Summary: After months of on board tension in the Hail Mary, you finally manage to corner your nervous crewmate and get him to admit he's been craving human touch.
Tags: SMUT (MDNI 18+), sub!top!Grace, confident!reader, rough handling of Grace kinda?, it's ok he likes it, dacryphilia, edging, praise kink, hair pulling, penetration, riding, fingering (reader receiving), handjobs, oral (char receiving), dry humping, pre-Rocky timeline, no use of Y/N
The Hail Mary hums in the mechanical silence, engines whirring and gears turning with soft clicks. You loom in front of a whiteboard, an equation overlapping several layers of smudged marker.
To your right is your crewmate, Grace. He stands behind you, and when you cross out yet another unsuccessful attempt at a solution, he sighs.
"Jeez," he rubs at his nose bridge with a hand, then pulls off his glasses and looks down to clean them with the hem of his shirt. "We've been at it for a while, right?"
You don't reply. Your lips are pressed tight together, frowning in frustrated focus, and Grace watches as you lean in and try to find a mistake at a closer distance, as if that would help you. His eyes shift to you, and they stay there for a while.
While you struggle, his mind zones out from physics to the past.
You've been here for a while. Shorter than him, but enough for him to get used to.
He remembers first noticing the pod with a pumping heartbeat monitor, a few days after he first awoke. He latched onto it like it was oxygen.
It bled into his lonely routine—check your vitals, rest against your shell while he's talking to himself, adjusting every system in the spaceship for when he gets to introduce it to you. Days turned to weeks, weeks turned to months. Hope wavered, but the thought of a human next to him kept his brain working. With time, you became less of a promise and more of a daydream. A delusion that he kept himself pristine for, refused to fall apart in the isolated lifestyle he'd adopted.
But Grace figured he must've been a lucky man, because he has you here. In front of him, growing more agitated by the minute and beginning to mumble something unpleasant to yourself.
You woke up, disheveled and understandably stupefied, and he guided you through your shock despite his own shaking hands. Grace tried his best to be a graceful host: he'd showed you around, helped you get on your feet and flail around in zero-G, supervised you while you cleaned yourself up with showers and haircuts, and kept you at a reasonable distance physically (the one thing he prided himself on most). It was also the most difficult obligation to upkeep. He had to restrain himself from reaching out most times, from abandoning his bed and curling up next to you at night, from brushing his nose against the back of your neck while you worked.
On Earth, Grace was certain he wasn't a touchy man. He mostly avoided contact to avoid the awkwardness that came with it, but months without a single remotely humanoid being in sight must've shifted his priorities.
He stares at you, expression carefully neutral, and puts his glasses back on.
His gaze bores into the back of your head, then slides down to your nape, then lower to the planes of your back.
It flickers up to your hair, then abruptly down to the curve of your hips. Then Grace catches himself and looks away. You're turned away from him, calculating and cursing when you're wrong yet again, and he theoretically could look at you for as long as he wants.
But he shies away from the mere thought of it. Of doing anything behind your back. He opts to busy himself with a task instead, and he moves toward you, coming to rest his arms against the table, to your side.
"You need help?" he offers, voice low.
You glance at him briefly before looking back at the board. "You haven't figured it out either."
Grace grins. "Oh, yes. True."
He mulls over his next words, tonguing the inside of his cheek. He observes you. The arch of your nose, the arc of your neck, your squared shoulders. He takes in the view of your face, tight with exhaustion and bubbling irritation. The way you visibly tense when yet another number just doesn't add up. His face softens.
"Do you wanna take a break, maybe?"
"A break from what?" You grit stubbornly.
"We have to finish this. It's urgent."
You shoot him a stare, and he quirks his lips up in an apologizing smile. "Yes, it is."
"I think your brain would work better if you're rested."
"Hm." There seems to be very little fight left in you, because apparently rocket science is stronger than you in your mental war zone. You let out all the air you've been holding in. "Fine."
"We've got time," he reassures you with a sympathetic furrow of his brows. "We'll get to it tomorrow."
You agree silently, placing the marker next to the board. He watches you, eyes fixed on the way you move, a steady, attentive look as you lean away from your shared workstation and run a hand through your hair. He follows when you turn to your sleeping quarters, still focused on your frame.
"I hate numbers," you say.
Grace slides the door open for you. "Right. Too many of them. I can't count them all."
You smile at that, letting out an amused snort. He smiles wider in response, leaning down to make his way into the room.
