okay?" You implore, staying in the doorway— he's not sure who you're doing it more for, yourself or him. "It looks good on you."

Either way, he doesn't like it. Nerves or no nerves, he always wanted you close. It felt alike a crime to have you be out of arms reach, even when he was secure in everything else. Having you close… it felt nicer, made him relax. His brain would know that you were there, away from any further harm that could make its way to you.

He nods, gaining some lost confidence— enough to pull his hands away, instead using them to help him carefully stand up. He feels better now, less like he should runaway and hide.

You had a tendency to make that feeling disappear.

Like now.

He swallows. "Yeah— pretty much, um, perfectly, actually. You were right… per usual."

This time, it's your turn to nod. You keep your eyes up near his chest and his face — no doubt to allow him to feel less seen, even though, for you, that's all he wants — and around that area, never dipping downward for more than a second or two.

Your chest rises and falls in steady, deep breaths, but it's your hands that tattle on you. Your hands flex at your sides and mess with the loose strap of your belt; he knows what that tick means. He knows most, if not all, of your ticks and tells.

He takes a lot of pride in that.

Clearing his throat, he shifts on his feet.

"You, uh, you know you can look, right?" He asks, tilting his chin up a little— almost all of his embarrassment is gone, or close to it. The knot of warmth in his stomach, though? It never lessens, not even slightly. "I mean, um, I did put it on for you. I don't— I want you to look. It's for you."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." He echoes quietly, licking his lips.

He stands up a little straighter when you finally move to step inside, away from the door, and closer to him. Forcing his hands to let go of his shirt, he lets his arms drop to rest at his sides, watching your every move— and, again, your expression gets him. Bad.

"So…?" He pipes up, shifting on his feet. "Do you like it? You're being… too quiet. It's freaking me out."

Whilst you stay quiet for a little longer — like in the way you do when you're focused — your eyes stay locked onto what is exposed of the lingerie, not covered by the length of his shirt. He allows your silence to stick around a little longer, staring at your face, your expression.

You've got that look in your eye; the one that has his breathing picking up a notch, that has his heart-beat fall out of rhythm with his breathing.

You look like you want to tear him apart. Respectfully.

"I'll, uh, take that as a yes, then," He mutters, standing up a little straighter for you once you stop in front of him. When you finally lift your gaze and make eye-contact, electricity sparks up his spine, making goosebumps rise along his arms.

"Shit, Ryland," You breathe, breaking your silent streak— the sound of your voice has saliva pooling in his mouth, forcing him to swallow. "You look perfect."

"'Perfect,' Is a little much," He mumbles, licking his lips again. "I, uh, don't know about all of that."

He glances down to your lips once, twice, then three times, before you move to circle him to get the full picture. His head turns to follow you, but he ditches the attempt half-way— he doesn't need to see you to know where you are, or where you're looking. His body, his brain, is tuned to wherever you are, constantly searching.

"No— You look amazing— Better than that… and it isn't at all thanks to the lingerie." You pause, rounding out to stand in front of him. Your focus flits to his face, the panties, his thighs, then back up. Your voice lowers. "fuck me, shit."

His face feels like It's on fire.

"Um, thanks," He manages, his voice cracking weakly. "I, uh, I'm happy you like it."

He watches as you nod, only for his focus to drop down to your mouth, staring as you lick your lips.

He wants to kiss you— pathetically badly. His tummy is in tangles, twisting and turning, making his brain turn into a muddled, distracted mess; he wants you to kiss him, to guide him back onto the bed, to touch him 'til it hurts.

His want hurts— no, need. Want is too weak a word for this; he wants you eternally, like an old history story that continues decades beyond its time.

His eyebrows furrow as he lifts his gaze, panting shakily as he calls your name. His hands curl into fists at his sides as he inhales shakily through his mouth, desperate. "…Please."

He barely gets a gasp in before you're curling your hand around his hip— you don't even get him halfway to you before you're stepping forward to close the gap, cutting his inhale off with a kiss.

Instantly, he moans into your mouth, his arms finding solace around you— one moves to grab at your hair to keep you in place, and the other sinks around to your lower back, to keep you close. Your knee bumps into his thigh as you guide him backward, pushing him back to sit on the edge of the bed.

The proximity to his dick has him twitching, whining lowly as you break apart; the dissatisfaction is soothed when your hands roam his sides, jumping over his ticklish spots as you reach for the hem of his shirt.

"Can I—"

"Yes, yes," He interrupts, nodding quickly. The backs of your fingers brush his stomach as you grab his shirt, and he lifts his arms for you, making it easier for you to yank it upward and toss it aside somewhere he doesn't truly care about now.

"Hurry." He grumbles, grabbing the back of your neck and pulling you back down to him to reconnect in a kiss. The moment you do, he spreads his legs, giving more space for your knee; he feels pleased by how quickly you take the hint, pushing his legs a little wider to fit you before your weight sinks the bed between them.

Now shirtless and only in the panties, he leans back a little, forcing you to loom over him a bit more. His hand tangles in your hair, warmth spreading like wildfire from his tummy and upward as your breath fans across his face; And when you adjust, his already-hard dick grinds against the front of your jeans, making him jerk and twitch, moaning into you.

"Good?" You pant, one of your hands keeping you balanced, the other on his waist as you lean over him, your weight deepening into the bed as you chase another kiss.

"Yes," He repeats, nodding against you. Upon the added weight, his thighs close around your leg, the lace of the lingerie rubbing against the flushed tip of his dick— his hand tightens in your hair as he whines, his other ditching its spot to grab needily at your hip, trying to keep you from moving. "Mnn— F— fudge, just like that, please—"

When he feels you nod, his grip on your hair loosens, letting you sink down to mouth at his throat without a fight— and just like he asked, you stay right where you were, planting little popcorn kisses to the underside of his jaw, his throat, his shoulders, as his hips weakly grind against your leg.

Until he pulls your head back up by your hair, smushing your lips together as he pants harshly; his stomach caves in a twitch when your hand drifts down to hold the back of his knee, widening the space between his legs to make it more comfortable for yourself to move.

"Wanna move up the bed? I'm slipping," You question, asking in-between quick, short kisses. He can feel your breath against his face, catch the little, faint noises tacked onto the tail of each one.

He nods against your mouth, humming a broken "uh-huh," automatically.

When you break apart, he inhales roughly, trying to straighten his muddled brain out— but when you lean down, grab him by the hips, and push him further up the bed for him, every attempt is instantly destroyed; he moans lowly, propping himself up on his elbows to stare as you hurriedly pull your shirt off.

"You're so pretty," He whines, licking his kiss-bitten lips as his gaze drifts from your face, down to the scars littered along your form, to the belt and jeans keeping you from him, then back to your face.

Tossing his head back, he groans, feeling his dick throb against the lace— his heart was beating so fast he could hear it in his ears, but the raised temperature of his body doesn't swallow the ache from the loss of your touch.

His brain feels fuzzy.

When the bed dips with your weight, he picks his head back up, watching you crawl up to him until you're settled on top of him, his thighs pressing into the front of your own. He pushes himself up a little higher, catching your lips and dragging you down with him until his back is pressed against the mattress, feeling your weight settle beside his head as you hold yourself up.

Now that he's not the only one shirtless, one of his hands roam down to rest over your ribs, settling over a small burn scar there— his fingers dig in lightly, trying to pull you down to lay on top of him. When you finally relent, the clasp of your belt is cold against his cock, even through the thin fabric of the panties. His hips jerk weakly, a small groan sticking in his throat as his thighs tighten around your hips, the same going for the hand in your hair.

He always liked it when you'd lay completely on top of him; for a reason he's yet to figure out, it always felt the best, and it's not like you'd purposefully crush or hurt him. It felt better because he knew he could trust you to figure out what he needed, even if it's not what he wanted— you'd put his well-being over his pleasure, even if it'd break his high.

You'd make it better by giving him a greater one, anyway.

"Shit," You breathe, pushing yourself up a little with the help of the hand beside his head. He lets the disconnect happen, panting in bliss below you and letting you do whatever it is; his hand slips from your hair to rest on your hip again when you nudge yourself up further to kneel, and the sound of your belt buckle coming undone has his brain snapping to full attention.

