Doodler

👐 REQUESTS OPEN 👐! 🏵️ 19 🏵️ flapdoodle — /ˈflapˌdo͞od(ə)l/ — informal [u.s. english] — nonsense; a fool (derogatory)

[doodler-jpeg]

Thinking about dating Ryland Grace pre-asterophage and he's fat...

Warnings: NSFW; oral (male receiving); stomach grinding (?); domesticity; allusions to body image issues; probably missed something

Note: someone's probably already written this but I wanted to add my two cents. I hope this doesn't come off as chubby chaser or feeder content or anything 😟 kinda super basic but I wanted to get this out before I hit another month-long slump

Ryland spends his Fridays grading papers with some reality TV show running in the background and a tub of reheated butter pasta at his side. He's muttering to himself as you doze off beside him, head awkwardly nestled in the junction between the back cushion of the couch and just above the teacher's hip. You'd started at his shoulder, but he kept moving around to grade the worksheets he assigned, so you gradually slid down.

It's not an uncomfortable place to rest, all things considered. He has a pleasant layer of fat that provides a cushion between your head and his hip, meaning there's no bone poking and prodding at the back or sides of your head when you wake up briefly to readjust yourself. It's not like Ryland minds all too much either when he's trying to discern handwriting into something farm more legible.

Sucking him off when he's finally done grading papers and you have your nose pressed into the area of fat just under his stomach (male fupa I guess?). His happy trail tickles your skin as you gag around him, and Ryland's trying not to grab your hair too hard because the last time you two did this, his palms got super sweaty and he ended up ripping out a few strands of hair that weren't naturally shed.

Grinding against his stomach while he's recovering after his orgasm. It's a bit strange because he's so pliable (I can only assume), but it's not a horrible feeling. There's the addition of his body hair that provides some extra friction and, therefore, elevates the experience on your end. On Ryland's end, well... let's just say, even when there's no pressure focused directly on his cock, you rock back far enough to nudge his tip every so often and that has him busting again.

I was gonna say mirror sex but I feel like that's super cliche for plus sized characters. I also think he wouldn't enjoy it because he doesn't want you to see his butt clenching whenever he's rutting into you.

Ryland's acutely aware of how his body moves and gets super embarrassed when someone else takes notice. Being in first-person during the deed usually helps distract from his kinda poor form, so having the person he's fucking look at (and probably judge) how he moves during the whole thing sounds worse than anything else in the world.

After sex he kinda just lays there, running way warmer than usual. It's great in the winter when the AC breaks and you guys are freezing your asses off. Not so great in the summer.

He catches you wearing his clothes around the house and sometimes (just sometimes) he prays you trip or something. Sometimes out of malice, but the rest of the time it's cuteness aggression. He does hate other people wearing his clothes though because there's a very obvious difference between how his clothes fit him versus how they fit someone else.

RIP fat Ryland Grace, you would've loved zero-g sex and watching those classroom restock videos (I know he'd hate his kids quoting that mike tyson super bowl commercial though)

[doodler-jpeg]

Antipathy (1/?)

Warnings: fem!reader; OOC!Ryland; mediator!Rocky; brief suicide mention; kinda mid writing; let me know if I missed anything!

Words: 3.9k

Note: Happy pride month! Requests are open for the first time in forever, and for most of the goslings if anyone's interested. I'll get an "about me" post out for my do's and don't's and stuff pretty soon! Also sorry I didn't get this out earlier, I was super lazy and didn't like how this was turning out because I felt it strayed a lot from the original idea. With that in mind, I'll definitely be editing this when I'm finished with the series so it isn't just garbage on a page (mainly because I probably glossed over a ton of errors because I write all over the place). I know for sure that Rocky's dialogue and mannerisms definitely need a revamp. Hope it's not entirely horrible, though. Sorry about the pessimism and I hope you guys enjoy!

“Eye movement detected.” A loud, automated voice states from the vastness of the ship around you, serene in a way that has you looking for the source through blurry vision. A hulking blur looms over you, although hulking doesn't seem to be the right word. Features all unclear due to the halo of bright light cast around it, the silhouette looks a tad spindly rather than hulking. Your eyes take a while to adjust, and a few moments later your perception seems to be at a reasonable quality.

Waking up to a man in your business hadn't been what you thought you'd rouse to when you were sent to space to save humanity from dying, but life really knew how to throw surprises your way. It was both funny and alarming, really, considering your severe lack of proper defenses that had been inhibited by your coma. Perhaps this is how babies felt, waking up to their parents staring down at them to make sure they're breathing properly. You wouldn't know, what with infantile amnesia and all that jazz, but it was entertaining to imagine.

Gaze fixating on turbid blue eyes, you squint up at the vaguely familiar face to try to make out who exactly is staring you down like you personally pummeled his dreams. He's definitely not Ilyukina or Yao, but maybe you're just ignorant, even if you can clearly recall the faces of your peers. For all you know, he could be Russian or Chinese. He probably isn't. He might be, though. You never know.

“Doctor Grace, please step back to provide proper space to extubate-”

You stop listening to the robotic voice as you close and open your eyes repeatedly, suspicions confirmed and your brain already working to gather information about the man towering over the side of your cot.

Doctor Ryland Grace, the formerly shunned microbiologist who made a scientific comeback by figuring out the mystery of the astrophage with a poorly-made plywood box made out of the bare minimum and tagged along on certain aspects of mission prep. You’re not entirely surprised to see him, but you certainly are confused about his presence on the ship.

Why wasn't he back on Earth? He hadn't changed his mind last second from the last time you knowingly conversed with him, had he? He had been pretty adamant on staying on Earth despite having nothing to lose, but maybe Stratt managed to finally convince him. You’d have to ask him about it later when all of you bodily functions were back.

The endotracheal tube occupying your throat is pulled out and you immediately draw your attention away from your thoughts to gag, face contorting into an expression of discomfort as your airways become completely clear. Without the item occupying your mouth, you're left with an ache from your strained facial muscles that should go away soon, which you attempt to rub at, although you only get a quick twitch of your fingers. With little choice, you make rather stupid-looking faces to ease the effects of your intubation.

“Hand movement detected,” the same voice echoes throughout the sterile space, “Please remain still. A cognition assessment will be administered shortly.”

The man beside you stares you down for a bit before turning around to mumble to himself—or the object in his hand. You’re not entirely sure given you can’t turn your head to get a proper look, but the action manages to give you a moment of privacy nonetheless as the robotic arms above you free you from your surprisingly sturdy prison (read: sleeping bag) to get the rest of the medical devices attached to your person off. Various tubes are pulled from different orifices of your body, and the countless electrodes decorating your skin fall away with relative ease.

You stay still—not like you can move anyway with the way your muscles seem to be somewhat paralyzed, but that should wear off pretty quickly— and briefly recall what one of the physicians back on Earth had advised about sudden or rapid movements when you're hooked up to several life-sustaining systems. Nothing inherently dangerous would happen, but there would be a whole lot of unnecessary and easily preventable pain.

Luckily, the process is much quicker than you had originally anticipated, although you're still semi paralyzed from the neck down, which the nurse robot combats with an injection of some quick-acting muscle relaxer that should also help the ache throughout your body. It doesn't take too long to kick in, and you’re comfortably wiggling your fingers and toes in no time. You quietly push yourself up to take a look at your surroundings with your newly regained autonomy, bending your joints and twisting the limbs that you know can twist easily just to make sure you won't fall on your face when you finally stand up.

There's no sort of worry on your face as you look around, only wonder at the sterile environment. It's bright and blinding and both under- and over-stimulating all at once.

You didn't have the chance to take a look at the layout of the ship prior to the mission, but the ship was small enough that you could most likely remember it within a few hours. If that wasn't the case, there were probably a few blueprints around that you could reference, although the likelihood of you needing to rely on them entirely was small.