It's minimalist—nothing drastically more than the engineers back home intended. Plain white walls. Plain white floors. Three beds. Although since you joined him, the room gained more color. A pair of photos pinned up in front yours and Grace's beds, ones you found in each other's belongings that helped you remember who you were. A bunch of makeshift decorations. A rolling whiteboard separating your neighboring beds, little reminders written on each side for you and Grace. It was a far cry from a home, but it was close. As close as you could get.
"You know," you start, sitting down on the lower bed, "it's nice to have you around."
Grace pauses, closing the hatch behind him, and turns around to face you with a smile that stutters slightly at the verges.
You lay down and tilt your head back. Your eyes fall shut, and you continue absently: "We're, like, eleven light years from Earth." You tilt your head to look at him. "I'm not sure if I would've survived alone. Or with someone really annoying."
"Wow," Grace laughs quietly. "I'm glad to know I'm not annoying."
"Far from that," you reply and close your eyes again.
He hesitates once more, lingering at the door, and takes a tentative step forward. "Yeah." A beat. "Yeah."
He hesitates again when he's near you, but ultimately perches next to where you're splayed out. He props a hand on the mattress, turning his head to look at you.
"You're not annoying either," he says. "Really… Really far from that, too."
You lift one eyelid. "Mm?"
Grace falters imperceptibly. He nods, eyes locked onto yours. "Yeah. I mean, I was alone at first, so… I'm super lucky."
"You didn't take that long." He shrugs. "It's okay, really. I mean, I had my time to figure out things myself, and set things up for when you'd wake."
Grace's voice falls for a moment, then he looks away. "Oh, yeah. Nothing much, though. And having that… That hope that I wouldn't be alone one day. It helped, too."
"I can only imagine how isolating that must be," you murmur, wincing as a pang of pity pricks at you. "God."
"It, yeah, it kind of was. But you're here now. You make it better. A lot better. Ten times better. Infinite times better, actually. I'm downplaying you."
"No need to thank me. It's—it's all you." He rubs the back of his neck.
A silence hangs low. You hum, stretching out in the bed. Your shirt rides up, baring a sliver of your waist. He stops, then turns his head away, analyzing the pattern on the black metal of the bed's rails.
It's straight, and it's made of metal. Fascinating. He pays a lot of attention to it.
"Mmmyeah," you let out a lazy noise, limbs clicking into place. "You're not alone anymore."
"Is something wrong with the bed?"
"Oh, no. No, there isn't."
You pause. "Why are you looking at it?"
"Right." Grace looks back at you. He tries to be friendly-cheery, but the way he blinks and his gaze races over you haphazardly is a telltale sign. "Right, why am I looking at it?"
"You should look at me when we're talking."
A faint breath. "Yeah. You're right."
"You look at me often," you continue, tone shifting a little. "Even when we're not talking."
Grace's eyes widen a fraction, and his eyebrows shoot up instinctively before he brings them down an instant after. "Do I?"
"More than you realize. I've noticed."
"Well," he laughs, but cuts himself off when met with your flat expression. The air thickens—or so it seems to him—and he has to smile nervously to balance the intensity. "Well, you know. There's not a lot of other things to look at. I mean, we're the only humans in space, and you're probably the only human I'll see in a long time, so I guess my eyes just naturally drift to you? I think it's a subconscious thing more than it is conscious, you know, just like animals tend to…"
"Not a lot of other things to look at?" You sit up, leaning your back against the wall with your arms crossed. "I think there's plenty."
"No, you know what I mean," he glances away for a moment, then his gaze flicks back to you. "There's, yeah, there's like, science stuff to look at. Like, equations, or parts of the ship, or—"
"—Y-yeah," he breaks off into a rough half-whisper, but finds his voice again. "Or the bed frame, I guess, really, but you know. You've been here for, um, maybe like, half a year, so we've got really close and I just naturally think that, you know. You know, I can look at you and you're, like, a safe environment, a comfortable—um, something I'm used to."
You don't answer for a while. A tiny twitch makes his hands jerk, a neurological response he can't suppress and instead hides. He fists the sheets under him subtly. Dips his chin down and to the side. His mouth twitches.
"I was just asking," you finally grace him with a response, and you see him tense a little when you open your mouth. "It's fine. Don't get so worked up over it."
"I'm not worked up, it's fine."
"It's okay to stare sometimes," you continue, and he flinches. "You said it yourself. We're the only humans in space anyway."
His jaw tightens. He nods, the movement strained. You watch his throat work, Adam's apple bobbing stiffly. He rolls a wrinkle of the fabric beneath him between his fingers. Still not looking at you. You notice the tips of his ears heat up to a weak rose color.
Mercifully, you decide to stop beating around the bush. "Why do you stare at me like that, Grace?"