"Still good?" You ask breathlessly, checking in while you undo your belt and pull the worn leather from the loops.

He nods against the pillows, breathing in through his mouth as he stares shamelessly at your crotch and your hands, his dick twitching faintly. "Mhmn."

Hooking a finger in one of your now-empty belt loops, he tugs on it lightly, reaching to undo the buttons and open the fly to your jeans. While he's busy doing that, his brain splits between the task and the feeling of your hand gently tracing down his thigh, your fingers sinking lightly into the flesh there.

Yanking the buttons open and unzipping your fly, he laughs a little as you pull back and flop down beside him on your back, but he focuses more on the lift of your hips as you shimmy out of your jeans— as soon as they're off, he sits up and moves to straddle you, muting the moan that was going to escape at the feeling of your warmth alone as his hands find station on your stomach.

"These really are nicely made," You pipe up, kicking your jeans off the bed as he settles on top of you. Your forefinger ghosts over the sensitive skin of his hip as you slip it beyond the waistband, pulling it out only to let it go and gently snap back into place around his waist.

His stomach jerks, and the breath is tugged right out of his mouth; it's broken, barely noticeable, but the way you look up and smile slightly means you heard it more than well enough. His dick strains against the lace of the panties, pre-cum slicking up some of it in small, desperate spots.

"Yeah," He agrees mindlessly, licking his lips as he nods again. He can feel your hard-on from underneath him, easier than before, thanks to the fact your jeans are off now— he sinks to sit completely, sucking in a breath as it pokes against him.

The way your eyes flutter and you inhale sharply has another little glob of pre-cum slipping from his tip, adding to the other tiny spots staining the lace pressed against his dick; he wiggles a little like he's trying to get comfortable, but all he's aiming for is a repeated reaction.

And, of course, you catch onto him quick, narrowing your eyes at him as you moan lowly— he gets no time to respond before you're sitting up, dragging him back with you when you move to lean back against the headboard; thanks to the position, the panties rut against him with every one of your movements, forcing a whine from his lips.

But he can't say he minds too much with the change when your hand settles at his hip, pulling him closer until you distract him with another round of kisses. Every time you inhale, your stomach bumps into his cock, steadily tightening the rope in his tummy.

He grabs at your shoulder, shifting until he's as close to you as can be, grinding against your stomach— the rough sensation of the lace against the dichotomy of the smoothness of your stomach has him groaning into your mouth, exhaling harshly.

Your arm is warm as you hook it to rest beneath his ass, setting him at a slight angle that has his hips stuttering and muffled, broken whines, whimpers, and huffs being yanked freely from his throat; he adjusts on his knees, tightening them desperately around your hips and swallowing the moan that slips from your mouth and into his.

"Hnng— hah, [Name]— Please—"

His hand snakes to rest behind your head, fingers twisting in your hair as his hips continue their sloppy, careless, pleasure-chasing rhythm, pushing your face more into his so you can't pull away too quickly. He feels your other hand drop from his hip to slip between his dick and your stomach, allowing him to thrust up into the palm of your hand until you pull the panties down, coiling your hand around him instead.

The pad of your thumb runs across his pre-cum slick tip, making his stomach jerk as his rhythm breaks into needy, small thrusts, chasing the skill of your hand— then he breaks your mouths apart, groaning within his throat as his fingers tighten in your hair, pulling your head back a little.

"Mmhng— I— I'm gonna cum, wait, please," He pants, his eyebrows furrowing deeply as his head drops, spine curving as he nudges his forehead into your shoulder. His other hand pulls away from your side only to curl into a tight fist, spread wide, and close again, his voice muffled as he moans open-mouthed into your neck.

All you do is briefly adjust the arm below him, panting loudly as your hand continues its path on his dick— his thighs tense and twitch, his breathing breaking weakly in between each inhale and exhale as he lets go of your hair, instead hooking his arm around the back of your neck to pull him as close as possible.

It still doesn't feel like enough.

"[Name], I—" He gasps, his voice cracking as he pushes his nose further into the crook between your neck and your shoulder, feeling the points of his teeth gently ghost over your pulse-point on accident. "P— Please, wait, I— mmng, don't— I don't want to cum too fast," He whines.

"R— Relax, Ryland," You huff, grinding your palm against his tip; your fingers bump into the sensitive spot just below there when you curl your fingers around him again, making him squeeze his eyes shut and try to ignore the taut rope of his insides. "I, ah, I want to make you cum. That— that's the whole point of this: To make you feel good. That's all I want, I don't care about anything else."

That's all I want.

It echoes in his head once, then twice, before getting overlapped and ruined by pleasure, shoved aside to try to focus on not cumming— if he came too soon and you didn't, then he'd just feel bad; you'd have to wait at least five to twelve minutes until he'd be okay with doing anything else and not cry from oversensitivity. And even though you've, quite literally, never cared about anything but getting him off, doesn't mean he thinks the same way.

He wants to make you cum.

Plain and simple.

Quickly, his hand coils around your wrist, forcing your hand to quit moving— which is a good thing, because he was way too close to cumming that If you'd kept going a second longer, he would've been canned. He straightens his spine, breathing through his mouth as his heart thuds against his ribs like it's trying to escape.

His hips continue to twitch and jerk weakly into nothing, making his expression scrunch; he'd just edged himself, forcing himself not to cum so he could make you cum first.

It was a little strange, he'd admit, but it's what he wanted.

He hangs his head, sinking his teeth into his bottom lip hard enough for it to hurt, only to distract him from the sound of your ruined panting and how warm you are. If he doesn't find something other than you to focus on, he'll one-up himself and cum without you even needing to keep touching him.

"Wha— What's the matter?" You ask, your fingers instantly releasing him; like you thought you'd done something. You pull your arm out from underneath him, too, giving him space. "Ryland?"

"Y— yes?"

"What's wrong? Did I hurt you? What'd I do?"

Now he just feels guilty.

"You didn't do anything," He mumbles, shaking his head and spreading his knees a little so they'll stop suffocating your hips. He hadn't even realized they were, just moments ago. "I, um… I wanted you to cum first?"

"What?" You breathe, confused. Your free hand presses into the bed by your thighs, still not touching him.

It kind-of aches that you're not.

He clears his throat awkwardly, and his hand — that's not around your wrist — droops from the back of your neck, sinking to rest on your bicep. His thumb takes a back-and-forth motion over the scar there, giving his hands something to do.

"I want to make you cum first," He repeats, slightly more confident this time. "You always get me off before I can do you, I— I want to make you cum. Before me."

"But you were close," You grumble, letting your head lull back against the headboard. A small smile fights its way onto his lips, and he gives into it, a small breath of a laugh following at your dissatisfaction.

"Yeah," He agrees, one of his thighs twitching absently. "I was, but I don't really care— Not that much, anyway."

His hand finally lets go of your wrist, moving to gently grasp your pre-cum slick hand instead; he doesn't lace your fingers together, but he does let the back of your palm rest in his, his fingers easily curled a little into your palm— until he adjusts, sinking back to lay on his tummy between your legs.

You catch on to what he's doing pretty quick, picking up your head and sighing lightly.

"Ryland… You don't have to do that. Seriously. It's gross."

"Making you cum isn't gross," He huffs defiantly, wiggling a little to get comfortable— he exhales shakily when his dick grinds into the bed through the lace of the panties, only to clear his throat to re-focus. "And I want to. You're not forcing me to do anything; I'm doing this of my own volition, like an adult."

"You're a germophobe, but you want to suck me off. Baby, that makes no sense."

"Yeah— germs are grody, but you aren't. Just… be quiet. Please. I want this."

He adjusts on his elbows, reaching for the waistband of your underwear— when you give him a lazy nod, he returns the gesture, pulling your underwear off once you lift your hips and allow him to. He tosses them aside carelessly, not bothered by wherever they could land on the floor before he crawls upward, laying a little on top of you so it'll be easier on him.

Wordlessly, you spread your legs to give him more room, but he catches the way your breath stutters in your chest, even just faintly, when he comes closer.

"You're sure you want to do this?" You mutter, reaching over and pushing his bangs out of his face. "There are other ways to make me cum, you know that. You don't have to do this."

