The Thing About the End
Pairing: Ryland Grace x fem!reader
Words: 12.8k
About: When you’re not trying to solve the petrova problem and outsmart the end of the world, most of your days have been spent pining for your labmate, Dr. Ryland Grace. But with the end in sight, you can’t shake the feeling you’re out of chances to play it safe.
Tags/Warnings: 18+, lab partners to lovers, insane levels of pining, lots of anxiety about the end of the world, Ryland can’t flirt (or can he?), smut, dry humping, sub! Ryland, reader is a tease, fingering, oral (m receiving), unprotected p in v, dirty talk, hair pulling, no use of Y/N, probably more I’m not thinking of.
A/N: Some references to the book. One scene heavily inspired by Ryan Gosling being unable to keep in his laughter during comedy skits. Also I wrote this ages ago after the movie came out and never posted, I know it’s way too long but… I’m a sucker for a buildup.
You can only think about the end of the world for so long before it starts to become another inevitable. Somehow it even manages to lose it's harrowing gravity every now and then. It's like the sun setting every night. Another fact of life. I am about to be 31 years old, I have spent my life dedicated to scientific discovery and knowledge, I hate the way my stomach lurches when the ship tilts…
And the world is ending.
Which of course, was the reason why you were here battling choppy seas at all. Life on Earth as you knew it had no chance of surviving the 10 to 15 degree drop in average temperature that had been tirelessly calculated by scientists globally since the discovery of the Petrova Line. The light dying. You were among the few people in the whole world who believed there was a way out, you really did — you just needed to figure out what it was.
It felt like an eternity ago when Eva Stratt, effectively the most powerful woman in the world right now, snatched you from your losing battle with the NSF for research grants, and introduced you to the Petrova Taskforce. Then everything was different. But she had formed quite a crew —on this vessel was everyone who had a chance of doing anything about the world ending.
For a bunch of people brainstorming how best to stop an apocalypse, spirits on Stratt’s Vat were far from low. People kept the hope, somehow. The astronauts themselves, a crazy breed even when their trips aren’t one-way tickets, were some of the most joyful, passionate, and inspiring people you’d ever met.
But these days you’d been spending quite a bit of your time, in and out of the lab, with Dr. Ryland Grace.
In the weeks since he got here, stumbling around the corridors, occasionally looking like a lost dog with his messy blonde hair and cozy knit cardigans, you'd grown quite close with the molecular biologist. He was a refreshing change of pace — dorky and awkward as he could be — from the uptight and stone-faced government officials stinking up the place. You got comfortable around him quicker than you'd expected of yourself. When had that happened? In a whole room full of people you knew exactly where you'd look first. A moth to a bright light.
"oh — darn!" you heard him exclaim to himself.
You looked up at him from your desk, pen still in your mouth with thought. He removed his hand from the paper cup with a hiss. You exhaled with amusement.
You'd watched this man use the most expensive scientific equipment with expert precision, and in some ways he was still so completely… ungraceful. He brought the digit to his mouth, wetting the now-sensitive skin and for the sake of professionalism, you continued to pretend you had no interest in observing that very movement.
"That's the third day in a row you've burned yourself on your coffee cup."
"Correction," he gave you a little point, looking at you over his low frames, which were falling down his nose, before turning abruptly to grab a cloth and rehandle the cup.
He walked over to you, looking at the cup as he balanced it, like it might grow teeth and bite his hand, "your coffee cup, today."
You looked up at him. He had an open, but otherwise neutral expression with his arm still extended towards you with the coffee. You studied his face for a fraction of a second. When you took it, your fingers met as he helped you keep the cloth around the exterior.
You swore he inhaled, but you had already averted your gaze from his.
"It's uh, hot." He said lamely.
"Your thorough scientific analysis tell you that?"
But you took a careful sip anyway, not breaking eye contact as you did. As if to say, not really that bad.
He dropped his head to look at you plainly over his frames again, quirking a brow like he didn't believe you. When you didn't back down, staring and sipping further, he looked away — was that embarrassment you noticed?
"Well…whatever," he quipped, "some of us like to keep our taste receptors intact."
The coffee was welcome, and you hesitated to comment on the fact that he knew exactly how you liked it. Not too sweet. You felt a bit of heat on your face so all you offered him was a small, "thank you," as he made his way across the lab.
The other thing about spending day after day pondering an apocalyptic-level event, was sometimes it was really bad, just as harrowing and heavy as you'd expect. It usually hit you when you questioned what you had really done up until this point?
Every now and again was a sudden urge to do things very differently than you had been doing them. For something radical, uncharacteristic, and wild. To do whatever you could before things got closer and closer to unbearable. Before, you know, the earth goes kaput, as Ryland would say. Sometimes you felt that way with particular magnitude when he was around.
You always weighed your options. Watched him, with what could only be considered affection, hang his glasses off his ear in the most incomprehensible way and rub his eyes from tiredness. Stand at the board with his hands on his hips, in "teacher mode." And always, under the excuse of focusing on preventing half the world's population from a very early death, your decision would be reduced to clearing your throat and going back to your work.