“Full-body movement detected. Please remain still to allow for cognitive assessment.”

You halt abruptly and wait for the next steps. The man beside you stays facing away from you for some odd reason, although he’s still commentating privately.

“What is three plus two?” The voice inquires, and you crane your head to look at the speakers settled in the corners of the room, all nestled next to cameras.

“Five,” You rasp out, wincing at the scratchiness of your throat. You harrumph, shaking your head gently.

“Correct. What is the square root of 169?”

“13.”

“Correct. What is your name?”

You answer and the voice confirms your identity with ease, greeting you professionally. A small tube of something is placed on your lap and you look down at it for a moment. The robot arm holds itself like an encouraging mother urging her toddler to try something new.

“Eat.” The computer goads, and you glance over at your colleague to see if he’ll provide any potentially helpful commentary. He doesn't.

Shrugging, you squeeze out some of the paste in the tube and sigh. Nutrient paste. Right. Your worst enemy back on Earth as a makeshift guinea pig. The substance tasted like artificial despair and wet socks when you last tried some, but maybe they changed the recipe since you last tried it.

You bring the pea-sized dollop to your mouth and lick it up, hoping it’s not because of the unused chemoreceptors on your tongue that the slop actually tastes good. It wouldn't be a terrible thing, but your taste buds would eventually adjust and then the nutritionally-dense substance would be more miserable than how you remember it originally was.

You finish the tube at a reasonable pace and give yourself some time to start digesting before you slowly move your body off of the cot. You stand awkwardly to the side, feeling incredibly vulnerable in your socks and– are you wearing plastic? You look down at yourself and pat your hands up and down your body to make sure you're not hallucinating.

Plastic. Clear. Transparent orange. Incredibly crinkly. You can see your skivvies through the material, which really isn't something that should be visible regardless of your imminent demise, and you pause for a good while to soak in the news.

No wonder the blond wasn’t looking your way. You were entirely indecent and incredibly vulnerable.

“Where are my clothes…?” You mumble to yourself, far calmer than you should realistically be, and walk around the room to locate the suitcase you'd stuffed to the brim with clothing you'd begged several governments to buy you.

Your fellow astronaut turns his head at your voice, but he's kind enough to not look directly at you during your search.

“Hey, sorry to bother, but do you know where my bag is?” You ask, hands on your hips as you continue to look for the luggage bag.

“Um,” the man clears his throat awkwardly, tilting his head down to think of what to say. “It should be in the corner. Under all of the- under all of the… dirty clothes…” He trails off sheepishly, waving his hand in the direction of the luggage bags he'd raided a fair while ago.

“Mind the xenonite,” He adds in, a thought that comes to him when he looks ahead and sees the scraps of transparent material his alien companion had crafted. “I can’t imagine how anyone would react to this scenario. Well- I can. Kind of. They’d probably freak out.”

“Thank you!” You ignore the man’s hushed rambling and make your way over to the pile of clothing he motioned to, pushing most of the items to the side to reveal your name patch ironed on your aforementioned bag. With a satisfied huff, you open it up, pausing at the disorganized state of it.

You weren't a messy packer at all, so why were your clothes all messed up? Where were your printed photos? What about your sensory sock– oh, it's right there. At least that's not misplaced.

You turn your head in the direction of where your crew mate was to ask about the organization of your belongings, but you clamp your mouth shut when you notice he's not there. With a sigh, you disregard the concern for the moment and instead focus on dressing presentably. You may be in the middle of nowhere, but you’ve been in the same outfit for years now, assuming you've made it several light-years away from Earth, and that is disgusting. You were out cold the whole time, sure, but, again, that's nasty.

The whole ordeal of cleaning off and clothing up is relatively quick, and you find yourself walking through the corridor of the Hail Mary soon after, recounting details of the mission to make sure you didn't have any sort of amnesia that would inhibit the mission. The hall is quiet, save for your occasional muttering of your inside thoughts and the quiet thump of your feet.

You pass the laboratory, knowing you probably shouldn't be in there given you weren't one of the scientists, and find your way to the cockpit to familiarize yourself with the layout. You'd been a spare for basic functioning of the ship should something have gone wrong on the way there, but, considering the beds of Ilyukina and Yao were empty, you supposed you'd just be here in case either of them decided to shuck their workloads onto you.

You stop and stare at the empty pilot seat of the Hail Mary, confused. You would've assumed someone would be up here, or even in the spherical room just down the corridor given the empty cots in the dormitory. There was no way the other two weren't on the ship somewhere, so you decide to find the only person you know is around to see if he happens to know where the other two were.

You turn around and walk to the lab, keeping an eye out for any other life that isn't your own. Just as you reach the opening, you hear the doctor’s voice, and some sort of… whale call followed by a voice with a rather silly cadence. What? You remember the voices of your other comrades, and neither sounded like that. What had you missed during your coma?

Not caring much for the conversation, you peep your head into the space, eyes darting around before they land on a five-limbed creature perusing around the sterile room in a clear cage, waving their arms about as they communicate. Beside him is the man who, quite frankly, you forgot the name of. You feel rude even forgetting it—even if you weren't in constant contact with the science department in the months leading up to the mission, you had heard his name not that long ago.

“-it’s a very common and personal thing for humans to experience, Rock. Don’t let my feelings cloud your judgement.” The man sighs, jotting something down on the whiteboard beside him before slumping in his stool and running a hand through his hair. “For all I know, I could be an unreliable narrator. Amnesia does that sometimes.”

You gape at the scene, knowing full well your eyes weren't lying to you. You'd bumped your shin earlier on a corner down the corridor and it was still throbbing with a dull pain, so there really was no way you were dreaming this.

You open your mouth, but flail back when the foreign entity seems to turn to look directly at you. It chitters, and your crewmate beside it shoots his head up. The living rock makes some noises and rushes in your direction, coming out of its little environment to roll into a little ball that occasionally thuds against the floor. It scurries toward you and you search for something to climb, all the while your colleague gives you a look of- is that disdain? Rude much?

You back into the wall as the uneven orb nears, failing to listen to the automated voice greeting you with a rather puzzling amount of curiosity and glee.

“Hello!” It shouts, nearing you hastily. “You awake! Is good, good, good! Grace and Rocky observe you sleep; make sure crew not die.”

You're surprised at how expressive the computerized voice is, and how emotive a faceless rock can be.

It stops in front of you and brings itself forward to push the clear cage toward your leg in a light, friendly tap. You pause, eyes clenched shut tightly. For all you knew, this thing could eat you.

“Why secondary crew showing-” the quiet voice coming from somewhere in the lab chimes, cutting out briefly, “- question? Rocky not scary. Grace friend, human scared of similar Earth spiders, question? Only reason Rocky can think why human is scare.”

A raspy, dry laugh leaves your colleague and he gets up while the strange life form puffs up in a sort of pride, all the while you stare at it with distress clear in your eyes.

“They’re not scared because of that, Rocky,” he huffs with amusement clear in his tone, straightening his posture out so he can reach the computer by his side to type something out. “We don’t really have anything like you back on Earth, and they weren’t awake when we first made contact. They’re probably scared because you’re one of the first things they woke up to. Imagine waking up and you find out half of your original crew is dead and there's a foreign entity that's been living amongst you for the past few months while you're in your most vulnerable state. That's gotta be distressing.”

He says it casually, a nonchalant shrug the only way to add to his lack of understanding as he continues to work on whatever he's doing.

You frown and momentarily put aside your panic to look over at the man. He sure is considerate, isn't he? Wait- dead crew mates?

Your head swivels sharply to look at the man, eyes wide and mouth agape as you begin to sputter for an explanation.

“Yes, Rocky understand,” The creature affirms, “Would be scare if woke up to see Eridian crew and leaky blob together after only knowing Eridian crew. Disgust! Fear! Bad, bad, bad!”