"Yeah, I know," He affirms, nudging his head lightly into your hand before he takes your dick into his hand, inhaling slowly before he takes you into his mouth. Immediately, your thighs tense around his sides, and the groan that spills from your mouth has him moaning around your dick.

Admittedly, sucking you off has always been something he wanted to do, even if it seldom came up— he had an oral fixation, sue him, and he liked the weight of you in his mouth; you weren't thick (or rough) enough that'd choke or gag every time, meaning you were perfect to soothe that need.

Really, you were just perfect in general.

Pressing the tip of his tongue to the underside of your cock, he inhales roughly as he comes up, mouthing lazily at your tip— you pant above him, each breath tacked with a faint, barely-there moan, all of which have him grinding against the bed to get rid of his need for friction.

His teeth graze you accidentally as he comes up for air, and he hums an apologetic noise around you, feeling your stomach twitch when he does; in replacement of his mouth, he wraps his hand around your dick, licking his lips as he catches his breath.

"Sorry," He breathes, swallowing the spit gathering in his mouth. "That was an accident. I didn't mean to do that."

"You— You're fine, Ryland," You ease, sucking in a shaky breath as he runs his thumb along the crown of your tip. He leans back into your hand when you thread your fingers through his hair, going back to sucking you off as you scratch lightly at his head.

One of his hands come up, gripping idly at your waist as he takes you deeper into his mouth, gagging slightly before coming back up a little and licking at the underside of your tip. You moan a little louder that time, and the way your fingers pull at his hair accidentally have him groaning as he does it again, grinding against the bed to give well-needed attention to his dick; which is still wildly sensitive.

"Jesus christ," You gasp, and he glances up when he hears your head thump against the headboard— your expression is scrunched together and your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth parted as you whine and moan, your other hand a fist around the comforter.

Oh my God.

He drags his tongue over the underside of your dick as he comes back up, only to force himself back down right after— he pushes your legs open wider with his forearm when they try to jerk closed around him, making sure he has enough room to keep going without interruption.

He continues rutting into the bed as he sucks you off, choking on his own breath when he rights just the right spot— he pulls off of you just to gasp and return, his hand tightening around your hips desperately as he closes his eyes, repeating the weak grind of his hips and whining around you.

When your hand gets a little rougher in his hair and your stomach caves in a twitch, he knows you're close; your noises change, too, getting a little more raspy and broken when he pays special attention to the places he knows you're sensitive.

All he has to do is hold out until you cum— it's simple enough, but with the way each thrust of his hips into the bed and the feeling of you in his mouth feels, it's sure going to be a close one.

He adjusts in his spot, whining lowly when you pull your hand from his hair; when he glances up, he can see you bite into your forearm, your fingers curled into your fist as you pant, and your chest heaving as your thighs twitch around him.

The sight has him rutting desperately into the sheets, choking lightly around you when he hits the sweet-spot that has him closing his eyes and tightening his hold on your hip.

Your dick twitches in his mouth, and he hums a moan around you, exhaling quickly through his nose.

"S— Shit," You moan, voice broken in a way he understands almost immediately. "Ryland, I—"

This time, when he comes up, he times his rhythm with the jerking of his hips, feeling your stomach tense and thighs twitch around him when he takes you down to your base— he holds himself there as he feels you cum, finally thrusting his hips.

He cums right after you, his brain filling with cotton as bliss crashes down onto him, making a tangled string of whimpers and moans spill out around you as you cum into his mouth; its an odd, but also weirdly pleasant sensation— he made you cum just by sucking you off.

It makes a certain kind of ego and pride well up in his brain.

Coming down from his high, his finally registers that you're gently pulling him off of your dick, and he lets it happen. The moment you're out of his mouth, he swallows and gasps for air, coughing lightly and wiping his mouth.

The cum on the lingerie makes it stick wetly to him, and he winces as he sits up, laughing breathlessly.

"See?" He pants, curling his hand around your calf idly. "It's not too bad."

And it truly wasn't— for him, anyway.

"Ry— Ry, hey, c'mon. Get up for a second."

A hand touches his shoulder, making him stir lightly as he moans into his pillow, slowly prying his sleep-foggy eyes open.

The tired, slightly raspy voice talking to him was familiar— yours.

"What?" He grumbles, his nose scrunching in his feeble attempt to see you, shrouded within the dark. It's useless, but he can see a faint, shadowed, you-shaped blob.

He didn't really want to get up.

"You wanted to see the fireworks. There's a bunch going now— you can see 'em perfectly from the window." You murmur, the wooden floorboards creaking lightly under your weight as you shift on your feet.

Now that he's listening… it doesn't truly sound all to different from the aforementioned fireworks going off outside.

He groans, huffing loudly as his hand grips your forearm gently, slowly sinking down to grab your hand. "Mmmng. What time is it?"

Pressing your hand to his chest, he blinks, squinting up at your vauge form.

"One AM. You gonna get up so you can come see?"

"Yeah, yeah," He mumbles, accepting his glasses as you pull them from his table and hold them out to him with your other, free hand, as he sits up. "What're you doin' up this late? You're s'pposed to be in bed. With me, you know."

"Oh, hush." Your laugh is tired, but just as beautiful as ever. It wakes him up a little more, making him smile softly at just the sound alone, even in his groggy state. "You wanted to see 'em, no? I'm letting you… well, not sleep through them this time."

He flushes. "It was an accident."

Slipping his glasses onto his nose, he kicks off his blankets, missing the warmth immediately. You're a more-than-perfect substitute, though, so he huddles up to you once he's on his feet, interlinking your arms as he steps out of the bedroom beside you.

Truth be told, you waking up for this — for him — makes him feel fuzzy, adored. You despised getting out of bed after falling asleep (because you had trouble falling asleep to begin with), yet, tonight, you'd done so.

For him.

Out of anyone.

Eight-point-three billion people on this earth, and you chose him.

And by God do you make him feel worth it— even when he'd doubt it, even when he'd keep you up by blabbering whilst cuddling at bedtime, even when he was crud at cooking or couldn't win a game of Thumb-Wars for anything, you'd stuck with your choice.

He gasps silently at the feeling of your elbow gently pushing at his side, ripping him out of his day-dreaming and distraction.

He hadn't even noticed you'd made it to the window already.

The scene from the it is gorgeous.

Colorful fireworks light up the sky in pretty, distant hues, splaying across and warming the city's usual coldness— it makes it appear more gentle, softer, happier.

Easier to forgive the neighbors that have been playing Gosh-awful music on full blast all night three doors down, and distracting him from the similar fact of a couple… enjoying themselves… rather loudly only two down.

It's nice.

The— the fireworks, not the couple.

Jeez, focus, Ryland!

"I didn't want you to make the same accident this time," You mutter, reaching up to easily push the curtain a little more to the side, widening the view for him. "Plus, it's America's birthday. Can't miss it twice, right?"

He swallows, nodding sluggishly in a mindless form of agreement. "…Can't miss it. Right."

You could say anything right now, and he'd agree.

He glances over, licking his sleep-dry lips.

A mix of Purples, reds, and yellows paint your figure, drowning you like a beautiful silk; one that highlights your expression, drawing out the more hidden designs of you— even when you're both tired beyond measure and have to work tomorrow, you look ethereal.

As always, of course.

He needed glasses, but he wasn't completely blind.

He was more than well aware of what honor he has to be able to come home to you, to be able to call you cheesy petnames that make you wince, to be able to make you laugh and to get to call himself yours (and vice versa).

He'd be one dumb man if he wanted anything else.

"The fire-works are out there, you know. Not on my face."

"Hm?" He blurts, his eyebrows furrowing just faintly. "Oh, no, I, uh, I know. You're just…"

Pausing, his hand dips, lacing his fingers with yours as he pulls you closer and leans comfortably in your side. He fits there simply and without trouble, like he was just meant to orbit your planet.

To orbit you.

"…You look pretty."

Adjusting, he presses his cheek into your shoulder, wiggling a little to find juuust the right spot— once he hits it, he sinks into it, welcoming the warm, tiny wave of happy-shivers that follow.

"Mmmn." You hum, and he feels it in his cheek and his side as you pull your hand from his, replacing it with your other as you slip your arm over his shoulder, tucking him further into your warmth.