You tried to concentrate during the meeting, you really did. But today was really Stratt's forte. Boring government negotiations and political agreements, figuring out how this taskforce can operate under certain international laws. Though based on what you've seen, Stratt had no issue occasionally taking a less-than legal route.
You'd spent so much of your time here in the lab, problem-solving the astrophysics side of things, that you forgot really, how many people on this boat were not scientists. But ultimately, they were all doing everything they could for the same goal.
You were doodling, hoping it looked like you were taking notes if anyone glanced your way.
"China can provide all technology used on the latest orbital experiments," an official over the virtual meeting was saying, not getting into specifics. He was squirming in his seat a little. Stratt was following up with how they were long past national space agency privacy. What one country knew, everyone knew.
You knew it was important, but it was also the first meeting you couldn't contribute to in a while, and you were too impossibly tired to pretend to care.
You scribbled a little more mindlessly when your astrophage expert stumbled in. You wished it didn’t instantly lighten your mood, seeing him walk in as clumsily as always. Ryland froze momentarily at the whole meeting already in effect, but with a quick gesture of Stratt's hand, he walked over to his seat beside you.
"Late again, Dr. Grace." you whispered, not looking at him.
"Only my second time ever being late to a meeting, mind you."
As he shuffled into his seat, his knee bumped yours.
"what did I miss?" He leaned toward you, keeping his voice low. It shouldn't have affected you in any way, the lower timbre of his tone in your ear.
"New astrophage discovery. Stratt's gonna kill you for this."
"Really?!" he said a bit too loud, fully facing you. You got glares from the others at your end of the long table.
You just turned to give him a dry look. Look at the crowd here.
"Yeah, okay yeah. That—," he reduced his voice to a whisper again,"that's what I thought." Before settling fully into his chair, he shot you a "very funny."
He was close, you realized, now that you had turned to him while failing to hide your amusement. His body leaning towards you with enough of an angle that you could feel his breath on you when he spoke.
He looked down at your open notebook, covered in drawings, and you could hear the smirk on his face, "creative interpretation of the meeting?"
He got another sharp look from the woman on his other side, so he shut up momentarily and sat back. It went on for another ten minutes and you knew your lab partner was just as bored as you were.
You saw him eyeing your notebook, which was making you feel a little silly. He smirked absentmindedly when he realized one of the doodles was the Hail Mary with a small frowney face.
Then you watched him attempt, with little success, to pull your notebook over to him without making any noise. You tried not to get second-hand embarrassment at the sound of it sliding along the table, just under Stratt's firm voice.
He reached into his bag to get a pen. He had one in his ear but he clearly forgot. You raised your eyebrow at him, attempting subtlety. He had a lopsided smirk, eyeing you and covering the page with his hand like you were trying to peek at his answers on a test. You rolled your eyes, willing yourself not to smile back.
When his pen stopped moving he covered it with his arm for a minute or so, glancing around the table with his other hand on his chin thoughtfully, even making the effort to nod at nothing.
When he was satisfied no one cared, he slid his hand over toward you, the notebook with it. What the hell was he doing? Dork.
You peered down.
He left you three little angry faced astrophage munching on the outside of the sun beside the Hail Mary.
You leaned over to him again, "you're ridiculous. I thought you taught middle schoolers."
"I'm not the one drawing cute little spaceships during a mission-sensitive meeting," he whispered.
You tried not to harp on the fact he was calling it cute, and that it was slightly teasing.
He tapped your elbow lightly to get your attention and leaned over again, closer, "How long before the guy across from you starts snoring?"
You looked up at the poor guy — definitely passing out, mouth nearly agape —and pressed your lips together as tight as you possibly could. You were a leading scientist in your field, PhD and award-winning researcher; You were above giggling in a meeting. Bored, exhausted, and a little delirious —suddenly the man about to hit his head on the table was the funniest thing you'd ever seen. You glanced to Stratt who seemed to not notice or not care, and you bit your bottom lip hard, trying to tell yourself it wasn't that funny.
You could tell Ryland saw your reaction, because he had to turn his head away from you and cover his mouth with his knuckles to avoid the same thing.
You glanced around. The Chinese government official on the virtual call was still talking.
"Think I just saw an actual fly leave his mouth," you whispered back.
He covered his mouth with his palm and let out the tiniest, barely audible sound.
You inhaled, and with every fiber of your being tried to avoid looking at him. The people beside him turned to glare at him again and he quickly held his hands up in apology.
Your throat felt tight and your legs stiffened up with the effort. You had to keep a straight face. It also shouldn't have been really adorable, the way he tried but couldn't keep himself from laughing.
He gestured to the drawing and mouthed, 'can I have that?'
You pointed at it, as if to say, are you serious?? Apparently he was, because he nodded eagerly before looking away again.
Shaking your head, you tore the corner off your notebook page, before tapping your finger on his arm beneath the table. He slowly moved his hand to retrieve your drawing, his thumb brushing over your fingers, trying to locate it without looking away from the screen. He tried again, and you tried not to focus on his long fingers, or the veins in his hand, or the way they were on you. His fingers grazed yours, and just his light touch made heat dance up your arm. Eventually he pried it out of your grip.
You watched him drop it into his bag.