He opens his mouth. Closes it. His tongue peeks out momentarily, and he swipes a wet trail over dry lips.
"You're this embarrassed just because you stare at me?"
"It's not only that, okay?" He hisses out and ducks his head. Before he hides away, you catch a deepening flush blossom across his cheeks. "I'm not… That's not the reason—"
"Then what is the reason?"
"I—um," he brings a hand and buries his face in it, elbow against his knee.
You blink. "What the hell have you done? Is it that bad?"
"No," he protests, muffled against his palm. "No, it's not… Well, not—I guess it—it depends."
A heartbeat passes. Grace's heart thumps in his ears, and you just keep staring at him, keep making it worse. His insides coil tight with tension. Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you. Observant, your expectant gaze drills into the side of his face, and he bites the inside of his cheek.
He lurches off of the bed.
Within two seconds, he's already at the handle of the door, mumbling some lame excuse about having to check on the engines (he is not an engineer) or steer them away from a meteorite (there is no meteorites, the ship is on autopilot, and he is not a pilot).
But your command makes him freeze in place.
"Where do you think you're going?"
He swallows dryly. The heat in his abdomen flares up hotter. "'msorry—"
"I asked you a question, Grace."
"It's just… Okay. Yes, of course, sorry."
"I want you to look at me." You stand up.
He hears the footsteps approaching him, and his shoulders slump, as if he's accepted defeat.
"Yes." He turns, slow, and you can get a good spectacle of his face.
It's flaming red. He lowers his chin, eyes looking up at you above where his glasses slip down his nose bridge.
You appreciate his expression for a while, then soothe him with a lighthearted smirk. His back meets the door with a soft thump as he surrenders himself willingly, lips parting to take a shaky breath.
"I…" he begins, his tone croaky, "It's… I've been alone for a while… I mean, no, it definitely doesn't excuse my behavior, but—it sort of… Explains it, I guess? No, that sounds weird."
He winces and shuts his eyes. A wave of humiliation washes over him, but before he can drown in it, you set a finger on his chest. He sputters and continues, eyelids fluttering open.
"Oh," he gasps when you lean in closer to him, your bodies almost flush. "Oh, you—yeah, you make it really… A big challenge to think when you do this, I just… Oh, jeez. Um… I'm not sure if you—if you know what you're doing, but…"
Your finger traces an idle line from Grace's sternum down to his abdomen. You feel his breathing stutter under your touch. His fists ball up at his sides.
"You—I just… I've been really lonely," he tries again, voice shaking. "So when you… When you came along, I kind of… I hoped you'd touch me. Someday. Not the same day, obviously, that'd be insane and I wouldn't want to make your first day like that, you needed time to adapt—"
You smile at him and trail your finger up to his Adam's apple, watching and feeling him swallow dryly.
"So, you know, later, I just kind of started getting those thoughts… I, I never acted out on them, obviously," he wobbles, tripping but catching himself before you try to help him up.
"But I… You know, I just… I kind of… Thought about it—about you, I mean. About us… Touching. Not, not like that…" He pauses when the tip of your index finger presses down just a bit on his throat, and he gives in immediately. "Sometimes like that, okay, yeah, I'm sorry. I don't want to lie to you."
And then your fingers begin to wander. From the underside of his jaw, down to his chest, then stopping just shy of the waistband of his sweatpants and crawling back up.
"I just…" He squeezes his eyes shut when you tease just down his stomach, and opens them once you go back up. "Sorry, I know, it's weird, but I've just been so lonely and I really want someone to touch me right now—and you're the only one and I—I don't think I'd want anyone—even if I had options—you've been so good to me…"
You place two fingers and imitate walking back up. Grace trembles under you.
"See, this is… I don't know." He flattens his sweaty palms against the door behind him. His gaze follows the path you mark with your fingers, teasing the fabric of his shirt. "I don't know if you're just being friendly or if I'm—misreading the signs—"
Grace watches you with a wide-eyed, terrified stare, as you try your best to keep your outburst to a giggle and not start chortling in his face. Your hands fall, and you hang onto his shoulders as you bury your face into his chest.
You keep laughing for a while. By the time you finally quiet down and shake silently against him, Grace is smiling, still sheepish but relieved that you calmed the interrogation and the raging storm of fear inside him.
"Je-Jesus," you manage, leaning over him. "Do you—oh my god. You are so—"
He is hesitant, but his hands come up to wrap around your wrists. You feel the strain behind them, pulled taut like a bowstring.
"Grace," you try again, and your voice is so much softer, so much more tender that he feels another massive ball of anxiety in his stomach deflate.