You keep your eyes on the man, hoping he’ll look you in the eye to address your concerns. He does not. The alien seems to sense your subtle distress.

“Grace commentary cause disturbance in crew. Shows physiological and kinesiological signs of discontent equivalent to standard Eridian body language,” The creature is fascinated, clearly, and tilts its body upward to get a better look at you despite its severe lack of eyes. “Crew has completely different reaction to Grace friend upon initial meeting—amaze, amaze, amaze…”

“Leave ‘em alone, Rock,” the man calls out, limply waving his wrist like he's straight out of a permissive parenting guide.

“But- secondary crew so different from Grace! Hypothesis that all human like Grace is incorrect!” ‘Rocky’ taps its feet and circles around its little spherical enclosure briefly, then stops abruptly. “Grace make Rocky look ignorant, statement.”

It crosses two arms in a human-like fashion, displaying a surprising amount of sass for a being without dozens of distinct muscles working to display emotions.

You purse your lips before finally opening your mouth.

“Yao and Ilyukina are gone?” You ask, although more so in the tone of asking for confirmation. You're suspicious, but not entirely disbelieving because of the lack of evidence of your remaining crew. It's heartbreaking news despite the intent of the mission—two souls gone before they had the chance to truly save the world.

Lucky you were here as the spare then, you think dryly to yourself.

The man sighs and slowly nods at your question.

“What did you do with their bodies? I didn't see many spaces where you could hide one corpse, let alone two.”

He mumbles and you lean forward to hear him better.

“What?” You urge him to speak up, because you’re pretty sure ‘I awe air awe ih aye’ is not, in fact, a fluent sentence in any language. “I’m gonna need you to speak up, doctor Grace.”

The man sucks in a breath, gathering the air he’d need to form his words.

“I launched their bodies into space,” He hurries out, abruptly placing his head in his hands after the answer so he doesn't have to deal with the immediate reaction you might have. His glasses are pushed off of his face and onto the counter, clattering surprisingly loud and keeping you from mentally droning on about the information like you're some psychological thriller protagonist.

“Oh.” You bob your head stiffly. “Cool. Cool… Cool.”

With a stiff, close-lipped smile, you swing your hands in front of you, letting your palms meet in a soft clap. You purse your lips and exhale through your nose, noting the lack of eye contact from the man.

“Great talk…” You mutter with an uncomfortable laugh, turning around to head back to the dormitory. “I’m just gonna… head back to bed…”

You barely get a few paces into the corridor before the skittering of a glass-like container follows after you. With a small sigh, you close your eyes to prepare yourself for whatever it is Rocky has to say. You haven't known them for long, but their first impression seems to be entirely representative of their character.

It’s quiet on the short walk to the dorm, with little scenery to accompany the few steps. A bummer, but there really wasn’t much to see outside of the ship anyway, what with being in space and all.

“Rocky will accompany secondary crew,” The alien provides commentary after a moment of silence, although its voice slowly fades the farther away from the lab you get. “Help explain information. Crew has much to catch up on.”

You let out a hum meant to signify your gratitude at the offer, entering the door and being cautious of the ladder bars on the floor. You aren’t at all sure what this alien is saying to you past that first sentence, but you can only assume it’s being civil with you, unlike your human colleague.

You head over to the same cot you woke up on and slowly rub your eyes. Your brain is working over time getting used to having all of its senses back, and you’re absolutely exhausted. You can’t even begin to comprehend your situation, and it’s almost laughable how inconvenient your waking up seems to be. You don’t know what’s going on because you weren’t expecting anything apart from waking up around the same time as your crew (all of them being alive) to track down some sort of cure for a dying sun together, then kill yourselves. It really shouldn’t have been too bizarre of a situation, but you had to be the one to sleep far too late.

“Comas aren’t like normal sleep,” You mutter to yourself, recalling the words of your physician. “Did you know that? Someone can sleep for years, but they won’t actually feel like they’ve slept. Crazy, right?”

“Yes, crazy indeed. Bad, bad, bad!” Rocky waves one of their arms and you can only assume they agree with you through the literal tune of their strange melodic language.

Settling onto your cot, you make sure there’s a reasonable amount of space beside you and offer the seat to the bubbled being. Even if it’s a stranger, having the company of someone else might keep you from losing your mind for this whole thing.

“I’ll start with this,” You sigh, leaning backwards to rest your weight on your palms. “I have no idea what you’re saying, but is it okay if I just word vomit to you?”

The alien—Rocky, you need to remind yourself—flinches back and waves a few of its limbs around, seemingly in protest. You let out a laugh, quickly realizing your mistake.

“Sorry. It’s a human phrase. I mean, like, can I rant? Or just get all of this off my chest? Is that better wording?” You receive an answer of a thumbs down and immediately furrow your brows. Despite the gesture, it seems ready to listen.

“Um- is that a yes or a no? Knock on your little bubble once for yes, twice for no. Your thumbs down says one thing, but your body language says another.” A tap to the clear cage eases your worries and you sigh.

“Does the thumbs down mean yes, too?”

Another tap.

“Cool. Cool. Who taught you that?”

No tap.

“Oh. Right. Only other guy on the ship taught you, huh?”

A tap.

“Cool.”

This is a lot to take in, but if you were able to adapt to your astronaut training and live through a potentially deadly coma, you could talk to an alien and not end up passing out.

You clear your throat and give the creature a stiff smile, introducing yourself softly. Luckily, your voice box wasn't nearly as atrophied as you would've expected from a nearly decade-long coma, but that may have been due to the magic of biomedical sciences so Earth's only chance at life could report information without making full essays.

You go on a tangent about your mission, how you were assigned to be the metaphorical thirteen-in-one member should anything have gone awry with any of the other crew. You even vented a bit about how stressful it had been to dart around every department when your other crew had free time just to make sure you understood all your rules. You go in depth about certain aspects of the mission that you can only assume Rocky’s already heard about, but they only chime in with short responses that you conclude are the equivalent of small comments to show someone active listening. Either way, you’re grateful to have someone to talk to, even if it’s one-sided for now.

By the end of your rant, you’re curled up on your side, barely conscious from all of the strain of talking.

“I promise, Rocky-” You let out a yawn, covering your mouth, “I’ll play your therapist when I learn your language.”

The alien laughs and you let out a similar sound that slowly drifts off until you’re entirely silent. Rocky stills before settling down slowly, silently hoping that Grace’s theories of your character are entirely untrue.

[doodler-jpeg]

Loophole (18+)

Warnings: 18+; afab!reader; dry humping; brief oral mention (fem receiving); thigh job; virgin!lars; edging; christianity (reader isn't religious, lars is and this is relevant); misinterpretation of certain christian topics; sex before marriage loopholes; ooc lars; non-canon timeline (obvi); probably missed something but those were the main things

Note: got this idea when I saw some fanart by churchcat666 on tiktok... It was really good art... I wanted this to be a drabble but it turned out to be a little more than that (and I'm not hyperbolizing). Had to get this out before I forgot. Also be on the lookout for that one-sided rivals!ryland fic being posted later today

Lars is a man who prides himself on going to church frequently. He's a good man--a great one, even--with a good moral compass and high values. He reads Bible verses on the regular, says grace before meals, mutters silent prayers to himself when he wants just a bit more faith in himself, and squeezes a crucifix charm fixed onto a simple chain wrapped around his neck when he holds his tongue.

He's used his faith as a way to cope with his social deficit, found comfort in the words of strangers long past and resonated with the sermons of the town's preacher to keep him grounded. Every Sunday, he wakes up early just to make sure he's dressed his best, even if he keeps his outerwear on to fight off the cold that seeps into the old house of worship. He makes sure to leave quickly, though, hoping not to socialize with others too much in fear of saying the wrong thing or doing something weird with his body that makes him look inept.