Your mind was on his fleeting touch, but apparently, Ryland had not yet recovered from the man nearly snoring. You glanced over, accidentally made eye contact and almost broke. He was covering his mouth again, trying way too hard to act casual, and this time it didn't go unnoticed.
Stratt sent daggers your way, but didn't falter for a second as she kept speaking. That was your only warning and you both knew it. Luckily, other faces began noticing their sleeping colleague before the two giggling scientists.
You kicked his leg under the table and that had him making another small sound.
You leaned over anyway, keeping your voice down, "have you finally lost it this time, Dr. Grace?"
He tried catching his breath, and seeing him hysterical was too much.
You snorted and even with several eyes turning to you, you couldn't help but find the whole thing so ridiculous, so absurd. You were the only two who found it this funny.
Both of you, it seemed, were too exhausted to consider the potential embarrassment of the whole show.
“We’re getting kicked out of this meeting,” he whispered, knowing the situation was beyond repair.
You scribbled down in your notebook again, and with a straight face, turned it to show him. He almost wheezed, held his fingers to his temple —was his hand shaking?? — trying to quell the silent laughter and block his sights from you.
It was a goofy stick figure drawing of himself with oversized glasses getting thrown over the side of the ship and yelling.
More like kicked off the boat, you wrote messily.
He shook his head looking at it, breathing deeply to keep himself from laughing.
Stratt made the executive decision neither of you were there at all.
Somehow, after that, the giggles had worn off. You wish you could say the embarrassment returned, but you just felt a bit relieved. Like for a second you didn't have to remember what you were actually doing here, and what would happen if you didn't get it right. It was kind of liberating.
No longer concerned about losing it during the meeting, you turned to look at Ryland again, who this time was actually attempting to listen to Stratt speak. You blinked at his side profile as he pushed his glasses up his face. It had been a while, you realized, since someone made you want to laugh that hard.
And there he was, just, so oblivious to it, to every effect he had on you, staring up at the screen with something… innocent? You couldn't fully place it, but it was making your chest wrench.
You had spent a bit of time, maybe, watching him while the rest of the room watched Stratt and the screen. You chided yourself — the room was discussing saving humanity and you were staring longingly at your lab partner.
When the meeting adjourned he turned to face you, and gave you a tired sort of lopsided smile as everyone else poured out of the room.
Before either of you spoke, Stratt called your names .
You froze, anticipating some speech about the cosmic importance of your work here and how you should hold yourselves better. All she did was even out her stack of papers, and say with a sigh, "you are no longer required to attend meetings that do not pertain to science."
You both shuffled out of the room, saying as little as humanly possible. Back out on the deck Ryland shoved his hands into his cardigan and turned to you, "Wow. She didn't care at all."
"Bigger fish, I think," you said, "also what the hell was that?"
"What was what?" he had amusement written all over him.
"You know what."
He gave you a tired exhale, full of warmth, "I honestly have no idea. I need to sleep for … three days? Then I'll try to get back to you then, maybe."
You hummed, noticing his voice was a little more nasally than usual. He was exhausted. But you had failed to answer, which was his invitation to continue.
"Alright, fine. I won't ever do that again because I know just how much you love those meetings and would rather be nowhere else, even though it hardly even bruised Stratt's ego. Better?"
He brought a smile to your face so easily it was almost alarming. You stopped and turned to him, light from the remaining sun spreading over the waves was hitting him. He looked impossibly… beautiful. Far away. You didn't know. He was right next to you. Right next to you, looking down to your eyes with that same innocence.
What chances had you really taken up until this point?
"It made my day, actually." You stated plainly. It was true, and your tone was absent of the joking nature Ryland was clearly expecting. He blinked back towards you, a little lost momentarily. He was never good with taking compliments. But weren't you running out of time to give them?
"Go sleep, Dr. Grace. I'll see you tomorrow," you said, with the daylight dying. It had given you a thrill, seeing him standing there shocked and maybe even flustered. But a part of you knew, as forward as it was for you, that was the most you'd be saying.
You were anticipating it today. The coffee exchange. When had this become routine?
He'd stumble into the lab, always a bit later than yourself, precariously balancing two of those paper cups of coffee (never remembering the cardboard sleeve to protect his hands.) Then he always handed one right to you, or placed it beside you on the desk if you were gloved up and already at a lab station.
Today you were so overwhelmed with it — something so simple — that you looked at him for too long before reaching for the cup.
"Something on my face?" followed by a small nervous chuckle.
"Where should I start?"
He feigned hurt, "ouch."
He brought the cup closer awkwardly, prompting you to take it, "I would ask who pissed in your coffee but I've made sure that isn't a possibility," he gestured to the mug again, "also I don't think anyone on this ship would ever, uh y'know, do that."
You took it from him, you could tell your prolonged stare made him nervous be cause he kept talking.
"Maybe if you really piss off Dimitri, I don't know. Maybe he has a messed up streak."
You huffed with amusement into your coffee. You couldn't keep laughing at his dorky jokes and awkward defaults. It might not be good for his ego, you thought.
Ryland took a seat beside you, "I don't even know if you'd be able to tell, the stuff you guys drink on here is jet fuel. I mean Stratt is on another level like, I don't know how she doesn't have caffeine poisoning."