"Grace, please… Do you really think… That this…" Your hands come down from his shoulders to each side of his neck, and he tenses up again. "Is supposed to be friendly? That you're misreading the signs?"
He shrugs, bewildered. "I… I don't know? Maybe. I didn't want to assume."
You cup the sides of his jaw, and he stops breathing. His mouth hangs slightly open, shallow breaths falling past trembling lips as he tightens his grip on your wrists.
"Okay," you huff. "Let's just… Be clear with me for a moment here. You want this, yes?"
"Want what?" he asks. "What are you going to do with me?"
And that whisper. That shy, broken question that comes more like a prayer from a man that looks so disheveled before you've even started undoing him? It sets it in stone for you.
"What do you want me to do to you?" you mutter. Your mouth rests against his collarbone.
You pull back when you feel him rut into you.
It's a jolt so sudden it surprises you as much as it does him—he pulls back, letting out a quiet pant and staring at you with a flicker of shame.
"Oh—ffu—sorry," he rambles, the embarrassment mirroring on his face as his cheeks redden more. "I'm… Yeah, sorry, I'm just…"
"Haven't been touched in a while," you finish for him, already back to your spot and pressing a featherlight kiss against his neck. "I get it. You must be needy."
Grace tilts his head, baring it further for you. "Not needy," he objects, although it comes out as a hushed moan.
You grin into his skin, beginning to pepper it with wet kisses. "Definitely needy."
"Okay," he replies obediently and shivers when you suck on his jugular, where his pulse races under your mouth.
His hands wrap around your waist, and you keep your arms on his neck. He moves himself closer to you, and his nose grazes against yours in a silent plea. You let him with a quiet noise of approval.
Grace's lips shake against yours at first. He melts against you the moment you meet him in a kiss. He snakes his hands around you tighter, fiercer, fingers joining at your lower back as he nuzzles into you closer, closer, closer. As close as he can possibly get.
When you pull away, he chases after you with a disappointed whine. You kiss him again, hard, push your tongue in his mouth, and he laps at it with stellar enthusiasm. He's satisfied until the next time you let him go, and he keeps kissing you until both of you are gasping for air and licking swollen lips.
He grits his teeth to prevent a moan when your hand finds itself palming him through his worn sweatpants. It's stretched thin by time, and now it's coming in handy by allowing you to outline his erection near-accurately.
He jerks into your touch, then stills his hips like it burnt him, lolling his head back with a groan. You latch onto his throat the moment he exposes it and a complaint dies half-baked on his tongue, trailing off into a whimper.
He continues to rut into your palm while you suck a bruise into his skin. He tries to squirm around to get better access, to get you to touch him properly. Both his hands sheathe your wrist as you twist it between his legs, and he thaws against the wall completely, almost sliding down the wall before you grab his jaw.
He stills, and looks at you with a slow, wanton blink. "Yes, please."
Both of you haul each other to the lone bed at the other side of the room, and Grace lets out a gasp once you straddle him and pin his legs between yours. He leans back against the unused cotton pillows and looks up at you, glasses askew on his nose.
"This okay?" You shift your hips against his.
His hands fly up to grasp at your waist before loosening their force. "Yes. It's perfect. You're perfect. You're perfect, I swear."
You scoot back, bumping against the ridge in his pants and seating yourself on his thighs. Grace succumbs to you readily, going limp on the bed and kneading at the curve of your torso, big hands shivering.
You wrap a hand around the shape of his cock, feel it throb and twitch. He twitches too, and his arms flex with restraint. Your eyes glaze over his biceps tensing, sinewy and strong but his grip so soft. He stares at your face, panting, and bites down on his lower lip hard. His own expression is flushed, burning with embarrassment and unbridled arousal. The blush runs down to his neck and dives under the neckline of his shirt.
A belated idea comes to you, and you lift the hem of it a little. "Take this off?"
Grace nods, tugging it over his head. You watch him as tosses the crumpled tee aside. It topples over the bed, a bit farther than he initially planned, so he turns his head and reaches out to pull it up. You stop him with a drag of his wrist, setting his hand back on your waist.
"Right, yes," he whispers, gaze shifting back onto you. "Sorry, sorry."
You don't respond. Your heart skips a beat, and the sight under you has you anchoring your hands onto his body instinctively.
He's muscular. That much you've known ever since you first met him. Could notice the muscle in his arms rippling whenever he flipped a heavy switch or tugged at something in the control panel or redressed with you in the same room, at the rare occasions it happened. But now, it feels different. Charged. Having all of him bare for you.
You give his clothed dick a faint stroke. He thrusts up, then again when you stroke him again, and both of you fall into a natural pace of him humping your hand. You let him.