He brings his to curl around your middle, letting his other hand be busied by being tangled with yours. The arm of his glasses presses into his temple as he shifts his gaze, looking out of the window when a particularly loud firework goes off.

For the moment, he lets the moment linger, the pad of his thumb taking a slow, back-and-forth rhythm over your knuckles as you two stand at the window sill.

The fireworks glow brightly in the dark, clouded city sky, reflecting off of the glass of the buildings surrounding them. Some are singularly colored, some multi, with some lasting longer and some glittering off and fading the moment they burst and their life cycle ends.

If he could stare long enough, he could try to figure out what components were used in them; copper, sodium…

He exhales.

"Thank you for waking me up," He whispers, pushing his cheek a little more against you as he shifts on his feet. His other hand bunches up in your sleep shirt, twisting the fabric idly.

You whisper back, resting your head atop his own. "It's no biggie, Ry. I knew you wanted to see this."

It's better with you, He thinks, humming quietly to your answer. So much better.

A shudder drips down the notches of his spine as your hand slips under his shirt, making home of his side and soothing the fat there in a simple, up and down motion— it's something you always do in side-hugs, and it's probably one of his many favorite you-involved things in the world.

"At least we don't have to go up to the roof to see it," You add, voice still lowered. It cracks faintly around the syllables, making him smile just a little bit.

Your voice always did do that when you'd whisper— but again, his cracked awfully when he'd laugh, so he has no room to talk.

"Yeah," He agrees, continuing the slow, idle movement of his thumb. It drags across your knuckles, ghosting over the small scars littered there, left by life's grip. "I like it more from here... Less effort."

"Way less," You mumble.

"Gosh, I hate those stairs."

You snicker at him— he can feel the curve of your smile against his hairline, making him pick his head up and tilt it back a smidge to see it for himself.

Your fingers dig lightly into him, but loosen once he moves, giving him space to wiggle as needed.

The callouses collected on your palm brush his side, making him twitch as they ghost over the sensitive splotch of flesh there; where he was most ticklish.

"What?" He huffs, fighting the grin that attempts to wrestle its way onto his mouth. He wins, but barely, and only a little. "'S true. Very true."

You shake your head, smiling. "No, no, I know. I hate 'em too."

Grumbling, he drops his head to rest back on your shoulder, moving as close as he can get to you in this position. His focus is dragged back to the firework show as he settles, his shoulders dropping further.

This time, the path of your touch changes course, slithering up the way of his spine, then back down, then over his ribs. Your palm is warm, heating up where-ever you touch with the flame of familiarity.

His brain feels split between the two: the Fireworks and how pretty they are, and your touch and how wanted you make him feel.

You just… you have this way about you. Every nerdy joke he makes, every jest he fumbles— you have this thing to you that makes everything feel natural.

He doesn't ever feel strange or awkward with you. You don't ever make him feel wrong or weird; before, coming home was kind of awful. The emptiness, the quiet, how he'd always have to order something out for dinner or else he'd be stuck eating Mac 'N Cheese for the millionth time.

Now?

He can't practically come home fast enough, ever. You've somehow managed to teach him how to make a few good, healthy meals— Him! Mr. I-almost-burnt-the-apartment-down-making-french-toast!

It was a feat you deserved an award for.

Clearing his throat, he exhales, looking between you and the outside.

Was he zoned out staring at your reflection in the window?

Totally not.

He would never do that. Nope. Not at all.

You sure seem to notice his quiet, though.

"You still tired?" You muse, gently running your hand up and down over his side, purposefully avoiding his sensitive spots with each pace.

"Mhm," He hums, nodding against your shoulder. "'M glad it's a weekend... I can't wait to sleep the day off."

And to cuddle with you, his brain supplies, rather unhelpfully.

It's a nice thought, though, and it's the God-honest truth. Cuddling with you in the mornings was a true form of Elysium.

"Mmn. Wanna go back to bed?"

"Not yet," He swallows, slipping back and slowly pulling you over in front of him.

He moves to hug you properly once you're positioned right, letting your hands disconnect in favor of circling your middle with his arms and trying to get as close as he can manage.

"Wanna stand here a little more first." He mumbles.

His chest flutters as you return the affection immediately, waking the butterflies that have made permanent residence of his belly.

Your arms snake up behind him, one of your hands cradling the back of his head and tangling in his hair as your other finds its place on the low of his back, pulling him more into you.

Again, your hand slips under the hem of his shirt, breaking the fabric barrier of it in a movement to have skin-to-skin instead.

He presses his ear to your chest, listening to the steady thump of your heartbeat whilst he continues to stare out of the window.

In his apartment, it's dark and it's quiet— but outside is alive and thriving, joy and favor seeping into every living being, even for just a second.

Listening to your heartbeat was one of his many favorite things to do. In bed, cuddled on the couch, like now and in a hug… there was something to it. It was pleasant to listen to, to feel, to have the honor of being able to.

"…This is nice," He says, his lips pressing together just slightly as he adjusts his heads position, finding the right spot. "What do you think?"

"I like it, too," You agree, pressing a kiss into his hair. "The fireworks are pretty."

Humming lowly, he pulls his arms from completely around you, snaking them under your shirt before returning to their former positions. Again, his thumb draws little patterns, this time near the dip of your spine, and little stars rather than a mindlessly rhythm.

You feel so good.

"I love you," He whispers, silently wishing that somehow, and in some way, he could get closer to you.

It never felt like enough.

But, for the moment, just listening to your heart-rate tick up at his adoration will do perfectly fine.

"I love you too, Ryland."

You press another kiss into his hair, only to lean down and leave another on his forehead. He hums at the feeling, exhaling slowly.

"Okay, I think I'm ready for bed now."

"Yeah?"

Ryland's keys jingle weakly in his hand as he walks up the stairs, letting the loop of the key-ring hang limply from his index finger as he steps up to the landing, continuing on towards his apartment. Each step is careless, lacking the idle, comfortable laziness they usually hold— he feels wound tight, his insides coiled together and too hot to be pleasant.

So far, his day had been awful.

Nothing big, nothing dramatic— just… bad. He spilled his coffee this morning two sips in, he used the wrong key twice to get into the School Building, embarrassed himself in front of a parent, and missed you so much he was re-listening to the voice notes you'd sent weeks ago in the teacher lounge.

Yeah. Just bad.

Sighing lowly, he stops before his apartment door, ignoring the longing in his gut as he shoves the key in and turns. The moment the lock clicks in its release, he turns the knob and shoves it open, closing it immediately behind him before he slumps back into it and closes his eyes.

It didn't help his body was sending signals you weren't here to soothe; both frustration, and… well, a different kind of frustration. The kind that made his groin ache and his shoulder tingle with the memories of the kisses you laid there.

But you weren't here.

Nope. You were two freaking states away, fixing some stupidly-rich guys "collection car." Because, apparently, knowing models before the seventies and how they work is impossible for anyone other than you to care about.

He had a love-hate relationship with that. On one hand, it was awesome that you specialized in something that made you happy and that you were great at it. On the other, it meant that, sometimes, some drowning-in-money jerk would fly you out to Gosh-knows-wear for a week and he'd be stuck eating take-out and wishing you were here.

Now his apartment just feels empty. No you in the kitchen making dinner so he'd stop spending so much on take-out, no you looking jaw-droppingly sexy in just sleep clothes, no you for him to stick to and bury himself in your after-shower scent.

No you at all.

It feels like punishment, but he knows it's not.

He misses you anyway.

Sluggishly, he pushes himself off of the door, tossing his keys over to the table by the door and beginning to, rather roughly, pull his jacket off and set it on its hook. It falls off right after, and for a moment, all he does is stare at its limp, defiant form.

He's going to lose his mind.

But, instead of doing so, he leaves it there for another more patient day, toeing his shoes off by the door and kicking them next to where yours typically stayed. The spot was empty now.

He pulls his Teacher ID tag from its place around his throat as he steps further inside, setting it down on the island next to where the sticky note you'd left him was.

"I'm leaving now. Sorry for not waking you up— yeah, I know you'll be annoyed, but you needed the sleep. I'll text you when I land to let you know I'm safe, okay? I love you. See you next week. :)

PS: don't forget the laundry from downstairs. It's in the third dryer on the bottom row, our usual one went out of service."