Clearly he thought something was still off because he was rambling. It was cute. Fuck, there it was. You found it ridiculously endearing how he could just go on and on and on when he was uncomfortable. His blonde hair was sticking up in every direction, and his glasses hung from his ear at a concerning angle. You were biting back a smirk, looking directly at him.
What would it feel like to run your hands through his hair? To cup his face and run your lips over his jaw? What about his neck?
"I tried to calculate it once and I honestly think it's like 546 milligrams, which is way over the safe daily intake — okay why are you looking at me like that?"
You should be mortified, and you couldn't quite say that actually, I occasionally wonder what sounds you'd make depending on where I touch you. Also I'm afraid if I don't say anything I'll never get the chance to.
Lucky for you, you had a backup plan. With Ryland, it usually involved distraction. Instead of answering at all, you just asked, "How exactly did you calculate that?"
He looked like he needed a minute to process your abrupt chance of pace but as expected, he started up his ramble again. You felt a little bit bad for it, as if you didn't secretly enjoy making him just a little nervous.
Would it be so terrible to be a little bolder? To learn and record the different ways he'd react. You wanted to know him, God you wanted to know more of him. If only you had the time.
Usually, you loved listening to his rants. About cells and space and everything in between. Today, it seemed, you felt a familiar weight that orbited your sense of awareness, launched there by every second of choosing to play it as close to the vest as you felt comfortable. A life of treading carefully. What if you did things differently?
You realized he had finished talking and was looking at you a little concerned. He put on his glasses the proper way, and his eyes were trained to you. The soft blue in them flicking between yours, like he was searching for an answer in that wonderful mind of his. His eyebrows were drawn together slightly. You were staring (again).
Ryland started, "you seem …"
"generally disturbed?"
"…exhausted," he finished, but the corner of his mouth lifted at your words.
You tilted your head and looked at him, the soft lines of his face and the slightly lidded edge of his eyes, "so do you."
He leaned against the desk, and he looked at you in a way you couldn't place. You had a strong urge to reach out and find purchase in anything — his hair, the edge of his soft blue lab coat, the collar of his polo that managed to get unfolded up against his neck.
"Do you ever think about what you're going to do with all the time before we hear back from them?"
It tumbled out of you, not even entirely intentional. He blinked at you a few times, nodding slowly.
"You mean while the world is ending?"
You exhaled a little, grateful someone said it for you. You nodded.
He took a deep breath, looking around in thought, "probably the same thing I was doing before. Not that that was anything amazing."
You remembered how hard on himself he was.
"Ryland, you're a teacher. You're passionate, and smart, and your kids see that," you told him, "They have a teacher that's saving the world. Their world. Don't you think they might admire you? That you have an impact on them?"
He looked away sheepishly. So bad with compliments. He started shaking his head, and leaned back, feeling uncomfortable. But you weren't backing down that easily.
"You're right, they must've sent those and didn't mean a single one," you gestured to the papers stuck to the wall and windows on his half of the lab — all gifts from his students when they were told why they'd have a substitute for science for a while. Bright colors and drawings of the sun, Earth, the petrova line, and their teacher — at the center of it all. A saving Grace, you mused to yourself.
You'd watched him hang up every single one as they came in.
He was deflecting, and you should have expected it, "I also live alone, don't have any immediate family, no significant other, and San Francisco isn't exactly getting more affordable."
You knew he was currently… unattached. You didn't mind the confirmation, though.
"So? I live alone, too. You're saying I'm a loser, Dr. Grace?" You pretended to be offended.
If Ryland was picking up on the fact that you only ever used his title when you were teasing him, he didn't let you know. You're sure he had an inkling, he was a smart man. You were also gathering enough evidence to form the suspicion it got him a little worked up.
He shook his head, "No but you are unbelievable. The word insufferable also comes to mind."
You looked away with a smirk. So he was teasing you back, now? That, you could work with.
You began, "Well, what if I were to insufferably suggest —"
He groaned with false annoyance.
"—that we do things completely differently? And we didn't do the same things we always did just because they're less scary, and we're used to them?"
He was raising a brow at you, uncertain again but soft as always, looking at you like he couldn't fully make sense of you. You were starting to love when he looked at you that way.
"I don't even know what I'd do different."
Me, you thought childishly but didn't dare hint at.
"What about you?" Ryland asked, narrowing his eyes and trying to guess with amusement, "What would you do? Something big, like run away or quit your job, see the world?"
You shrugged, "doesn't sound so bad. But I don't know… maybe I'd just, say what I want to say more often, to start. Tell things to people that they deserve to hear."
His throat bobbed, and his eyes were widening a fraction. He looked almost like he wanted to clarify, like he was picking up on something you were intentionally leaving fuzzy but was far too hesitant to address any of it. Didn't even trust himself to have interpreted it correctly.
For as easy as Ryland was to read about certain things, like when he was nervous and upset, it was actually somewhat hard to tell how he felt about you. What lines he would never consider crossing.
He took a deep breath and cleared his throat a little awkwardly, "so do you… ever miss living alone?"
Where was he going with this?
"Sometimes," you answered honestly. "I'm used to doing things a certain way, I worry sometimes I'd get too easily annoyed if I had to share my space all the time."