And you watch as he ruts into you, his neck curving, head rolling back before throwing it up again to look at you, as if he's not sure where to put himself. His hands curl at your hips, slipping lower, holding on as you hold out your hand to let him fuck himself on it.
A smile grows on your face. Grace is so desperate, falling apart on nothing but a little friction through clothes, and you pull yourself away before he can get used to the pressure.
"Please," he whimpers, chasing after your easing touch, hips flying up before you force him down.
You rest your fingers around the drawstring of his sweats, winding one on your thumb. "Let me feel you."
You nudge his inner thigh, and he lifts himself obediently, staring down at you with a blissed-out expression. You bring his pants down low, letting them pool at his ankles, and take a moment to appreciate what's put in front of you.
A trail of light hair travels down from his navel and hides under the fabric. His boxer briefs stretch around his cock, and it twitches when you don't tear your gaze away. Grace lets out an embarrassed noise and turns his head to the side. His hands fall from your sides and down to squeeze the bedsheets.
When you press down on him, traveling up to the top of his boxers, aiming to take them off, he grinds into you again.
"Jesus, Grace." You sound mildly impressed.
You pause. Then you give him a minute to thrust into your palm, watching him melt at the contact.
His face shifts. Contorts into shy pleasure and flushes a deeper, humiliated red. He lets out a louder moan, then it grows into choked-off whines.
You can sense his rhythm begin to stutter. "Hey. Hey, slow down," you warn him.
Grace shakes his head fervently. "No, please, please…"
"Grace." You hover, threatening to take your hand away.
A long, drawled-out whine tears out of his throat and past gritted teeth. He stops abruptly. A tremor rocks his body. But he stays still.
"That's right," you coo, pulling his boxers down. "You're so good."
The praise flees you on reflex, but Grace reacts strongly to it. He flinches, and moans, and looks up at you with a certain glint in his eye that you can't quite decipher. His cock springs out, and a gasp falls past his lips when he's met with the cold air.
You run a finger along the underside of it, flicking at the frenulum. He whimpers. You caress the head. He quakes and throbs under your touch. When you wrap your hand around his length and give him a fulfilling stroke, he mouths a greedy oh. You smear the flustering amount of pre leaking from his teary slit down to his base, and he responds in a low moan and slumps against the bed.
You pump your hand slow. He arches under you, eyes still locked on your smug expression, lips shaking, parted wide and slurring the rare words that he tries to form between groans.
He scrunches his nose up after a minute at best. His breathing goes erratic. The muscle in his thighs winds tight, and lets out a choked whimper to attract your attention.
"Close," he whispers, "I'm close, so close…"
You draw your hand back, plunging him from the edge back to neglect. "Already?"
Grace lets out a noise that almost makes you regret leaving him. He writhes, and then attempts to get your hands on him by pulling your hand with his.
"No, Grace," you murmur, just grinning wider, and force him off with a small slap to his wrist.
He lets go obediently. His hands curl around himself instead. He fucks his fist once, twice. Then you recollect your bearings and scowl at the audacity.
"I told you no," you grumble, a streak of authority to your voice. "Don't you want to be good for me?"
A beat passes. He looks up at you through sweat-slicked hair, eyes wide and pleading. You don't let up, looking at him with a scolding, disapproved glare and tilting your head as if you were berating a messy puppy.
"Please," he whines, frowning, but his arm relaxes slightly. "Didn't you—I—I thought you were gonna…"
"I will," you promise him and gently take his hand away. His eyes glue to the movement, watch you deny him, but he doesn't protest. Just groans. "I want to make it last. Make you feel it."
He sighs. His cock throbs an angry red, and his hands shake violently as he sets them back on your hips. "Okay."
"That's right. That's my good boy."
Grace shivers at that. He keeps trembling like a leaf when you lean down and brush your lips against the tip of his cock. He jerks up automatically. He slips a smear of wetness to your upper lip, his length thrusting against your closed mouth and up to your nose.
He stills himself with a terrified gasp. "Sorry, sorry. I'm sorry."
Your stomach somersaults at the broken want in his tone. Your tongue peeks out to swipe the stripe of pre and taste it on your mouth. "It's fine. You just need this so bad, don't you?"
He nods and nods again, throat working. "Yes. Yes, please. Please…"
You back away so you lay on his legs, back arched into the air. He jolts the moment your tongue drags across his cock. His hand finds purchase on your scalp—not pulling, but anchoring himself.
"You don't," he starts, breathy, "you don't have to do that, you—you know. I'll… It's fine, we don't need to—"
You take the tip in your mouth. Grace breaks into a series of gasps.