He's read it about a hundred times now— before he'd leave for work, when he'd come home, and whenever he was in the kitchen. You'd talked a lot since then, of course, but he'd still read it anyway. It was a habit now.

Sighing, he steps back, moving on towards the bedroom as he undoes his belts clasp; the noise, even though it's his own, makes his brain recall every time you'd roughly undo your own in times of… certain desperation.

Stop it, brain, He grumbles internally, pushing his bedroom door open, he's not here. You need to shut up.

The room still smells faintly like you, even though it's been three days since you'd left. As he gets undressed, he mindlessly wishes your scent would stay longer— he misses being able to stick to you whilst in bed, to be able to hear your heart and smell you from the source rather than from anything lingering.

Is that a little pathetic?

Maybe.

Is he ashamed?

No, not really. You're his boyfriend. He's allowed.

He unbuttons his shirt first, shrugging it off and throwing it in the general direction of the clothes hamper before he continues with his jeans, holding a hand to the wall to keep him balanced as he gets the last pant leg off.

Letting those stay on the floor, he steps over to the bed, tossing himself down onto your side and groaning, rather loudly, into your pillow. His arms come up, circling around it and pushing it closer to his face as he shifts and inhales— the bunched-up blankets rut against a very sensitive place at the movement, and he stills like he was struck by lightning, his groan muffled from the fluff of the pillow.

It felt good, but… not as good as he's sure you could make him feel with just a single touch alone.

Nothing compares to how you do it— he can't ever mirror the way your rhythm falls, or replicate the feeling of your calloused hand around him (or holding his hand). Nothing works but you. Since you've come around, he's only been able to get himself to cum… what, twice? With a lot of time and patience.

And you double that in a single night with half the effort.

It was unfair, your absence. He's stuck here like a longing, painfully-hard house wife, while you work hard over twenty hours away. Probably sweating, and covered in various grimes and greases, and grunting whilst you fight to get a bolt off—

He flips over onto his back, yanking the pillow from his face and letting it drop to lay across his stomach. If it didn't feel disrespectful to use the same pillow you slept on most nights to jerk himself off, he'd be clambering on top of it and rutting into it like a freakin' dog, but... It does, so he won't.

Tonight, anyway. He's not sure if he'll have the same restraint another night, if he stays this worked-up and without you. He'd be one-hundred percent okay with buying you another pillow case if that ends up occurring this week.

For a second, all he does is lay there, half-panting and staring listlessly up at the blank ceiling— he wants you, so bad it hurts. Everywhere. His shoulder where you'd kiss (and sometimes bite, when you'd cum), his hips where you'd keep him steady, his hands where you'd tangle your fingers together (and where he'd bury his hands in your hair and pull, just to hear the broken groan that'd spill from your lips like honey).

He needs you. Like, now.

Shoving your pillow off of him, he kneels over to the side of the bed, hanging off the edge as he grabs his jeans and digs around in his pocket for his phone. The moment he has it, he's pushing backward to lay down, scooting back to rest half propped up against the headboard.

He's panting as he fumbles to unlock his phone, mis-inputting your birthday once, then twice, finally steadying his hands enough to get it right on the third time. His teeth sink into the fat of his bottom lip as he reaches over, his glasses slipping down his nose as he presses your pillow against his chest.

He wants to call you, to see your face, to hear your voice talking to him, to have your attention.

It's not rude to interrupt if I say it's an emergency, he thinks, staring down at your contact photo, is it?

Calling someone just to jerk off is weird.

No, it's not… when you're dating, anyway, right? This is totally normal. People do this all the time.

Nevermind, yes, it is.

He's unsure— so, to distract himself, he scrolls upward a little and re-reads the last messages you'd sent.

"Yeah, it's not going too bad. You'd like it here. Very cute geese. One of them squints like you do when your glasses are off. Anyway, I miss you. I'll call when I'm done and we can talk tonight, is that alright?"

That one was around lunch, but you'd sent one more before saying bye— just asking about work, if he'd eaten, that stuff. Caring stuff.

Stuff he would've enjoyed hearing you say in person.

His chest aches.

Dipping his head down a little, his glasses shift as he squishes his nose into your pillow and inhales the left-over scent of your soap. He does it again, and again, before locking one of his arms around it and bringing his legs up— it's not warm like you are, and it doesn't have the body he likes to mindlessly trace with his fingertip late at night, or the heartbeat he falls asleep fastest when listening to.

But it smells like you, and, for the moment, it'll work.

After a minute, he pulls back, his tongue poking at the side of cheek as his thumb slips down the screen of his phone. He exits the Messages app, instead going to his gallery; the photos there are random. Some science memes, random pictures of the pond with all the geese he likes to feed, more pictures that'd either you'd sent of yourself or he'd taken of you.

After scrolling back a few weeks, he stops, clicking on the video there before adjusting his grip on his phone to have it laying sideways. He presses his face into your pillow again, feeling his groin throb when the edge of the pillow shifts with his movement and grinds against his dick.

The video starts with darkness and some noises of shifting, before you finally pick the camera up and steady it.

"Okay, uh… I think I've figured it out." Video-yous nose scrunches, the sharp points of your teeth just slightly visible behind your lips. His attention latches onto it immediately, before shifting to pay some focus to your face.

Video-you is filthy, slick with sweat in a way he can recall a few moments about during a separate time. Your breathing is heavy, too, no doubt from just crawling out from under the car you'd told him about then. It was, apparently, a difficult one.

Not that he cares. He'd thank that friggin' car any day now for this video of you alone.

"Um… Yeah, okay. Anyway," The cameras point of view shifts as Video-you moves, and his heart-rate ticks up a little— he's watched this video of you showing him around your shop way too many times. He knows what's coming.

"Let me take you somewhere I can talk first without getting droned out from all the noise, yeah?"

He huffs lowly as he shifts, moving forward to lay back completely as the video continues. He brings the pillow with him, circling his arms around it and making it more comfortable for it to hold his phone.

"This is the 'Main room.' Just put quotes around that— meaning, it's the only room with AC that everyone crowds like bees. 'M a little surprised it's empty now; my day is finally getting lucky, hah."

Finally, the camera view picks up again as Video-you shows him the room in an idle, lazy movement. He knows the room by heart— a small table in the corner with four chairs around it, two of them broken, the only window filled with an AC unit, a few lines of counters with a few cabinets above them, a fridge tucked next to the end of it.

"Moving on," Video-you announces, moving over to the little thing of shelves out of camera view, "Gonna prop you up here for a sec, Ry. My hands are grimy 'n my phone keeps slipping." Your voice is slightly muffled when your hand covers the mic, but his stomach heats up at the nickname, however covered.

Ry. No one else calls him that; only you.

As the camera view changes again, the sharp points of his teeth dig into the side of his cheek, his breathing picking up a little as your expression shifts to focused again. This point of view is lower, giving full view of grease-covered you from your thighs and upward, and a full shot of your stomach when you grab the hem of your shirt and bring it up to wipe the sweat off your face.

God, you were hot.

Enough so for that one shot to be why he watches this video again, and again— your voice, too. It always got a little more raspy when you were tired, a little more ragged. Closer to what you'd sound like when you'd cum; enough so to get him heavily distracted, anyway.

This was a piece of an immortal heaven. As long as his phone was charged, he'd be able to watch this, and get to see you all worn out and dirty and gorgeous.

His tongue runs over his bitten lips, a shaky exhale following right after as he pauses the video and sets his phone aside. As much as he loved this video of you (he's watched it three times yesterday), he hadn't ever… well, jerked off to it. He'd thought about it — way too many times, actually — but never had really done it, since you were always there to climb all over.

You're his boyfriend, so it's not like it's too creepy, right? It's not even weird. Couples record "Home Videos," (cough) and do all sorts of things with those, so, morally, he could jerk off to this and be okay.

He wished he didn't have to. He wanted— needed, you here, all over him and fucking him until his brain turned to mush. Just you here in general would be nice. You didn't have to be on top of him, or behind him, or in him…

He shifts, grumbling lowly at himself.

He can remember last Friday like it was yesterday.

