fool's luck. [rylan villanueva] (Patreon)

synopsis: Rylan thinks about how lucky they are.

note: rated M for uh, reasons.

Rylan Villanueva is quite aware of their luck. Perhaps this is what the universe has been saving up to—every misfortune they've endured and stumbled upon in their youth has led up to this: a peaceful life with you at their side, with smile lines deepening and eyes continuously wrinkling at the corners.

You've had your ups and downs. You've had your fights, your petty arguments about washing dishes at the moment or washing them in the morning. You've done the silent treatment, made up countless times and apologized countless more.

There's nothing that could tear the two of you apart.

K commented on it once, when Rylan was moping about how they forgot to tell you they were coming back late. You welcomed them back with silence, proceeding not to talk to them until the morning and only because you needed to get past them.

("[They]'ll come around," K said.

Rylan sunk deeper into the couch. "That's not the problem. It's just a text. Why didn't I just send a text?"

"You forgot."

"That's a terrible excuse."

"It's not an excuse if that's what happened." K shifted in their seat, turning their full attention on Rylan. "You could've done much worse. [They're] only not talking to you because [they were] worried. As long as you apologize and promise not to do it again, you'll solve it easily."

Rylan merely groaned. "I'm so shitty."

"You made a mistake. If your relationship was any weaker, you wouldn't be in a fight about this." K placed a hand on the armrest of Rylan's chair, startling them enough that they straightened slightly, glancing up. "Trust me, the two of you are inseparable.")

Those were the words Rylan thought about when you forgave them later that night, and they were words that would come to them time and time again. Sometimes it was more metaphorical, other times more literal.

It was no secret that Rylan was a clingy lover. They held themself back the first couple of months, worried their constant need for touch would scare you away.

("Is that really the only reason you've been acting strange?" you asked, laughter coming out in wheezes. "Oh my god, you had me thinking it was something bad."

"Don't mock me!"

"I'm not mocking you. Come here."

Rylan pouted but crawled closer, laughing happily when you swept them into your arms and squeezed them close. It remains one of their favourite memories of you two, though admittedly, they have a lot. Nearly all of them make this list.)

Now, they express their love for you freely. Their head will come and rest on you when you're washing dishes, hands wrapped around your waist. They'll tug you closer at the dinner table, insisting your chairs aren't close enough. They'll tackle you onto the bed and press kisses to every inch of exposed skin—and sometimes beyond.

Rylan adores the way they can swallow your gasps. All it takes for them to elicit a shiver is a trail of their fingers along the inner flesh of your thigh. They enjoy the way your hands grip their body when they're swiping their tongue inside your mouth, their hands braced above you and your pants only urging them on.

They're not sure if they enjoy it more when it's the other way around. When it's you dragging them into the living room to dance to music. When it's you pressing kisses to their face upon waking up, pulling their body closer blaming the morning chill.

Rylan gasps nearly as much as you. You know all the ways they like to be taken apart and put back together. You're aware of their sensitive spots, the way they enjoy feeling your hot breath fan over the curve of their ear. You take advantage of how kisses shut them up immediately, how they keen under praise and almost beg for more.

It's embarrassing, thinking about it afterwards but you always reassure them that there's nothing to be shy of.

("You're so pretty," you whispered.

Rylan's eyes were dilated. "Says you, you're—"

Your mouth latched onto theirs again, cutting them off effectively and causing them to suck in a sharp breath. They squirmed underneath you, unsure if they wanted more contact or less. Their chest felt like it was going to explode. They were bursting with love.

"I'm what, my love?" you asked, lips barely an inch above theirs. Rylan heard themself whine as they chased your lips, only to be disappointed by you pulling away. "You're doing so well. You're so good to me, Rylan. You have no idea how much you mean to me.")

It's luck, really, that Rylan is here. As someone who doesn't believe in fate, they think about it often. How you and [A] were assigned their case—and then again when they crossed territories back into New York City. How you, however reluctantly, accepted their deal that they were sure you wouldn't. How the two of you got together despite months of dancing around each other's feelings.

But what's not luck is the work that came afterwards.

The way Rylan had to fight the urge not to run every time you told them how much you liked them. The way two of you had to fight off comments about the nature of your relationship. The way you only had four other people in your corner and how it felt like the rest of the world wanted to see you fail.

It's luck how you met, but it's not luck that the two of you are as strong as you are. That Rylan is an affectionate person is no secret—that they love you is even less. Somewhere along the way, they realized that as long as they have you, nothing else matters.

It remains true to this day.