"Yeah." The nose pads of his fallen glasses pinch his nostrils. His voice comes out nasal.
"Then that's settled, no?"
You push yourself up by the elbows. He swallows when you come closer, letting go of you. You pull his glasses down, and he blinks at you once his vision shifts to something blurrier.
Grace sits up and hunches over you, burying his face in the crook of your neck, and you feel a pair of wet lips kiss you up and down. He grazes his mouth against the fabric of your top. You realize you're still fully clothed in front of him, naked and compliant under you, not even complaining about the unfair difference.
You card a hand through his hair. "Help me get this off."
He obeys in an instant, hands fumbling with your shirt and pulling it over your head. He pauses, and you hear his breath stutter and catch. His eyes rake over your body. He runs his hands across your torso reverently, looking up at you as he rests his face on your chest.
"You're beautiful," he gasps, mapping out the flushed skin, the muscle, the spots where sweat bundles up in little drops. "You're so beautiful. You're breathtaking. Amazing."
A coy smile graces your face, and you run your fingers through the blond locks. "Right."
"Fascinating," he continues, and his chin drops to kiss on your chest. He continues up to your neck, then down to your stomach, then your arms. Everywhere he can reach. "A miracle. A miracle sent to me."
"Get the rest off me," you mutter, breathless. "Need you."
"You do?" he mirrors your tone and tugs your pants down.
Grace hooks your underwear with it and sinks it to your calves. His gaze glues to you instantly. You sit up on your knees between his legs, then shimmy out of the clothes hanging at your ankles. His thighs close in against you, urging you.
"I do," you reply, and lean down.
Once you're on him again, he tilts his head to the side and moans into the pillow. His hand digs into your hair again, and the other comes up to hide his face. You take him in deeper, brace your hands on his thighs.
His noises are quick to grow into fast, shameless whimpers. You feel the way he tries hard not to overwhelm you, not to shove himself into the welcoming warmth of your mouth.
His legs shake when you swirl your tongue against his head. You bob your head up and down, going slow, lapping at him lazily so he doesn't spill without a warning. And he seems to teeter the edge already, panting into the bend of his arm, shifting and squirming and letting out mewls he'd feel embarrassed about if he wasn't turned on beyond consciousness.
You speed up to a finishing pace, throat working around him. He groans. "I'm—I'm gonna come…"
Then you withdraw, wiping the bridge of spit connecting you and his cock with a fist. He thrusts up again, then collapses in defeat.
"Please," his voice is quiet, exhausted. "Please, please…"
You wrap a hand around the base of his dick, fingertips brushing against the halo of hair hugging his balls. "Not yet."
"Please," Grace tries again. "I've been so good."
"Maybe," you humor him, running your fingers up teasingly. He twitches in your grasp, eyes fluttering shut with a gasp. "But I think you could be better."
"Better," he echoes brokenly.
"Better," you assure, then press your mouth against his weeping dick. The touch is featherlight, because you're not sure if he'll listen to you yet. "I'll touch you more. Touch you longer. Isn't that what you wanted?"
His lips tremble. He sounds embarrassed. "I wanna come."
His voice sounds wet. You glance up at him, but he's insistent on hiding his face in the inside of his elbow. You crawl over him and attempt to take his arm away, but the resistance you're met with takes you by surprise. He balls his fists up and stays in place, rippling strength beneath muscle showing, and he refuses to move.
"Grace?" you furrow your eyebrows, touching his wrist.
There's a momentary silence. In it, you catch the soft sniffle from under his arm. He shifts, the sheets whispering, and attempts to lean away from you.
You place two hands on his shoulders, bringing him back. "Are you sure?"
He pauses again. Then, with a loud sob: "Fuck, I'm sorry. I'm so—I'm so sorry, sorry…"
You startle. "What? Why are you sorry? Hey." You pull at his wrists again, stronger this time, and he relents. "Hey, look at me."
He does. The sight makes your stomach shrivel up and fill with glee at the same time.
Tears streak down his cheeks, cooling the heat in his face. He stares at you with weary eyes, and when you part your lips in surprise, he sniffles again. More tears fall. He rolls his head back and wipes them with a frustrated fist.
"I'm sorry," he repeats, lower. "Gosh, I messed up so bad—why am I—"
You keep staring at him in disbelief, still captivated by the sight, and he continues to ramble:
"I just—I didn't mean to," he wobbles his hand around in a vague motion, "do this… Cry… It just… It happens, you know, I'm so… Need to come so bad… And when you do this, it's so… It makes me so… It's so intense, but in a good way. And I just—I don't know what came over me, I'm…"
"Grace," you whisper, still wide-eyed.