His fear of these situations is how he unofficially meets you, despite your lack of Christian ties. Right outside the doors of the church, Lars is shuffling over to his little Toyota Tercel, completely unaware of the body sliding toward him until it's too late. Suddenly, he's on the ground, face burning in embarrassment and face buried in a muddied snow pile as someone groans underneath him.

He scrambles up, body burning from embarrassment and being so close to another person. He can hear apologies spew from your mouth as you wince, cursing out the icy patch on the street that you'd somehow managed to slip on, but he can't hear it over the blood rushing to his ears. He's nauseous at the situation, suddenly all too hot in his winter gear, and he flees the scene hurriedly to cry in his car, face covered in speckles of mud and water.

You two meet again in the grocery store, and he's right behind you in the checkout line. He doesn't realize until he's already boxed in, you in front of him and somebody's cart pushing against his back while he holds onto the few food items he grabbed. He's red in the face when he realizes, and as you turn your head to grab your items while his are being rung up, you toss him a cordial smile that has him nauseous again. He says nothing and cries in his car afterward, smacking his forehead on the steering wheel when he's in front of his little garage home.

He keeps seeing you around, avoiding eye contact and only barely managing civil nods of acknowledgement. He can keep up with this, he thinks, because you seem nice despite his first impression of you (which was an accident, but it led him to skip out on mass for two weeks until Mrs. Gruener insisted he come back.

The first time he actually talks to you is when he's at dinner with Karin and Gus, who apparently hadn't revealed that they were having a friend over. That friend happens to be you, the very bowling ball that he's desperately been wishing would move out so he didn't have to fear for his life again. The thought is bizarre, yes, but it's not at all unreasonable to think for him, as un-Christian as it seems.

By the end of dinner, though, he changes his mind about you. It takes a long while, but you eventually start dating. A few months in is when you suggest taking things further than hand holding, and he nearly faints at the idea.

A few more months later, when he's finally used to your lips on his, you suggest finally sleeping together. The man whimpers at the suggestion, mortified by the implications. He squeezes his eyes shut, discomfort clear in his body language as his hands ball up. He rambles on about the implications, spouting out the values he'd instilled in himself about sexual immorality.

"I can't..." He finally sobs out, chubby cheeks a deep crimson. You don't push him further and change the topic, but he shuts down and you head home to give him space.

The next time, you tread much more lightly on the topic in hopes he receives it better. He does (barely), and somehow, someway, you find yourselves grinding desperately on each other, his hands digging into your hips as he yelps.

"Can't-!" He gasps out, back arching as he tries to curl in on himself. "Stop-! Mmnh...! Stop..."

You pause and he shudders, chest heaving while he catches his breath.

"The- Onan. Can't- shouldn't..." He gulps, looking up at you. He knows the story of Onan well, discussed it sheepishly with the old preacher years ago, and he knew that 'spilling seed' was bogus, but it still didn't feel right. "Shouldn't... come..."

He feels sweat stick his shirt to his back and, suddenly, he can feel the scratchiness of the fabric. He watches you slide off of his pelvis, silently offering you to go shower so he can deal with his internal warfare. He doesn't get off that day, but he spends hours dreaming of being between your legs, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as a shiny band of metal glints under the light.

The next time he indulges in you is about a year after that incident, a few years into your relationship. His arms are wrapped tightly around your middle, face buried in the junction of your neck as he ruts between your thighs. He's quivering, thighs tensing as he struggles to not finish in seconds, but the feeling of your skin against his has him far more sensitive than he could've imagined.

He feels like some sort of animal, desperate for something he really shouldn't have as a good Christian man. And yet, he continues to indulge, nose pressed to your neck and flooding his senses with you. He's acutely aware of you clenching your thighs around him, the way he can feel your heartbeat in your stomach, the sounds you make when his tip nudges just right against your clit.

He pauses abruptly, hands shaking as he lets go of you. You groan at the loss of contact and reach for him in hopes he'll start again. Instead, he brings his face up to look you in the eye, face still flushed and covered in a thin layer of sweat. He presses his forehead to yours briefly before placing a chaste kiss to your lips.

"But if they cannot exercise self-control, they should marry," he murmurs, sitting up to reach for something in his bedside drawer. "For it is better to marry than to burn with passion. Corinthians 7:9."

He pulls out a small box, hands unsteady as he makes eye contact with you. Wordlessly, he opens the box and glances inside, then turns to face the contents toward you.

"I-" He starts, but you interrupt him with a scream of joy. You pull him in, smothering his face in kisses as he tries not to blue screen.

You get married the following spring, eager to consummate your union. Lars holds the same sentiment, as nervous as he is.

[doodler-jpeg]

Accidental double proposal with Lars Lindstrom.

[andromedasgallery]

and record soft porn [18+] unedited

NO SPOILERS FOR THE BACKROOMS MOVIE, fueled by a horny combination of recording during sex and shotgunning a blunt, afab reader receiving oral (cause i don’t believe in giving a man head (i’m joking, mostly)), kinda clunky descriptions, i’m writing to get better at writing, especially writing smut so lemme know if anything sounds weird or clunky, uhhh no word count cause im too lazy to do those on tumblr sorryyyyy, ALSO GO SEE THE BACKROOMS MOVIE, GO SUPPORT YOUNG FILMMAKERS AND LOCAL THEATERS

“Are you sure about this?” Your hands grip the camcorder carefully, the clunky object heavy in your hands.

Bobby looks up at you from where he’s laid out on the bed, his long fingers hooking the waistband of your cotton shorts and slowly tugging them down. His blue eyes are hazy, blunt hanging from his lips as he nodded.

“Yeah, yeah. Just keep the camera still for me, m’kay?” He winks at you through the lense, enjoying the way your legs twitch.

You hum weakly, letting your head rest back on the pillows as the smell of weed and Bobby’s cologne filled your head. Your eyes stray to the fan overhead, the blades pass by slowly as you count the seconds while Bobby slowly kisses his way up your legs, easing them over his shoulders.

“You with me?” He pauses above your covered cunt, taking a slow drag from the blunt before parting his lips and letting the hot smoke breeze over the wet fabric of your panties, making you jolt.

“Mm- Y-yeah,” you stutter over the fuzziness in your brain that comes from the pleasant buzz of cannabis. Bobby’s hand grasps yours, lifting the camera with a practiced ease.

“Keep me in focus.” The words are murmured into the skin below your belly button, igniting that familiar fire in your navel and causing the hairs on your neck to stand up.

At your nod, Bobby takes another hit of the blunt before leaning down. His lips meet the puffy folds of your cunt and with a slow exhale, the smoke glazes over your panties again. It’s punctuated by a slow lick that spreads the wet patch on your panties.

His nose nudges your clit and he chuckles at the pleasured noise that drips from your lips. The soft buzz of the camera chews him to you zooming in, soaking in the heated, fuzzy look in his eyes and the way he’s sitting open-mouthed against your pussy.

The smell of your arousal is much stronger this close. And it mixes with the smell of weed in a way that Bobby salivates. His impatience starts bleeding through his high mind and finally, Bobby hooks a finger through the crotch of your panties, tugging them to the side to reveal your dripping folds.

It’s a pretty sight, the puff of your folds, the glistening slick of arousal, the choked sound you make as the cold air hits your exposed pussy. He almost wishes he had the camcorder with him so he could immortalize this forever.

Bobby takes one more slow drag from the blunt, eyes meeting yours over the camera. With a nip to the meat of your inner thigh, Bobby slips the blunt into your hand, right in the small gap between your index and middle finger. Ash falls off the edge of it, scattering over your skin.

Your wince turns into a choked moan when Bobby’s mouth finally greets your pussy. His tongue is heavy with saliva and heat as he greedily tastes you for all your worth. He swaps between suckling at your clit and slipping his tongue between your folds. It’s a vicious cycle that leaves you feeling floaty and loose.