How your lips felt against his, how you groaned into his mouth every time he'd pull at your hair, how your fingers would curl inside of him and make his vision go white… He pulls the pillow from his chest, breathing through is mouth as his hand wanders down, taking the teasing path yours would always take.

His stomach twitches beneath his own touch, sensitive to the trail from his hip to his dick.

How your hand felt when your fingers would dig into his thighs to keep his legs open, the feeling of his side pressing into the edge of your knee when the bed would dip from your weight as you'd loom over him, peppering soothing, warm kisses from his jaw to his collarbone.

His imagination is so vivid he can almost feel you here— your breath against his neck, the callouses of your palm against him, the heat from your hand around the back of his thigh.

He swallows, sucking in an unsteady breath; he gasps as he palms himself through his boxers, his head tipping back against his pillows. Aimlessly, he tries to replicate your touch. How you'd press the heel of your palm into him and run your thumb over his tip through the fabric, how you'd say something silly just to get him to relax some more and get comfortable.

That latter part is something he can't get right.

What would you say this time, if you saw him? Would you gently tease him, say something softly like Just can't wait for me, huh? Or would you say nothing and just let him try to, hopelessly, get himself off?

It's alright, Ry, He settles on, imagining your voice in his head as his hand presses down a little firmer, I get it. Put on a show for me, yeah? I wanna watch.

His heart-beat stutters as he groans, his eyebrows drawing together when he shifts, pulling your pillow close again just to inhale needily.

Well? Your voice continues, Don't be shy, Ryland. We can stop whenever you want.

He drags the heel of his palm over his tip, his jaw settling at the pleasure of the fabric grinding against the sensitive, positively-flushed place— and, rather quickly, he lifts his hips up just to snag the hem of his underwear and yank them down, kicking them off to lay uselessly somewhere on the floor.

For that, you'd probably soothe him; make sure he was alright, that he wasn't too antsy to the point of being overwhelmed. He'd say something like, No, just in a hurry, or something silly and bratty like, What, I can't want my boyfriend?

But you aren't here, and he's pinned fantasizing desperately. It's better than nothing— imagining you rather than lamenting your absence is more pleasurable.

The tip of his tongue pokes his top lip as he lifts his head up, watching his own hand as it carefully wraps around himself; he sucks in a breath, his groan grumbled and muffled within his throat. His doesn't look the same around him as yours does— not stained enough, lacking the little scars littered across the flesh there.

His eyes slip shut as his thumb teases the crown of his dick, this time without fabric in the way. He can picture how you'd look; legs crossed, leaned back on your palms as you'd watch him work himself up, eyes half-lidded and shadowed as you'd stare at his hand.

So, this is how you do it, huh? You'd implore, voice strained by arousal, head tilting. Maybe you should let me watch you more.

"I— I wish you were here," He gasps, talking to no-one but himself and his imagination of you. "I hate this… I want you."

His fingers curl around himself, tightening just slightly as he huffs, shifting in his place on your side of the bed. He draws your pillow closer again, breathing in a short, quick, unsteady rhythm of your scent— desperately, he reaches up with his free hand, his other stilling idly as he yanks his glasses off and tosses them over to the bed-side table.

As soon as they're off, he buries his face in your pillow, panting into it as his hand starts up again, trying to find the rhythm you'd always use.

Unsurprisingly, he can't. Every attempt is just a weak, pathetic mimicry. He just couldn't get it right— every spot you'd hit almost seamlessly every time to make him see stars, he seemed to miss with skill.

It's frustrating.

Still can't get yourself off? You'd tease, but, he could imagine you wouldn't let him give up yet; no matter how obvious he could picture your want would be then. Want me to help you?

"Please…" He whines, his hand curling into a fist around your pillow, voice muffled by the very thing he's clinging desperately to; it's lost some of your scent due to the fact he's been cuddling it to sleep every night, but some is still there, buried beneath his own.

His jaw sets as his hand shifts in rhythm yet again, his hips jerking instinctively when the edge of his thumb bumps into the sensitive spot below his tip— he whines loudly, his inhale shaky and broken as he tries it again.

There you go, You'd ease, voice softening, that's it, Ry.

"I miss you," He moans, running his hand up, down, then up again, the side of his index finger bumping into the sensitive spot almost every go. "I— I don't want to do this myself, I want—- hmmg, I want you."

He breathes through his mouth, letting his head tip back into his own pillow so he can get more air. His pace slows just slightly to give his forearm a break, the pad of his thumb nudging against the underside of his tip, just to tease himself like you would.

You're doing so good, Your voice rings out in his head, guiding his hand. So, so good.

His teeth dig into his bottom lip so hard it stings, and when he runs his tongue over the ache, he tastes metallic. He adjusts again, wiggling in his place and letting his legs stretch out, only to spread to give himself some more room.

Starting up again, he tucks your pillow into his side, his fingers curled into a fist around the shirt covering it— he may or may not have stolen a shirt or two from the dirty clothes hamper to put on it that still thickly held your scent.

His hand isn't as calloused, or as worn as yours, but if he tries hard enough, he can picture you behind him, keeping his back pressed against your front as you guide his hand. Your thighs would flank his hips, one of your arms circled around his chest to keep him in place, your hard-on pressed against his spine with your warmth and your scent swallowing him whole.

He spreads his legs a little wider, moaning open-mouthedly— he'd squirm just to hear your groan and your shaky breathing when the friction would press against your dick, then proceed to act like he wasn't doing anything on purpose.

You'd laugh and pretend to believe him, only to litter punishing kisses and little bites around his shoulder and tell him, We've only just started, Ry. You can't come just yet, yeah?

"Mnngh—" He swallows, feeling that coil start to heat up in his lower tummy, pulling taut.

You're so lucky you're not here, he thinks, tightening the grip of his hand when he gets closer to his tip, Or I'd be jumping your darn bones right about now.

Whining, his head pushes back into his pillow, bearing his neck; if you were here, you'd take the invitation and mouth at his neck, graze the points of your teeth over his jugular in a way that has his thighs shaking now.

His stomach tenses as the string of his insides pull taut, not yet snapping— he drags the heel of his palm over his tip as he drags the pillow up and over his face, forcing it downward and inhaling.

He cums.

He keeps up pace, slowing as his hips fuck up into his hand, easing himself down; he can feel his cum landing on his stomach, pooling in his bellybutton. The pad of his thumb runs over the underside of his dick as he welcomes the after-shocks, panting desperately into your pillow before reluctantly pulling it away from his face.

After a few moments, he pulls his orgasm-slick hand away from himself, dropping it lazily to rest on his stomach until he works up the energy to care about the fact he's covered in his own cum and the remnants of agonizing need.

His dick still throbs in a heart-beat adjacent rhythm, timing loosely with his ragged panting and the twitching of his stomach.

He jerks at the sound of his phone ringing— his head lifting up immediately to look for it, only to spot it with your name and contact photo splayed across the cracked screen.

He reaches for it with his filthy hand, only to decide better half-way and switch, snagging it shakily off the bed and swiping to answer. He stares idly at his hand, making a slight face at the cum covering it.

"H—Hello?" He croaks, still recovering from his orgasm.

"Hey, Ry. Finished up over here for tonight. Your day get any better?" You question, your voice slightly worn, yet still soft, gentle.

The same voice he was imagining talking him through his own masturbation.

His stomach warms up, then his face.

Yeah.

"Okay!" He claps his hands together, humming lowly as he glances over the gaggle of tiny Eridians grouped together before him, each in their own little spheres. "I think we're all here— now, who wants to go learn about water?"

A chorus of tunes emit from the group, and he can't help the smile that pulls onto the edges of his lips; Sue him, he missed this. The teaching, kids, being able to be a stepping stone in a younger ones life, to help them learn about their world. It was awesome.

Erid was awesome.

Clearing his throat, he steps over a little Eridian as he makes his way away from the house, over to the water— the kids sing happy tunes as they follow him, the sounds of their spheres digging into the gravel a welcome company in lack of your own.

You weren't dead or anything. Gosh, no. You were just inside, and, well, he favored being a little dramatic.

Only a little.