He nodded in agreement, "something else we're just 'used to', maybe?"
Now it was your turn to narrow your eyes at him. Impossibly lightly, the both of you managed to tread. It was a little silly, but this was the two of you. And you were both scientists who probably spent a bit too much of your life alone. All things considered, you weren't doing so terrible.
He spoke up again, "well you've had to share pretty much every waking moment in this lab with me for the last few months. Have I driven you insane yet?" He was smiling, polite and friendly, jest behind his words.
"You have no idea, Dr. Grace." It came out of you a little too earnestly. You panicked for a beat. That wasn't what you intended. You meant to tease him and there you were, emotion just barely cracking through, and — was Ryland getting red?
Deflect, deflect.
"No, actually," you decided on, despite your closing throat, "I like having you around, it seems."
As if that wasn’t infinitely worse.
You stood quickly, and he looked up at you from his chair with such wide eyes, like he too, wanted to say so much. Did he ask himself the same questions when you were around? Feel a same sense of urgency. The world is ending and we're acting like we have time to be careful.
You decided to make it easy for him, and say, "I've got a meeting with the astronauts, I'll be back later," before he could make you stay. Because he could, if you let him.
"right…okay…" he managed, but sounded far away, "see you later."
You left your lab coat behind as you left. You'd have to remember how warm it could get in there.
The party was lively. It was happy, and loud, and so not what it should be for a room full of people going on a suicide mission, and the ones sending them. The ones who had to live through the end of the world. You started out with the dissonance, but, the joy was kind of infectious.
They wanted to forget, maybe, and you couldn't be happier to join in. Stratt said it was needed, and as usual, she was probably right.
You sipped your drink (a double, obviously) and watched a few people take the karaoke stage. You glanced around the room with what was maybe too much hope on your expression. There was a small chance what you searched for wasn't here. You scanned for a moment. Looking for the light in a room full of everyone trying to keep it from going out.
"Who are you looking for?" you heard behind you.
You turned your head. Annie Shapiro stood not far away, looking a little expectantly at you.
"Hi," you offered, "Uhm…I just—"
"Dr. Grace?" she asked. You didn't appreciate how knowing her look was.
She was right, of course. You nodded, and she gestured over to the bar, but from where you were standing, you couldn't see him. You squinted.
"You know, no one minds," she shook her head and smiled. She was trying to reassure you, it seemed, but you had no idea what she meant. Shapiro struck you as very forward. And all the astronauts and their backups struck you as unnerving, sometimes. As much as you admired them.
"Martin and I feel the same way," she stepped forward and placed a gentle hand at your shoulder. DuBois?
"Yeah," you nodded. Then paused, "about… what?"
"The end. And how best to spend it," her eyes level with your own, nodding earnestly, "with each other."
You choked on your drink. "We—"
She continued, "It's important, and we understand. We agree. You don't have time to worry if people will judge," she waved her hand flippantly, "and we know what the end looks like but, we don't think it should take away from now. It doesn't make it any less real."
You were blinking at her. In fairness, you kind of knew her and DuBois were a thing (it was hard to ignore) but you never thought you were that easy to read. You never realized people thought…
"Dr. Grace and I aren't together," you felt heat in your face by letting the words tumble out in a room full of people. Although their attention was on whoever was drunk enough to brave the microphone.
She raised her eyebrows, surprised but seemingly believing you, "but you want to be, am I correct?"
"Annie—"
"Okay okay okay, forget I said anything if that makes it better. Safer. All I'll say is…" she lowered her voice a bit to your relief, "don't hold back on account of what anyone on this ship thinks. They already think it."
You were genuinely stunned. You felt annoyed, you felt exposed, you felt vulnerable… and then suddenly, grateful. Understood. Relieved of something you were carrying. You met her eyes again. It doesn't matter, she was telling you.
The end shouldn't take away from now.
"Do you usually feel like you regret what you say, or what you never did?" she asked.
"What I didn't," you admitted and she nodded along, gravely serious, "especially lately."
"Well, you don't have to tell me. You know," she said your name, laughing with relief, "all I think of is the end these days. Dying. For obvious reasons. And they all do too," she gestured to the crowd, laughing and singing and dancing around you, "they just do what they can to survive it. One way or another, they know it ends. So what will you do before then?"
You paused.
She looked at you again, "It's not really meant to be done alone."
"Yeah," you gave her a thankful smile. You supposed it was nice, to be understood. To get pulled out of your head.
"And the sex is really something—"
"Thank you! Annie! Really, I…. I appreciate it. I'm going to go find…" you made an effort to locate Ryland again, if for no other reason than to escape her detailed description of her and DuBois' latest exploits.
She urged you on, waving you off, "Go, go."
You gave her another nod and beelined from the conversation. You sighed. What a breed, these astronauts were.
You pushed your way through the crowd, mingling and turning to see who was next to make a fool of themselves on stage. You tried your best to avoid spilling your drink on anyone, and maneuvered to the bar.
When you looked up, you saw Ryland, hunched over and writing something at the counter, huddled in his fox cardigan and keeping to himself in a room full of people. Something about it made you smile affectionately to yourself.