You legs give weak twitches when Bobby’s tongue glazes over your clit, tightening around his head to bring him closer when he pulls away to breathe. The camcorder shakes in your hands and Bobby notices.

He pinches your thigh as he withdraws from you slightly. “C’mon baby, keep the camera still. Like I showed you.” He licks his lips, groaning at the sweet taste of you as he watches you readjust the camera. When he’s satisfied with the angle, he lays back down, kissing your clit sweetly like he was rewarding you.

“Fuck-” You moan as he slips his tongue back into your folds, his calloused thumb doing figure eights over your clit as his other hand massages your thigh.

The dual stimulation continues and he gets lost in it, eyes shutting as he continues to make out with your pussy. At a certain point your hips start grinding against his face and hand, desperately chasing that high that you’ve been needing since Bobby proposed this idea.

His thumb leaves your clit, his index and middle finger accompanying his tongue in your aching walls. Bobby effectively swapped places with his mouth and fingers, lapping at your clit as his fingers leisurely take you apart from the inside out. Every stroke and curl makes your breath hitch and whine as you do your best to keep the camcorder stable.

“Bobby- I’m gonna-” You keen, lips parting for a stilted moan as his fingers speed up. The strokes turn quicker, his saliva drips down your clit and spills into your hole.

He mumbles something against your overstimulated bundle of nerves, tongue flattening against it as he curls his fingers against that spongy spot in your velvety walls. He murmurs vague pieces of praise that leaves your feet curling and back arching as you cum with a loud whine.

Bobby withdraws his fingers, licking them clean before he leans back in to lick you clean. Sweat drips down your back and your thighs are sticky with cum and spit. You vaguely register Bobby’s warm hands taking the camcorder from you, his spit soaked fingers snatching the blunt from you.

He places the blunt in his lips, freeing his hand to massage your ass slowly. Bringing you down from your high.

Blinking quickly, your flushed cheeks are hot to the touch and your eyes are fogged from the weed and now that pretty post orgasmic glaze. You register Bobby more clearly now, his blue eyes and dirty blonde hair. He’s sat up, your thighs resting at his hips. He cradles the camera in his other hand but he watches you patiently.

When a bit more clarity hits your eyes, he smiles, taking the blunt out of his mouth and leaning forward to press a soft kiss to your lips. The taste of your cum sits on his tongue as he moans against you, smoke filling both of your mouths as he hips twitching as he grinds his dick against your pussy. The cloth drags on your overstimulated clit and you whine agaisnt Bobby’s lips as he pulls away.

His fingers tap against the still recording camcorder as he furrows his brows. “There’s still space left on the tape.”

[doodler-jpeg]

FUCK IT'S GENIUS

[doodler-jpeg]

Imagine sitting next to your lecture hall crush Henry Letham and you catch a whiff of his gnarly BO

[doodler-jpeg]

Running to my notes app to jot down my brain blasts like I'm Michael Jackson with a prophetic vision so Prince doesn't get it

[doodler-jpeg]

Been thinking about this....

Note: I've only watched the first half of Lars and the real girl but that 50 minutes was life changing. I made a mii in the tomodachi life demo and forced him to fall in love with a mii of myself just to feel something. Anyway, might make a full one shot of this later (plus the one-sided rival!grace fic is like halfway done, might have to break it into multiple parts for different povs thoughl

Warnings: fem!reader; implied fake dating trope; literally nothing else because it's literally a paragraph

Being Lars Lindstrom's online friend and waking up to a panicked message about his family badgering him to get a girlfriend. You understand his panic, having been chatting online with him for a good while, and offer messages of comfort as you secretly book a plane ticket up north. Hopefully Lars won't be too mad.

[andromedasgallery]

18+ drabble about charles smith letting you hold his dick while he pees (dunno if it quaifies as a piss kink but i don’t blame you if you skip this one) the late night machinations of me and my partner in crime @doodler-jpeg

the sunlight beams down, gracing your skin with a slowly developing sunburn as sweat beads down your neck. wiping at your neck with the back of your hand, you meet Charles’ stare with no shame on your face.

he, all the while, is gasping for air as he puts together your question.

“y-you wanna what? you wanna hold my dick while I piss?” shaking his head, Charles brushes back the inky black strands as he turns away from you.

“well, yeah,” you say as you shrug in response. the flowy sleeves of your dress shift and slip down your shoulders, exposing glistening skin.

Charles’ swallows his spit as he watches sweat trail down your collarbone to the valley between your breasts. his dark cheeks burn as he opens his mouth only to close it again. he opens it, then closes it.

it happens three times before he makes his decision.

“I- well- alright.” bashfully, Charles takes your hand, gently tugging you with him down to the creek. boots clicking against the rocks as he stops you both near bushes.

his dark brown eyes dart to you, flustered and nervous as his thick fingers undo his belt. pulling you infront of him, he ties the belt around your waist, watching it loosely hang around your hips.

“can’t believe ‘m fuckin’ doin’ this..” he mutters. the buttons of his fly are undone with ease as he hikes up his shirt with his other hand. he shudders when you grasp the fabric of his shirt, eyes downcast to avoid the heat of your gaze.

finally, his dick flops out, flaccid and woefully unattractive. still, Charles’ can stifle the gasp that leaves him as you reach a hand down and tentatively grasp the base of his dick.

you’ve scooted to the side, prevent anyone from coming up behind ya’ll and surprising you both. now he just, has to piss.

….

“charles?” you murmur softly.

“I- ‘m nervous,” he admits.

“we don’ have to do this then. I can let go and wait with the horses-” when you start to turn away, Charles’ hand pulls you back by the waist.

“no- no jus’…gimmie a minute.”

the stream trickles by, passing over the rocks and pebbles that you both stand on. Charles tries to focus on the noise of the water rushing and still, nothing.

“….” Charles’ peeks an eye open to look at you. “uh- I ain’ drink enough. can you go get me my canteen?” he asks finally.

“of course.”

[doodler-jpeg]

More Ryland Grace concepts...

Finished my most strenuous final yet and this is my way of celebrating.

Meeting Ryland Grace at your shared graduation and he's all alone with no family or friends to celebrate with him, so you invite him to tag along with your family and become his best friend. Could become one-sided friends to lovers, could be mutual, but your family's rooting for you guys to get together regardless.

[doodler-jpeg]

Childhood Hero

Warnings: gn!reader; sfw; age gap (we're pretending Grace didn't age normally on Erid but there's still a pretty significant age gap); READER IS LEGAL!!! READER IS A CONSENTING ADULT!!!; vague spoilers; grace uses mobility aids hc lives in my mind forever; let me know if I missed anything!

Note: tried keeping it pretty short. I'm still working on the one-sided rival!ryland and another thing, but finals are kicking me in the behind so it might take a bit. Please don't let the hype die down 💔 sorry it's dookie :((

Thinking of being fairly young when Ryland Grace is put into history books as Earth's hero (alongside the strange alien he'd dubbed 'Rocky') and learning about him in a science or history class in elementary school. You hear about his achievements and are instantly hooked, deciding then and there that you'll dedicate your life to finding his whereabouts.

Decades later, you're an astronaut on a space ship, fresh out of a coma and eagerly communicating with the very species Grace had encountered years before your birth. You're ecstatic, knowing you're one step closer to solving this mystery, and the Eridians you're communicating with seem pretty amicable, as well. You land on Erid with the help of xenonite structures that prevent the ship from wrecking and are guided to a biodome with little rock creatures acting as makeshift bodyguards.