"I know, I know, I'm sorry. I know this is super humiliating, we can just stop, it's fine—"
"Grace," you breathe out, and he stops.
The tone of your voice stuns him. It's not disgust, nor is it fear or some other emotion that crying during sex usually evokes. But then again, you're not the usual. That, he has realized very early on.
Grace doesn't dare to look at you. You grab his lower jaw, pressing at the juncture of his chin and his neck, and he gasps. You pull his head down, and he doesn't resist at all, letting you meet his teary gaze.
You stare at him for a long moment. His eyelashes, stuck together and glazed with tears. The way his lips part to breathe in, red and swollen, and the way new droplets run down to where older ones dry. He's still crying, still sputtering, but the unwavering attention quiets him a little.
"You want to keep going?" You ask him in that same strange voice.
"Do you want me to stop?"
Then you push him back into the pillows.
He flails in shock when you drag him by the neck, but he obliges. Your hand squeezes his cock, and he lets out a loud breath as you stroke him faster, messier.
"Oh," he sobs when you plunge downward and suck.
You look up at him, hollowing your cheeks. He ducks his head to hide the wetness continuing to well in his eyes. You smack his thigh slightly. He flinches and looks back at you, eyes watering.
"Fine, fine," he pouts, sucking in another loud breath.
When Grace tenses up, you let go completely. He's not surprised at this point, but the denial still stings.
He tears up more at the pleasure fleeing from him again. You grin wider the more he cries, and reluctantly, he begins to think that maybe he's far from being the pervert in this situation.
You guide him to sit up. Grace heaves up with the little strength he has. You've visibly sapped tons from him.
His back meets the bed frame—still black, still metal—with a thud. Small whines and involuntary twitches rip from him with every feathery touch you give him.
"I thought I was the weirdo for wanting this," he smiles weakly through his tears. "But I think you might be worse."
You straddle his lap. Your hands rub at your sex, nose brushing against Grace's as you mouth at the tears staining his cheeks.
"Why?" you murmur. "You're a pretty crier."
He swallows at that, looking down at where you stroke yourself. "R-really?"
"Yeah. And you cry a lot."
You speed up. Your brows knit together in focus, face still smushed against Grace's. You feel yourself throb right above Grace's weeping cock, and you tease him by grinding your hips down just a little. He gasps.
"I don't want you to cry," you meet his mouth in a kiss.
He pants against you once you pull back. "Doesn't seem like it to me."
"Don't want you to cry because you're sad," you correct yourself with a smirk, picking up pace. "Only want you to cry because of me."
You part your lips, suck at your cheeks, and dribble spit on your hand. Grace wraps his arms around your waist, watching you slip a tentative finger inside.
He's right next to you, right below you, right in front of you—everywhere, and you can't help but burrow your face in his chest as you stretch yourself open.
"That's unsafe," he speaks up after a moment.
You grumble. "Then get me lube."
Grace purses his lips together, and you see a hint of embarrassment flood his face. "I… Eh."
"What? You don't wanna call for him?"
"Fine," he relents and raises his voice. "Armando?"
A robotic arm descends from above. It whirs in its roof-mounted lines and swings down with an uncapped tube in its claw.
You peek over your shoulder, then turn your head fully to extract it from its hand and push it back. It obeys, swirling back into the ceiling.
He takes the lube from your hand, eyes locked on you. His movements are timid when he squirts a spurt into his hand. You smile at him, your fingers coming to spread it over his.
Grace gulps again. His hand moves, nervously grazing your heat, and he feels how wet you are. He gasps, then teases at your hole with a shy fingertip.
"Relax," you say, your hand finding itself wound in his hair again.
He tries to. He works his hand in you, slow. Keeps his gaze on you. You stare back at him, eyebrows knitted together. You let him hear the moans he draws from you, leaning in close so your breaths mingle together.
His touch stutters once you tighten your grip on his hair a little. "That feels nice."
"Does it?" You pull experimentally.
He shivers, freezing for a moment. "Y-yeah. Do it… Do it again, please."
You yank it harder, and he curls into your chest. The tension in his shoulders abates. He slides another finger in and thrusts in and out of you, losing rhythm.
You tug at it again. And again. You force his head back. He gasps at that—loud, unashamed—and you bite at his throat, showering him with fresh marks over the bright red column of his neck.
He weeps at the press of teeth on a recent bruise. He thrusts into you automatically, and you gasp a little against his neck when his fingers drag against your walls.
"Want to feel you inside," you whisper to him, and he's quick to withdraw his hand.
He grasps at your hips, throwing his head up and looking at you. He's still crying, wet trails running down his chin. He's sweating profusely, face heated and twisted in a mix of arousal and frustration.