You approached him, and a part of you worried there would be some lingering awkwardness, some shift or hesitation, never having discussed your last conversation in the lab and sticking to the science almost deliberately. But when he noticed you, he was pulled away from whatever he was writing like he knew you were there. He offered you a small wave and held his head up with his hand.
"What a party," he gestured with his pen to the room,"very… lively," he was nodding at you now with a skeptical look, trying to talk over the music, "very weird."
"Very weird," you confirmed, having finished your drink, you reached over him and placed your glass at the bar. You landed in the seat next to him. Sitting here you knew how right Shapiro was. It was silly to pretend you would be anywhere else in this room.
You glanced behind you to ensure you were a safe distance, and turned to Ryland, who somehow looked so out of place in this room, and also the only thing in your field of vision that appeared correctly.
You leaned in closer to him, "did you know DuBois and Shapiro are…"
"Hooking up?" He finished, "Oh yes, I … I got involuntarily flash-banged with that knowledge. More than I needed, really. More than I ever wanted to know," he said over the loudening singers, pointing to himself.
"Just happened to me," you gestured.
"You too, huh?"
You nodded, laughing. Your drink was starting to get to you, and you couldn't find it in you to worry. You were glad, a nervousness that sat behind you these days had dissipated.
"You gonna sing?" He asked.
"Oh, no," you shook your head and chuckled dryly, "no way. Not here."
He made a point to look around again, "I feel like we need something to break the… tension."
"Tension?" You eyed him.
"No. Whatever it is. The thing hanging over the room," he tried again.
"The end, you mean," you said.
"Yeah. You know what I mean."
"I was just talking to Annie about that. Among other things."
He laughed. It was cute, his laugh.
"Any philosophical revelations?" He inquired. Jokingly, but softly, somehow.
"Some," you said, nodding and looking all over his face. He looked exceptionally soft right now, and it was really starting to get to you. His soft, open eyes and his soft cardigan, and the soft messiness of his hair. Paired with Shapiro's pep talk and the bit of liquid courage, you felt that urgency again.
What if this time you didn't keep what was meant to be shared solely to yourself?
He looked up at you, a little more uneasy but no less soft, "why are you looking at me like that again?"
Fuck it. Maybe you were always going to tell him. But he wasn't getting it that easily.
"This time, there's something on your face," you said. You weren't lying. He had a small smudge on his cheekbone, and when you leaned in to see it, you realized it was ink.
"Pen mark," you told him, before reaching with your thumb to swipe it off his face. He stilled, looking a little dumbfounded at your movement, his eyes staying on you. It didn't seem to want to budge.
"Stubborn pen mark," you corrected yourself. Before you knew what you were doing, you brought your thumb to your mouth to wet it, and wasn't Ryland just so aware of your movement? Eyes locked on your thumb leaving your mouth, a strange look about him molding through his softness…what was it? Like his mind was going fuzzy.
God what a thrill it suddenly gave you, knowing you could turn that quick, scientific brain off instantly if you tried.
How had you gone this long Without trying harder? Why kind of scientist were you if you didn't want to know more?
With your free hand, you cupped the left side of his face, tickled by the light scruff there, making sure to hold it steady. He shuddered slightly, but made no noise of protest. And you brought your wet thumb to the mark on his right cheek and swiped slowly, focusing your concentration on the ink.
"Got it," you said too low to combat the noise of the room.
Ryland was looking up at you over his glasses, so close to you, his blue eyes locked on you, and he nodded, swallowing.
"that's …good," he croaked out. His voice was more gravelly than you'd ever heard it.
You didn't rush to pull your hands off his scruff, your left thumb might've made a small caressing motion. He was surprised, confused, uncertain, and helplessly curious to see your next move. There was a faint pink to his face you couldn't be sure was from you or whatever drinks he might have had.
You should pull away, stop and apologize. Excuse yourself and jump off the side of the ship, maybe. But you felt so right touching him. Finally. Grounded and… complete. You were so drawn to him, so tempted to know more about what he kept safely behind his shield of humor and his avoidance of compliments. And so sure, suddenly, that he would let you see it.
You were aware of it again, and you could tell he was too — how long had you two spent carefully dancing around each other? Caught like a planet and their moon — sharing the same space, drawn toward the other, without any intention of leaving the separate paths you created. Gravity never a good enough argument to meet.
You moved your hands off his jaw and ran one through his hair, brushing some pieces out of his face. He gave in instantly.
Ryland closed his eyes and sighed, leaning into your touch.
And if that didn't undo you completely, he exhaled softly and let you keep carding your hand through his locks. Which were just as soft as you'd expect. He looked so content it was making your head spin. Already so responsive? You wanted to grab a fistful and see what sound he'd make.
Eventually you pulled away, remembered where you were. You blinked and cleared your throat.
His eyes fluttered open, in no rush, and he looked up at you, uncertain as always,
"Was uhh… was there something in my hair, too?"
You shook your head, "don't think so"
He raised his eyebrows and leaned his elbow against the bar again — amused, a little relieved? He let out a laugh, looking at you the way he always did. Like he couldn't make sense of you. He narrowed his eyes at you and tried to keep himself from smiling.