You get to the biodome, take a step in, and are amazed at the feats this species has managed. How? You can't even fathom any potential ideas as you're ushered into a surprisingly fresh atmosphere. There's not a lot of vegetation, and it's a rather cozy space, but it's almost exactly like earth (why wouldn't it be? It housed a human). It's a new-fish, new-tank situation really, getting you acclimated to the biodome before you meet the only human that had been inhabiting the planet. Hmm

Safe to say, you're geeking. All of your childhood dreams are coming true, save for the wedding of you and your childhood idol-turned-crush (that's for another time). Grace doesn't wander over to your little pocket of the dome, but you know he's been informed of your presence and whatever. Blah blah blah, filler happens before the Eridians deem you acclimated (and Ryland mentally prepared) and let you into the primary biodome with Rocky as a mediator should things go poorly.

Luckily things don't go poorly--you and Ryland get along great and you learn about specifics of his survival and Eridian life. You had been a bit shocked at the sight of him standing with the assistance of a cane, but it made sense considering the circumstances he's been living in and the conditions of the planet. You get to know him, he gets to know you, you guys have completely platonic conversations in the middle of the night when you lose track of the time. The usual.

And then it's time for you to report back, not only on your findings with Grace, but also about the technology of the Eridians. You'd almost forgotten that this had been a research mission you needed to come back from.

[doodler-jpeg]

Just adding onto this so there's more substance for later.

Imagine Ryland being flustered the entire time because he knows you have a specific idea of him in your head and he's afraid to mess that up. Obviously he knows someone idolizing him isn't healthy, but you're such pleasant company and you really know how to make him feel like his skeleton hasn't been compressed by the atmosphere he's been experiencing for a good while now.

He tries to get you to ease him off of whatever pedastal you've put him on, he really does try. You don't budge, though, and at some point his embarrassment turns to frustration. He leads you to the most private area in the vicinity and suddenly he's spilling his heart out about how he was forced onto a spaceship he never wanted to step foot on with no recollection of who he was, where he was, or what he needed to do. He goes on and on about how he can't imagine going back to Earth, back to the planet that had covered up his involuntary sacrifice under false pretenses of glory and honor when he had been sent to his own grave by the will of a government that probably would've imprisoned him otherwise.

By the time he finishes his ranting, you're silent. You still see the barely middle-aged teacher, but he looks different now, weighed down by the expectations of saving an entire planet and frayed at the edges from everything he's gone through leading up to this very moment.

For the first time, you don't see the bright figure you had strived to be like. You don't see Doctor Captain Ryland Grace of the Hail Mary, savior of the solar system. Instead, you see Ryland Grace, the man who had everything taken from him in a heartbeat.

He looks vulnerable, eyes brimming with unshed tears that make him look so much less like the man in the posters covering your room and more like the little boy you had caught glimpses of from archival websites. You don't know him, but you know you're telling yourself far too late for it to matter when you've most likely ruined a man's quality of life with one too many compliments.

[doodler-jpeg]

Ex-Musician Reader on the Hail Mary

Warnings: sfw; not much else to put (I think)

Note: not gonna make this an actual fic because of commitment issues. Also I'm not sure if anyone's made something similar, but there's probably at least one fic out there that I unintentionally copied so if that's the case I'm sorry in advance

Imagine becoming a science professor after spending so much time pouring your heart out into the music scene. It's not entirely unfulfilling because you're surrounded by kids that are eager to learn, but there are some moments that make you wonder why you chose to be a science teacher and not stay in music.

Anyway, you're recruited to work behind the scenes to save the dying sun and somehow become one of the astronauts in the project. Everything happens, you're put in a coma without the use of the amnesia drug, and you wake up around the same time as Grace, going through the motions of whatever needs to get done on your end (or whatever scientists do on spaceships).

Then you meet Rocky and you're ecstatic that you can finally use your music degree to communicate. It's not every day that you meet organisms that communicate through melodies like Rocky does, so you and Ryland come up with a little bet to see who can pick up Rocky's language faster using their specific methods (music or translator) to help pass the time.

This leads to Rocky preferring you over Ryland. Not because he's bad or whatever, but because hearing someone attempt to speak your language instead of the other way around is a very moving sentiment.

[doodler-jpeg]

Brief breakdown for my posting timeline (predicted!!! not set in stone but hopefully I get done with everything much sooner than what I expect!). I'm trying to hold myself accountable for once with very vague deadlines so I'm not stressing myself out doing everything all at one el oh el!

(list ordered from most to least important)

- finish finals (present -- 5/12)

- work on one-sided!ryland p.1 (5/6 -- late may)

- work on speaker!ryland (5/6 -- late may)

- start on the "silly bet" 5 + 1 things concept (mid may -- late may)

- start on childhood hero!ryland (late may)

Also! I think I'm gonna be deleting all of my old asks because it's been literal years and I know I won't be touching them any time soon because of a lack of interest. I'll most likely be officially opening up my requests for the first time in forever after finals are over for me, so keep an eye out for that if you have something in mind! That in mind, I'm gonna be privating a lot of my one shots from when I was originally started this blog so I can make it more aesthetically pleasing I guess?

[yawnzshit]

glasses are the sluttiest thing a man can wear.

[doodler-jpeg]

Silly Bet (Ryland Grace Thought)

Warnings: sfw; established relationship; lovey-dovey couple stuff; I don't think I forgot anything but I could be wrong

Being Ryland Grace's spouse and becoming a teacher at Grover Cleveland after legally changing your surname to his. You guys decide to pretend you're not married to each other and make a bet as to how long you guys last before your classes catch on.

You'd think it would be obvious with the same surname, but you pretend it's your maiden name and make up excuses as to why you have a ring on ("People talk to me less when I have a ring."). Ryland, on the other hand, is struggling to be covert in this little operation because he's just so happy he gets to have his spouse around him almost 24/7 now. The kids, meanwhile, are suspicious and do some digging with the help of their nosey parents.

[doodler-jpeg]

Oxytocin

Warnings: 18+; virgin!grace; touch-starved!grace; male masturbation; grown man cries; grace is almost caught but he plays it off; perversion; thoughts of doom and despair; rocky being an unintentional wingman; bs biology stuff but it’s not entirely bs; forgot some helpful details so I’m taking context from edits and other people’s works; let me know if I missed anything!

Word Count: 3.2k

Note: kept working on this at random intervals but I wanted to get it done before May so I’d be able to finally break in my writing after actual years without anything over 1k words. As always, got the idea during a pinterest convo where @andromedasgallery sent me a screenshot of a tumblr post. It was supposed to have a lot more crying content, but I got too lost in the sauce to remember to do that. Hope you guys like the header bee tee dubs! It came to me in the middle of one of my lectures and clearly that was more of a priority than actual coursework el oh el! Also I spent almost an hour total looking for an actual scientific paper about the link between masturbation and hormone release so… chopped.

This was supposed to be a moment of peace and self-reflection after a miscalculation during an experiment with the taumoeba. Not a momentary lapse in judgement, not a moment for perversion–just a moment to relax. That's what Ryland Grace had promised himself when he quietly excused himself from the lab to head to the dormitory for some privacy, not necessarily lying to the faces of his colleagues, but also not being entirely transparent with them either. Why would he? Most people don’t announce that they’re going to be jerking off as stress relief. He didn't do this often, but he had made sure both his colleagues were too busy with their respective tasks to pay much attention to his leaving.

Now, Ryland Grace was never a pervert in his past, and he certainly is not a pervert now. He has to make that completely and utterly clear with himself before he does what he needs to do, regardless of how the little voice in his head screams at him that he is, in fact, just like every other man that’s come before him. This is not at all something he’d do if he were still on Earth with all of the typical stressors, but he doesn’t have those around to keep himself occupied. No worksheets to grade, no lessons to plan, not even any traffic to bike around. His schedule is much simpler now, much to his displeasure, and he’s effectively been left in a loop of eating, working to find a solution to save some dying stars, sleeping when convenient, then rinsing and repeating that entire cycle until he and his poor crewmate die of starvation in the middle of nowhere.