He takes another step, and at the feeling of something brushing his ankle, he pauses; on instinct, he glances southward to make sure he wasn't going to step on anyone (and to make sure they weren't getting too close whilst he was walking)— they'd nearly tripped him twice before, so he'd tailed a class with how it was dangerous for both them and him if they ended up doing so and getting hurt.

Of course, they listened, but some had a hard time.

Ronald — a tiny, adorable pink Eridian — pushes his xenonite sphere against him again, jumping in his bubble in a way he knows that alerts he'd missed something. Ryland shifts on his feet, pushing his glasses back up from where they'd slid down his nose from his heads angle.

He frowns. "What's up, buddy?"

"Where Grace friend, question?" Ronald pushes himself into his sphere, making a faint clinking sound as he does so to make sure Grace understood he was curious (and slightly miffed at your absence).

"They're inside getting changed— they'll be here soon, I promise. They won't go back on their word."

A cacophony of angry, annoyed tunes ring out from the bunch at what he's said, successfully muting the noise of more of them bumping themselves into their spheres unhappily. He winces, his mouth parting slightly before he steels his expression, clearing his throat again.

…Okay, then.

"Alright, um— how about we wait for them instead? How's that?"

The tunes that come out are happier this time.

"Why friend take so long, question?" Tola muses, pushing herself out of the gaggle to run over the top of his shoe, only to slip down between his feet. She stays there. "Take too long, statement."

He flits his gaze downward, watching Tola shift around in her ball— the rest are doing similar movements; some swaying, some bumping their xenonite into anothers (just to hear the noise of contact, he's found), some just sitting or rolling around atop of the gravel.

"Oh, well… They wanted to eat before they came out, so they wouldn't be peckish at you guys. It won't take much longer, I'm sure."

"Peckish, question?" Barrole asks.

"Hangry, correction." Carl answers.

They're not wrong, he thinks, tilting his head idly and looking back over to the door of the house. They do end up hangry. Your face would scrunch and your eyes would narrow every time something didn't go your way when you were hungry— your voice would get strained, too, but you'd always try your best to not get too snappy at him.

That was always nice.

You were nice.

At a nudge to his ankle, he's pulled from his distraction.

"Hm?"

"Grace friend slow, Grace go check. Fast." Ronald pushes his sphere into his leg this time, slightly harder than before.

"Um…" Ryland clicks his tongue against his teeth, huffing slowly at the ache in his back as he lowers himself to sit down, being careful to check to make sure no-one's behind him first. "No, it'll be fine. It's rude to interrupt someone while they're changing— disrespectful, really."

"Rude why, question? Hurry along not rude, statement."

"Because—"

He's cut off mid-way as a bunch of pebbles perk up, making happy noises. About a hundred Grace friend here!'s are said, so he understands the reason quite quickly— their affections for you were, truthfully, very cute. They loved you as much as they loved him.

It was great; what only makes it cuter is the fact you were nervous that they wouldn't like you the first time you'd met all of them. He had to push you to come along to one of his classes, even just to get you acclimated first.

He still remembers the flush to your cheeks — and your breathless, relieved laugh — when they'd made it known they adored you.

As a handful rush over to you and bump into you for attention and to talk, Ronald pushes against his shoe again. "Grace heart-rate get faster while watching Friend, statement."

Laughing awkwardly, he swallows, looking away from where he'd zoned out watching you to tune in more to Ronald. "Oh— uh, it's nothing to worry about, buddy. It's very normal. Nothing worrying."

"Grace voice unsure, statement. Unsure unsure unsure."

"It's nothing to worry about," He echoes, shyly running his hand through his hair to fix it… even though he's done nothing to ruin it. He does it anyway, even if it's an obvious self-soothing tick. "And I'm very sure about that part."

"Grace lie, statement. Ronald know, statement."

He huffs, slightly offended, slightly flustered— it's a horrible concoction, making a low heat of embarrassment warm the tips of his ears and the fat of his cheeks.

"I'm not lying," Ryland grumbles, pushing his glasses back up as you settle the group of excitable pebbles and finally start coming over. Attempting to calm himself down some, he exhales slowly, his tongue poking out to wet his bottom lip.

He'd rather you not see the flush to his face he's sure is still clinging like a bad cold.

"Friend get new shirt, question?" Tola asks, the gravel beneath her ball shifting with the quick movements she's taking to keep up right beside you; his gaze jumps up naturally at the question, his eyebrows raising faintly at the sight of you wearing a shirt he'd "made," you.

Really, all he'd done was take the older, more worn clothes aboard the Mary, and patch-work them into stuff the two of you could wear again. The one you were wearing now was a mis-match of a few things.

You look great in it.

Gosh, he wonders, inhaling slowly, how do you make everything look so good?

"No," You respond, and he watches as you carefully avoid bumping into Tola, then his attention flits back up to your face to watch your expression. You look focused. "Your Teacher Grace made it awhile ago… I just never come out in it. I mostly use it for sleeping. It's cool, though, right?"

"Very cool," Pablo muses, fumbling to keep pace with you, "Awesome. Feel nice, question?"

"Yeah, very nice. Thanks for asking."

"Yes, yes, yes. Pablo happy at Friend thanks."

Your laugh sounds nice, but your voice, softened by amusement, sounds worlds better.

"No problem, Pablo."

Ryland shakes his head to pull himself from the distraction you are (It's entirely his fault, not yours, but he'll blame you anyway) as his fingers dig into the gravel as he pushes himself to stand up, and he gasps at the feeling of your hand curling around his bicep to help him up— the touch startles him, and you notice it, too, because you pull your hand away almost immediately as he straightens out.

"Sorry," He mumbles, his nose scrunching in both embarrassment and guilt; he can see regret staining your expression. It only makes it worse. "I, uh, don't know why that startled me, that's all me. Sorry."

"Grace heart beat faster!" Carl announces proudly (and rather unhelpfully), jumping up in his ball a second after.

His face flames.

Your mouth opens like you're going to say something, but Tola pipes up first, circling your feet excitedly— he looks from her to Ronald as he runs over his shoe, to you, back to Tola, then to the others. They're sticking together, pulled into a tight bunch and saying stuff in a frequency he can't hear. He knows they're talking, because they keep giggling and swaying.

"Grace friend's fast too," Tola chimes, pushing her sphere into your ankle as she sings. "Grace friend star-tled too, question?"

"Yeah," You finally mutter, staring down at her. It feels like it's on purpose. "It's okay."

Clearing his throat loudly, he exhales, fiddling with the sleeve of his shirt; it's a little too tight around his biceps, and it's slightly annoying when he's so hyper-aware of everything about himself… Like he is at the moment, face flushed and body hot.

"Okay! Changing topics now, who wants to go swim?"

They're all paying attention now.

"Well— actually," He continues, turning on his heel to walk and talk, "Swim is a rather broad term for this, as you all won't be able to actually go under-water. Since Ammonia gas is significantly less dense than air or water, it'll give your spheres a strong buoyancy. Like a balloon!"

"Do they even know what a balloon is?" You question, trailing a little behind him.

"Yes," He affirms, looking back to make sure they're all keeping up— at the sight of them doing just that, he re-focuses on where he's walking so he doesn't trip. "I made myself a similar-enough prototype, and I showed them that during class yesterday. Cool, right?"

"So that was your reason for wanting to finish the tequila the other night? Jeez, and here I was, thinkin' you just wanted to drink with me. I'm hurt."

Your tone is teasing, almost soft.

Heat crawls up the back of his neck as he abruptly stops, stilling just before the water-line. The noise of the waves against the shore and the pebbles stopping beside him keep it from true silence, and he's heavily grateful for it.

"I needed the bag," He defends weakly, scratching at the back of his neck as he turns to face you. "And I wanted to drink with you— it was a win-win!"

You snicker. "I was kidding, Ryland. Relax. I had fun; I don't care what your reasoning was."

I had fun. He's not sure what about that makes his brain halt in it's tracks. It feels good to hear.

"Well… I would hope so," He grumbles, "And I am relaxed. Completely. 100 percent… not tense at all. Like a cat."

"…Right."

He huffs, swallowing. The warmth in his face is still terribly there, and his arm buzzes with the remnants of your earlier touch.

"Can we get in the water yet Teacher Grace, question?"