"I didn't think so either, funny enough,"
You mouth an 'oh' towards him teasingly, acknowledging his growing confidence, shifting more comfortably in your seat, and mirroring his position with his elbow on the bar.
"What exactly are you implying, Dr. Grace?"
He laughed, "I'm not implying anything, you—" he gestured his hand out towards you, "you're the one who, you know."
"Who what?"
"You're going to make me say it?"
"Maybe," you shrugged, "you seemed to enjoy yourself."
He blushed and turned his head inward toward his own fist a little bit, "you…"
Ryland struggled to find the words, looking up, smiling sideways and flustered beyond belief. And you watched, amused.
"I….I what?" you motioned with your hands and tried to encourage him to find the words.
"Don't do that. You're—" he giggled. Oh my God he giggled.
"Insufferable?" You offered.
He nodded, trying to hide his smile, trying to make a gravely serious face, "yes. Yeah, that's exactly it. And we have to talk about it because it's very serious."
"We have to talk about it?"
He nodded. It was so cute when he tried to be serious.
"Then talk, Ryland," you prompted, "I'm all ears."
"Well—,"
You tried to look like you were listening.
"For one," he started, and couldn't seem to say much else. He sighed and tried to start again.
You nodded sympathetically, "and usually you're such a talker."
He was smiling at you — a full, affectionate smile. His face covered in red. His eyes almost pleading. And you could have melted right there at the bar. It was decided. You weren't holding back tonight.
He broke, scoffing to himself and turning to hang his glasses off his ear and bury his eyes in his palms. He said your name, like that was all he could muster. He rubbed his eyes a little.
"Do you… want to get some air?" He asked.
"You read my mind." You agreed.
Really, you were starting to feel heated. Cramped in the atmosphere of the party and … worked up. In more ways than one. You were a little lost in it all. You wanted him alone, and you wanted to tell him everything and kiss him senseless, but at the same time you wanted to get it right and didn't know if he was quite ready for the leap. But you were desperate to get away as long as Ryland was there with you, so you agreed to take a walk along the top deck of the ship. You had to admit, it was the right time to do it.
The sun was just about to set, golden rays touching the sea in a last goodbye. You weren't really thinking about the dying light tonight, but you found yourself staring out wistfully on the walk back, the wind blowing your hair around your face.
He was quiet for a while, you realized. Uncharacteristic.
You stopped at one of the railings of the ship, and he noticed, turning to you. He looked out at the sunset, and back at you.
"Nice," he commented. You nodded.
He joined you hesitantly at the railing, looking out at the lapping waves. You were both quiet for a minute, but you were so aware of his presence beside you. There was hardly a gap.
What if you stopping generating distance?
You bit your lip with a moment's hesitation, and leaned in a little so your arms touched. He stiffened, and tried to keep his breathing even.
He spoke first, unable to stay quiet for that long, "Is this what you meant when you talked about telling people what they deserve to hear?"
You turned to him, exposed and raw and delighted, "yes."
He nodded too fast, "good. That's good."
He leaned further into the space, your arms squished together. There was a lot that didn't need any explanation, maybe.
"You still thinking about it?"Ryland asked.
"What?"
"What you're gonna do. How bad it's going to be. All that apocalypse stuff."
You thought on it, "yeah, but differently. I'm not paralyzed by it. I'm trying to…not do it alone this time."
He swallowed, and you watched his throat bob, the light hitting him so perfectly as he squinted from the sun rays.
"I like the thought process. I'm," he pointed at you awkwardly, "I'm thinking the same. I like it. No notes. I uhm…. "
"You're terrible at this," you told him.
He looked like he needed to get it out or he'd burst, "It's been a long time. Like, a really long time since I've been with anyone. Maybe embarrassingly long. I kind of thought I was over it all, until…you know, you."
You stilled, wind whipping around you violently. There it was. Someone finally said it plainly. No dancing or orbiting or playing it safe. You were, gravitationally speaking, fucked.
"Me too," you barely whispered.
He swallowed again, turning to face you fully, eyes flicking all over your face behind his glasses. He brought a hand up and gently moved your hair out of your eyes, trying a few times to fight the wind and tuck it behind your ear. You were so close. You had forgotten how tall he was. His hand was pushing your hair away to keep your face clear, and you were transfixed on his long fingers, the veins along his knuckles. Fuck, his hands were pretty. You wanted them elsewhere. Right now.
You sounded breathier than you were expecting, "I don't want to push, Ry," he stiffened at your nickname, "but you really can't keep looking at me like that. Like you're mine."
"Not good?" he questioned.
"No, very good. Too good."
He leaned in, his breath at your ear again, his voice sending heat to the bottom of your stomach, "maybe you're not pushing." Maybe I am yours, you almost heard.
Before you could waste another second, you gripped the collar of his cardigan and pulled his lips to yours, crashing him to you. He made a small noise of surprise, and you gripped tighter. There was that collision. He gave in, returning the kiss and moving his mouth slowly, hesitantly, against your own. You mouthed at his bottom lip and you swear he gasped, but it was hard to tell over the water beneath you.