With the help of his internal monologue, the walk to the dormitory is much faster than usual, and Ryland is grateful he’d memorized the ship’s layout so quickly (there really wasn’t anything else to do anyway, unless he wanted to risk throwing up a few packets of ramen trying to gather the courage to go outside of the Hail Mary again) as he falls onto the stiff cot he calls a bed, already unzipping his coveralls. He shimmies his arms out of the sleeves, skin already rising in goosebumps with every movement he makes. He’s sick to his stomach and knows he shouldn’t be doing this when there are two other souls on the ship with him—one with near perfect hearing and a mysterious way of seeing the world like some sort of x-ray, he must note—but he remembers some baloney article from more recent years that stated the benefits of masturbation. He probably read it out of boredom if it wasn’t a college reading spree. Oxytocin release, if he remembers, was the main point, which the human body historically loves even in trying times.

Trembling in his dorm pod, the microbiologist quietly fishes his cock from the confines of his stupid space suit, a shaky breath leaving his lips. His eyes dart around like he’s doing something criminal. You're occupied with the taumoeba, all the way in the lab with Rocky, going over data from test and control groups of microorganisms the average person couldn't even begin to comprehend and ensuring those organisms can survive the atmospheres of Venus and Tau Ceti. You're probably looking over what he'd done with his small group of amoeba and taking notes on what not to do because you work really well learning from other people's mistakes. Typical laboratory stuff and your new normal, even if you weren’t heavily involved in the STEM field before this. You took onto this stuff so easily, so it would definitely be a surprise to him if you didn’t even dabble in a similar career path.

Ryland's face flushes as he thinks of your expression while you work—your brows furrowed tightly as you quietly murmur to yourself so you don't mix up your thoughts, lips pursed at minor errors in your data that you'll be going over later despite the severe lack of peers to consult. Grace feels horrible thinking about you like this, all candid and rather unconventional due to your circumstances, but when you're stranded in space with no real hope of a home to go back to, you have to make do with what you have no matter how perverted it makes you feel. That’s a bullshit excuse and he’s well aware of it, and this time there really is no real justification for what he’s been thinking for a while.

Wrapping his hand around the long neglected appendage, the blond jolts at the feeling of his cold palms on significantly warmer skin. He stifles a whine, squeezing his eyes shut and pressing his teeth together as if already anticipating being caught. His heart hammers in his chest, opening one eye slowly to check if the cost is clear before he starts regretting what he's doing. Maybe he should've put a blanket over the opening of his designated sleep area to keep himself at least somewhat modest. Unfortunately, he already has his hand on his dick and using that same hand to pick up a blanket and find a way to cover the cavity would be gross. Holding his breath for a few moments, Grace pulls his hand from his dick and curls in on himself as a precaution, rotating himself so he's facing away from the light. The likelihood of you or Rocky coming into the room is statistically very likely, but at the very least Grace expects that you'd have the decency to knock before trying to bother him. Rocky? Not so much.

After confirmation that no one is heading in the direction of his dorm, Ryland places his hand back to where it had previously been and shudders, keeping in mind the severity of being quiet when his two colleagues are just a corridor away.

Slowly, he lets his thumb travel up to trace his tip, biting his bottom lip to keep himself from being too loud. His hips buck at the touch and his face goes even redder than before.

"Good to know my biology is still intact," he mutters to himself with a small huff of laughter, almost coy. Slowly dragging his hand up to close just under the head before bringing it down to the base, the man swallows thickly. It's certainly been a while, he knows that (he really knows a lot of things, doesn’t he?). Between his last relationship and now, Ryland can't really think of a time where he's consciously indulged in this behavior outside of the lone instance where he jacked off drunk after a particularly stressful week back in grad school, waking up covered in himself and with a major hangover. He wasn't the kind of man to use sex or similar encounters in the casual sense—not at all—but it's not like he’s completely inexperienced. Just... out of practice. I mean, he’d only ever gotten to third base with his ex, but that’s still a far greater feat than staying at first base!

Even with his rather uncomfortable position hunched over himself, Ryland can't really find it within himself to care as he continues to stroke himself, squeezing just under his tip to simulate what he remembers pussy feeling like. Much to his misfortune, however, it’s been almost two decades (that he’s aware of) since he's experienced the real thing on his fingers and he really doesn't want to remember fingering his ex right now. With a quick shake of his head, the man thinks of literally anything else. That old Playboy his friend had back in '03. Some random scene from The Nanny he caught on an old rerun. What else keeps an out-of-practice thirty-something year old man hard? Taxes? No- gosh, no. Ms. Prescott from down the hall at Grover Cleveland? EW, absolutely no; she's not at all the same as the person down the hall from him now. Her voice doesn't carry in the same way your's does, in fact, her nasally voice is a dull comparison to the way you talk to yourself, voice carrying from the lab into the dorms the few times Ryland's consciously made the effort to go to sleep.

Ryland abruptly halts his stroking, cock pulsing in his grip in an effort to coax more friction. His cheeks are warm at the thought of you. He can’t imagine his reaction if he were to try to fester up an explicit image of you.

There he goes, back to thinking of you. It's unprofessional, really, and quite frankly disrespectful. You've spent years training to be a part of this cause and he's here masturbating to the thought of you. If you were to find out- he'd rather freeze out in the vacuum of space than live with the shame and other consequences that would come from you finding out. At the same time, though, the thought of you peering up at him as your teeth gently scrape against him, hands planted firmly on his thighs and throat morphing around him is just so tempting. He whines at the thought, eyes clenching shut tightly in an attempt to keep himself under control (his alpha’s coming out).

He's pathetic. Crude and uncaring and entirely pathetic. Still, he continues pleasuring himself, one hand on his shaft and the other moving to cup his balls to hopefully get this whole thing over with sooner rather than later. There's only so much free time you can have with a a two-person-one-alien crew, and he's probably already expended most of his free time fighting with himself about the ethics of jacking himself off near the end stages of a suicide mission. He's probably going to die much earlier than he'd originally envisioned, all the way in the cold expanse of space where fewer than .000001% of all the people ever born on Earth could ever reach. Granted, he has you and Rocky, but after that? No family, barely any friends, no recognition for his scientific theories despite the years he'd put into it, and dozens of classes of kids that have probably already forgotten his face. You had told Ryland about having a family and friends and everything he had ever strived for in life back on Earth, and Rocky has a whole planet to save that would last significantly longer than Earth in the long run. In comparison to the both of you, his achievements and aspirations are dimmed drastically.

Even if this whole thing wasn't a suicide mission, he'd come back to Earth and no one would care until after his eventual death. Then, and ONLY then, would he be labeled a savior and put in the history books, but he would be taking the place of the four other people that were supposed to be here on the Hail Mary instead of him. Everything about his life up in the stars, on this ship, wasn't meant for him, and that included you, as much as it pains him to admit. Grace doesn't even realize he's crying until a warm droplet falls onto his hand, knuckles white and scrunches unintentionally in a subconscious attempt to ground him from his thinking.

A tear falls onto the skin of his hand and he startles.

Right. He was in the middle of something incredibly intimate, but clearly got a little sidetracked. He can't really stop when he's so close and, realistically, he would probably end up taking out his pent-up aggression on you or Rocky (or so behavioral psychologists say), which really isn't ideal at all. After the umpteenth interruption, Ryland decides he's really just going to cum to get it out of the way. There's really no time to relax, so just going through with a quick wank like he was originally intending is probably for the best or else he'll start thinking about his demise. Those are shower thoughts, not dick-out thoughts.

“Come on…” Ryland mumbles, pressing his thumb to his frenulum in a desperate attempt to somehow get him closer to any sort of release (he’s desperate at this point). Maybe if he gets blackout drunk again, he’ll remember how to jerk off like a normal person and finally get this over with. He’s so desperate he might cry.