Looking away from you, he runs his gaze over the excited cluster, searching to see who'd asked the question. As soon as he does, his tongue clicks against the backs of his teeth. "In just a second, Mallory. Let one of us get in first so we can help you all in after."

A choir of questions follow his response, but he can't hear almost any of them.

"Pebbles— we've talked about this. One at a time, please, or else I won't be able to hear all of you."

"Will it be difficult, question?"

"Swimming? Not at all."

In the corner of his eye, he catches you getting out of your shoes— then anything else you don't want getting wet. He follows, continuing to answer questions as he toes his shoes off.

"It will be fun, question?"

"Once you get the hang of it, yes. I'll make sure of it."

"Why Grace behave odd around Grace Friend, question?"

"Okay, uh, pass. Next question?"

"Grace Friend and Teacher Grace mated, question?"

"Wha—! No! That's not even related to the lesson— pebbles, please, for the love of science, stay on-topic. We can ask personal questions later."

"Why not, question?"

You're awfully silent. You're doing it on purpose, too, because you've got no problems answering their questions on other days. You're ditching him on this one, and it's a blatant choice.

Of course you leave me to answer the awkward stuff.

"On topic, Carl. The topic. Let's not forget it! How water reacts to different things is amazing stuff!" He reminds, pulling his socks off and shoving them to rest inside of his shoe, so he doesn't lose them… again. The rocks hurt the bottoms of his feet, but he carries onward anyway.

"Anyone else have anything to say that's related to the topic?"

"What 'topic' mean, question?" Barrole asks, rolling up to the edge of the water.

"Oh, it's just the main point of conversation. For example," He steps into the water, continuing, "science is often the main topic of our classes. Yesterday's topic was radiation poisoning."

"Barrole understand. Thank, Teacher Grace."

"You're welcome, Barrole."

The water is room-temperature— Rocky had made sure it wasn't too hot or too cold multiple times, and he was thankful for it. He was always very susceptible to even the slightest changes in temperature; when his ex-girlfriend was still living with him on earth, they had multiple arguments over her making it too hot or too cold.

"Tola want up, Statement. Up up up."

"Give me a second," You mutter, and he glances over his shoulder to get a split-second of view of you taking off your watch, before he stumbles and has to re-focus. "I'll pick you up in a minute. Think you can wait that long?"

"No, statement."

"That was a rhetorical question, Tola."

He grins. It was always amusing to listen — or watch — to you talk with the little pebbles; some of them could be a very needy (or very curious) bunch, and he wouldn't say it, but it was funny to have you fumbling to answer or pay attention to them all.

You always did well, though.

You'd make a great parent.

…What?

What the heck do you have him thinking?

"Can we get in, question?"

Now that yanks him back to attention.

"Hm—? Oh, yes. Just… do it slowly, okay? It'll be hard to keep balance at first, but you'll get it."

He stops once he's in about the mid-thigh length, nudging his glasses back up the slope of his nose as he watches the pebbles all rush into the water; they do so as expected, so he's prepared enough. His gaze flits over all of the ones floating atop the surface, making sure none of them are getting too stressed or are slipping too much.

The sound of Tola singing happily is louder than the rest of them— and, of course, when he looks over to see what she's doing, she's completely slumped against the side of her sphere that's pressed to your chest as you wade into the water.

Cute.

"How's everyone doing?" He implores, reaching out to steady Mallory when she slips.

The answers he receives are all happy, mellifluous tones.

"Buoyancy so fun!" Carl chirps, his ball bumping into Ryland's hip as he jumps upward in it. "Fun fun fun!"

"Okay, okay," He laughs, gently pushing him backward so he doesn't float off too deep, "Be careful, Carl."

"Water shaky," Barrole announces, "Difficult to stand on, statement."

"That's because you're not standing, you're floating. Buoyancy, remember? Ammonia is less dense than water, so you float on its surface. Very cool stuff!"

Slowly, he steps backwards, going in a little deeper whilst keeping an eye on everyone. They're all doing great— Carl is still bouncing, Mallory is getting the hang of it, Barrole is sticking close but getting it too, and Tola is… still singing happily against your chest.

"Other things are buoyant, question?" Mallory asks, her sphere rolling slightly as she steadies herself.

"Yes," He affirms, feeling his stomach twitch as the warm water envelopes his lower tummy. "Quite a few things are."

The artificial sun is warm on the back of his neck, and, faintly, he wonders about sunscreen. He burns easily— but he doubts there's enough artificial UV Rays to give either one of you sun poisoning, so he worries less about it.

He bumps into you when he takes one too many steps backward, and warmth blooms from the contact almost instantaneously. You don't care, because all you do is steady him and offer a lazy, careless grunt of acknowledgement… apparently too busy with Tola.

"Examples, question?" Carl pipes up, his ball clinking into Barrole's as he stops.

"Uh, Oxygen and water is one," Ryland offers, trying to recall others. "And Helium and oxygen. There's a lot."

"Grace breathe oxygen. Grace buoyant in water, question?"

"I am, yes."

"Example, example, example!"

"Example?" He gasps, dramatizing the question, just for fun. "I'll see what I can do about that. I'll need a willing, human puppet—" He glances over to you, a grin pulling onto his mouth as he watches you process what he's implying. "For this example. Anyone willing?"

Once your eyes meet, your eye-contact says a lot you don't. A silent conversation ensues.

Really? You raise a brow, head tilting.

Come on, it's for the kids!

Right… not for your enjoyment at all, got it.

Only a little, I'll confess. Come on!

You groan.

"Okay; willing puppet secured, let's do this."

Slowly, you pull Tola from your chest— she sings unhappily, saying something in a frequency neither of you can hear. It must be bad, too, because the other pebbles laugh.

"I'll pick you back up in a minute," You huff, gently settling her in the water next to the other awaiting, mostly-still kids. "I promise."

He snickers. "Willing Puppet, I want you to submerge yourself under-water for a second. Understood?"

"You can quit with the name-calling any day now, Grace." You grumble, inhaling slowly as you sink downward, then go under, blowing air out of your nose.

"That's no fun— anyway, do you guys see this? They don't have a lot of Oxygen in their lungs, so they're not as buoyant. They're still buoyant, just not as much as they would be, were there more Oxygen in them."

"Grace say Grace float, statement. Grace friend no float, statement." Carl says.

He looks back to you as you come up, only to glance back over to the pebbles. "We're not done yet, Carl. I'll show you the rest in a second. Patience!"

He looks back over to you, watching you surface and push your hair out of your face, then wipe the water out of your eyes— your shirt clings obscenely to you, but he tries not to focus on that.

"Grace heart beat faster again, statement."

Nevermind.

"Okay, Ronald, you don't need to point it out every time— pay attention to the lesson!"

"I think I got water in my nose," You announce, pointedly ignoring what Ronald said as you run your hand down your face, "I haven't done that in a long time."

"Rusty?" He muses, exhaling slowly. Your arms look awfully good; you in general look way too good. It could be a crime. "Me too."

[Name], sentenced to life without parole for being Too Hot, statement!

…He's going off topic.

"Ready?" He implores, idly steadying Tola and Barrole when they bump into him to get closer.

You nod.

This time, when you go under, you keep the air in your chest— and, of course, you end up floating at the surface, slightly dipping every time you exhale.

"See?" He points out, stepping a little closer to you. Gesturing to your chest, he glances between you and the pebbles, "Since their lungs are full of air, they're more buoyant; example complete. Oxygen is more buoyant than water."

He lazily pokes you in your side to alert you that your Willing Puppet℠ days are now over, but instead of you seamlessly coming up, your hand curls around his wrist— he yelps as you drag him under-water, instinctively reaching for you as he comes up gasping and soaking wet.

"What the heck?!" He breathes, pushing his hair off of his forehead, then pulling his glasses from his face.

"I'm ticklish," You laugh, wiping the water from your face. It's an awful excuse.

But the sound is pleasant; both gentle and slightly raspy at the same time, making an unwilling fondness bubbles in his chest at it. And… Well, he ends up laughing too before he can stop himself.

The pebbles are giggling too, soft, higher-pitched sounds as they wiggle in their spheres to come over to the two of you.

He smiles, squinting lightly now that his glasses are too wet to see through.