He tilts his head up to kiss your jaw, hands running up to your chest. "Yes. Please."
You tighten your fingers on the blond locks. He shivers, then smiles, eyes falling shut.
"Look at you." You can't help but grin, too, as you relocate to hover just above his ignored cock. "So good for me."
You lower yourself, slowly, and feel him knead your waist with force. His muscle ripples under skin, fists balling up so tight they might as well snap. You watch him hold back, watch him be still for you, and you tease just a little before slipping the tip in.
"So good for me," you repeat, rising back up, still getting used to the size. "So patient. My good boy."
Grace whimpers when you speak, hips chasing after you when you pull away. You tug at his scalp, and he stills with a choked moan.
You sink back down, taking more of him, and he grits his teeth together. He peels his eyes open, lashes still glued into little clumps from tears, and looks at you with a half-lidded stare. His hands rub at your sides. He bites his lip when you run your hand through his hair and push back some of the hair that has fallen into his face, and he leans in closer to you.
When you finally bottom out and take him fully, he brushes his lips against yours in a desperate attempt at a kiss. It's sloppy, but you don't deny him.
You stay still, saddled in his lap. He's still leaning on the bed frame, slumped against your face. He's shivering. You haven't moved yet, but he's shivering already.
His biceps strain, massive arms holding onto you, and you feel the gorgeous arch of his nose graze your neck as he sucks at your skin weakly, tiredly.
"You wanna come?" you ask, tilting your head back.
Grace pauses, then looks up at you, face resting in the crook of your neck. "Is this a trick question?"
You laugh, stroking his hair. "No."
"Oh." He closes his eyes. "Yes. Please."
You give him one little tug as encouragement. He responds immediately, every touch eliciting a quiet whimper.
And then you thrust up. You grind on him, up and down. His dick twitches in you, and he gasps when you pick up speed.
Tiny curses and pleas grow into noisy drawls, and he starts meeting your hips halfway, rutting into you desperately. You've never heard him curse so much before—he cuts every fuck and shit off into a moan, as if he's embarrassed to let his tongue go that badly.
You ride him, a hand braced on his shoulder, the other on the sheets next to his leg. He looks at you with a lovestruck gloss to his teary gaze. One of his hands slither down to stroke your heat. He feels warmth coil up in his stomach.
His cock grazes a spot that makes you arch into his hand, chin ducking to stare at where your bodies join. Your hand yanks at his hair, tugging his head back, and he lets out a pathetic whimper before nuzzling back into your touch.
"So mean," he stammers. "So mean to me."
"You love it," you breathe, grinding down with more force.
He lets out a long, drawled-out moan, but he doesn't disagree. He just thrusts up into you, and you jerk at the jolt of pleasure that rips through you. Both of you go faster, losing your tempo.
He groans, loud, and trails off into a whine when you press down deep into your heat. "C—fuck—can I come?"
You smile through the haze you're in, driving in quicker, messier. "Learned your—haa—lesson, I see."
"Please," he mewls, scowling.
Grace hides his face in your chest and lets out a noise you can only describe as the nastiest sound you've heard from him, ever. His hands claw at your waist, mouth finding your collarbone and biting at it to muffle the cries coming from him.
He spills in you, filling your warmth, feeling your walls around him. You stutter on his cock, then bottom out fully and go still.
You feel him go limp under you, and you flinch when white-hot pleasure shreds your composure. You grip his hair tighter as you ride yourself through it. He moans and trembles, still buried in your neck.
"Please," he whimpers, tears welling up at the corners of his eyes. "You're so—you're so—"
You finally let up, breathing heavily in sync with Grace's pants as you stop moving. You feel him drip inside you, and when you lift up slightly, the base of his cock colors a leaky white, running down from your thighs to his balls.
Both of you stay silent for a moment, heaving through the aftermath. The smell of sex lingers in the air—you glance at Grace, assessing his state.
He looks thoroughly used. His face is heated, sweaty, eyes watery and old tears leaving translucent, pearly trails at his cheeks. His lips are swollen and bitten red, a drop of spit bubbling at the corner. He's quick to wipe it away with his tongue.
His hair is disheveled, sticking out in all directions under your hand. Slowly, you let go of it, and he closes his eyes with a whine.
"Wow…" he sighs, almost dreamily.
You chuckle at him. "Right?"
"Wow," he says, again, and lolls his head back against the bed frame. "You are… Something."
"Let's get you cleaned up."
"Don't think I can move."
A/N: Debut post Hello tumblr. Is this anyone's niche? Shy embarrassed crybaby top Grace?