The scientist manages to divert his attention to the small region of his brain in charge of processing his pleasure, hoping he can get off before thinking about anything else that's likely to get his dick soft. Wow, this is surprisingly difficult when you're not used to thinking about anything outside of science and survival and the vastness of space- that's off topic. That's incredibly off topic and you know that, Ryland Grace. Get back on track and stroke yourself dumb like every other reasonable man your age.

With a sniffle, Ryland lets go of his balls and uses the back of his hand to wipe at the fat tear drops flowing from his eyes, not entirely pleased at the irritation that would come from letting them linger. His lips quiver at each movement along his shaft, leaning back against the curved wall of his sleep pod to get a bit more comfortable. A few of the droplets run toward his nose, down the slope, and dangle at the apex before ultimately falling onto his stomach to dampen the cloth of his comedic science shirt.

He fails to let his tears stop him as experiments with different levels of pressure on his phallus, a whine of contentment vibrating in his throat at the sensation. It's unique and not at all realistic, but masturbation isn't really supposed to be a carbon copy of sex, is it?

Deciding to consider that question a hypothetical, Ryland lets his mind wander to the more depraved thoughts he’s had of you during his time knowing you. He has a few memories of you leading up to launch day, distinctly recalling the way you’d take walks with him to ease his mind and just put all of your thoughts out into the air. He’d always linger behind just a bit to watch you walk- oh, so he can remember that almost immediately, but not actually important information? That is so- no. Forget it. You’re not going back to this, Ryland. It was funny at first, but it’s getting really embarrassing now.

In the midst of his mental scolding, Ryland feels a pang of relief rock through his body in the form of a violent twitch. A strangled cry leaves his lips and his head falls back against the curved wall of the sleep pod.

There it is… He chooses not to pay too much attention to how fast he got back on track after so many demeaning mental comments toward himself. He doesn’t pay attention to the driblets gathering along his tear ducts, not like he wants to be capable of that when he’s so close.

Afraid of losing the progress he’s made, Ryland thrusts into his fist, catching his bottom lip between his teeth so he doesn’t end up pulling his dick off. Whines resonate in his throat and Ryland prays to whatever’s out there that nobody hears him—especially you. He’d rather die.

With trembling legs and tense muscles, the blond squeezes his dick one last time before he releases over his hand. His stomach knots and he lets out a ragged pant, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling as he slowly, carefully, glides his hand over his shaft to bring himself down from his orgasm. He pulls his hand away once his feelings subside, hearing muddled by the ringing in his ears, and limply wipes his hand on his shirt. He was planning on cleaning himself up soon enough anyway.

Ryland stays slumped against the walls of his dorm cavity for a few moments. He feels his senses come back slowly but surely; joints ache from the strain of being bent past their limits, the ringing in his ears clears to let the dull hum of the spaceship through, and his head seems to screw itself back on. There’s an itching going down his face and he has half a mind to use his sullied hand to wipe at that feeling. Instead, he swipes his cheek on his shoulder, letting the fabric covering the bony junction soak up the droplets that he thought had stopped a few moments ago.

Exhaling deeply, the man swallows the saliva accumulating in his mouth and opens his eyes. He tucks himself back into his pants with a hard-to-hide grimace, knowing full and well that he’ll be spending the next moments out of the dorms upchucking his guilt into the lavatory before he faces either of the other two organisms on the ship.

“How do people do this regularly?” The man lets out a groan, using the heel of his cleaner hand to press against his eyes for a moment.

He had been doing so well, too (he really hadn’t), but his release was entirely underwhelming for all of the effort he put in. Oxytocin release, Portuguese scientists said, ejaculation triggers a peak in oxytocin levels. Well, they lied straight to the public’s face. Nothing but cortisol was released for Ryland. Cortisol and tears and a surprising amount of ejaculate. Flipping onto his stomach, the man shoves his face into his limp pillow and lightly kicks his legs for no real reason.

“I’m never doing that again. I have to be an outlier because that was an entire humiliation ritual with how unfavorable-”

“Ryland?” Your voice carries through the dormitory and seems to concentrate in the little cavity holding the very man you’re searching for. Instinctively, Ryland stiffens, not wanting to draw attention to himself. He can feel his cock stir in , sandwiched between his body and the mattress in a rather strange position. It’s not entirely unpleasant. “Rocky said you called me. You okay?”

Rocky said what. No way Ryland did that. He was pretty quiet the entire time, so there was no way he called your name! Unless he blacked out for a second, which isn’t entirely off the table. He won’t be surprised if that’s the case, but he will absolutely be humiliated. Calling his colleague’s name when he climaxes. Rookie mistake.

“He must’ve misheard me,” Ryland lifts his head from the pillow, grateful for his orientation so he doesn’t have to see your sweet face immediately after performing something so sinful (he’s never been the religious type, but Catholic guilt apparently gets to everyone regardless). “I didn’t say anything.”

“You sure? Rocky said you sounded hurt,” You sound much closer than before. That’s just lovely to know.

“Well, I’m not.” He couldn’t come up with anything to cover his tracks. What could he have possibly been doing in the dorms aside from its intended use? Exactly. Nothing. “I appreciate the concern, but I’m just fine and dandy. Let Rocky know that.”

Your silence lingers for a moment before you hum.

“Alrighty…” That’s all you say, the doubt in your tone clear as you retreat back to the lab. You mumble to yourself as you leave, something Ryland doesn’t pick up on.

He stays still for a good while before falling back onto his pillow and screaming.

He’s never doing anything like that again.

[doodler-jpeg]

Childhood Hero

Warnings: gn!reader; sfw; age gap (we're pretending Grace didn't age normally on Erid but there's still a pretty significant age gap); READER IS LEGAL!!! READER IS A CONSENTING ADULT!!!; vague spoilers; grace uses mobility aids hc lives in my mind forever; let me know if I missed anything!

Note: tried keeping it pretty short. I'm still working on the one-sided rival!ryland and another thing, but finals are kicking me in the behind so it might take a bit. Please don't let the hype die down 💔 sorry it's dookie :((

Thinking of being fairly young when Ryland Grace is put into history books as Earth's hero (alongside the strange alien he'd dubbed 'Rocky') and learning about him in a science or history class in elementary school. You hear about his achievements and are instantly hooked, deciding then and there that you'll dedicate your life to finding his whereabouts.

Decades later, you're an astronaut on a space ship, fresh out of a coma and eagerly communicating with the very species Grace had encountered years before your birth. You're ecstatic, knowing you're one step closer to solving this mystery, and the Eridians you're communicating with seem pretty amicable, as well. You land on Erid with the help of xenonite structures that prevent the ship from wrecking and are guided to a biodome with little rock creatures acting as makeshift bodyguards.

You get to the biodome, take a step in, and are amazed at the feats this species has managed. How? You can't even fathom any potential ideas as you're ushered into a surprisingly fresh atmosphere. There's not a lot of vegetation, and it's a rather cozy space, but it's almost exactly like earth (why wouldn't it be? It housed a human). It's a new-fish, new-tank situation really, getting you acclimated to the biodome before you meet the only human that had been inhabiting the planet. Hmm

Safe to say, you're geeking. All of your childhood dreams are coming true, save for the wedding of you and your childhood idol-turned-crush (that's for another time). Grace doesn't wander over to your little pocket of the dome, but you know he's been informed of your presence and whatever. Blah blah blah, filler happens before the Eridians deem you acclimated (and Ryland mentally prepared) and let you into the primary biodome with Rocky as a mediator should things go poorly.

Luckily things don't go poorly--you and Ryland get along great and you learn about specifics of his survival and Eridian life. You had been a bit shocked at the sight of him standing with the assistance of a cane, but it made sense considering the circumstances he's been living in and the conditions of the planet. You get to know him, he gets to know you, you guys have completely platonic conversations in the middle of the night when you lose track of the time. The usual.

And then it's time for you to report back, not only on your findings with Grace, but also about the technology of the Eridians. You'd almost forgotten that this had been a research mission you needed to come back from.