He pushed into you again, hungrier and desperate, so much so that he almost fell into you, pushing you both back a little and making another shocked sound. You were laughing into the kiss as your noses bumped and his glasses hit your face. His hands found your waist to quite literally keep himself upright.
Ryland was hardly doing anything but being himself, kissing you with such earnestness and his eyebrows drawing together impossibly tight like you'd disappear from his grasp if he pulled away. It was already affecting you. Your hands reached to the back of his head where small strands of thick, blonde hair met his neck. You scratched the skin there, and he made a breathy sound into your mouth.
He was in no rush, keeping the kiss slow. His lips were so soft, so soft and you needed more. You needed so much more, and you weren't going to get it here. You needed all of him, and months of not having each other were making the both of you frantic. His kisses were exactly what you'd expect of him. Unpracticed, flushed, and sensitive. Experimental. Curious. Like he was trying to learn you, and you certainly intended to teach him.
He tasted a little like coffee, a little sweet? He probably had skittles stashed somewhere in his pocket he picked on before the party. Your hands found their way beneath his cardigan, and slowly spread your fingers tortuously against his sides. He made a choked sound and broke away like you'd burned him. He was so flushed, so pretty.
He said your name, breathing heavy. He ran a hand through his hair, readjusted his glasses.
"You're so pretty, Ry," you told him.
He shook his head, almost trying to hide his face. And you had had enough.
You grabbed his wrist, and looked him in the eyes, "If you have no objections Ryland, I'm going to show you how to take a compliment."
The walk to your room was ridiculous. Nervous giggles, Ryland tripping over nearly everything on the way there, avoiding almost no one because everyone was gathered elsewhere. He was starting to get a little giddy, you thought. Letting you drag him by his wrist, smiling at you to an almost goofy extent. Eventually he twisted his hand to get out of your grip and intertwine your fingers instead. He really was going to kill you.
When you finally, finally, stumbled into your room, he hardly waited for the door to be closed to reach for you face and pull your lips back to his. He was smiling into the kiss, dork that he is, and holding your face almost reverently.
"I'm so lucky I got pulled onto this… stupid…project," he was huffing between kisses, his long fingers at the side of your face.
You knew he didn't think any of it was stupid, but you also knew what he meant. Staring down the end of a barrel, knowing how impossible the odds you were all facing actually were, suddenly was worth it. For all of this, you'd do it again.
You stepped into him fully, closing any gaps between you and clinging to him. His hands found your waist again, and you brought your arms up his shoulders, gentle and slow, until his cardigan fell to the floor.
It wasn't just a distraction, you realized, feeling him part his lips for you, let you in and taste him. It wasn't pretending you didn't have to confront the end of everything. It was there every time you looked at him, every time he reached for you. You saw it in him, and whatever you both admitted today was also admitting you knew the end, you always had. Whatever was between you felt just as big and cataclysmic.
You experimentally flicked your tongue out against his parted bottom lip again, and he let out a sound — something between a pant and a moan and it drove you insane.
He was breathing heavily when you broke away from him for air, his scruff tickling your chin.
"I meant what I said, you know —" he started, "it really has been…a while. I'm not used to," he gestured around the both of you, "this."
"S'okay," you murmured, planting a kiss along his jaw, then trailing up toward his ear, "we can go as slow as you want. I have all day."
"I just w— just wanted you to be aware, I—" he broke off with a gasp when your lips sucked against his neck, "I might be a little —" he made a swooping motion with his hand. When you pulled back and raised an eyebrow, he cleared his throat, "on the fast side."
That much, you expected.
"Dork," you teased, before your teeth found his neck again. He let his head fall back further to give you more access. "Why don't you just let me take care of you, and leave the thinking to me for a change? All you have to do is tell me what feels good."
He looked like you punched the air from his lungs, eyes wide with desire, frozen in place. He nodded a little too fast, and you admired the way he looked now, with his sweater off. His arms were much more defined under his t-shirt than you'd ever expected. You'd have to give them some attention, maybe.
"Yeah?" you confirmed, prompting him again to be sure.
"Yeah," he said.
"Get over here, Dr. Grace," you murmured, and he obeyed, crashing towards you with another desperate kiss.
"You really are something else," he said into your lips, a hand at the back of your head.
"insufferable?" you asked.
"insufferable," he repeated, low and breathy and making you hot all over, "drive me crazy."
"Do I?"
He nodded, eyes closed and focused on your noses touching, "all the time."
"I like to keep you guessing," you told him plainly, hands on his chest.
"Oh really? Like wha—OOF—" you pushed him backwards onto your bed, watching him look up at you, wide blue eyes, glasses askew, red creeping up his neck.
"You're so perfect, baby," you told him, and his breath hitched. His brows creased together again, like he didn't believe you. He readjusted, pushing up against the pillows to be sitting more upright, his expression changing. He was not about to get insecure on you.
You made your way to the bed, swung a leg over his hips until you were straddling him. He sighed, and he was right — he was already hard, your hips sinking onto him. It took a lot for you to control yourself knowing that, feeling his cock strain beneath his jeans just from making out. You reached out and adjusted his crooked glasses back onto his nose properly. There was no way he was taking those off.
"Worked up for me, already?" you teased, but placed your hands beside his head, looming over him, "you're not going to be able to do anything wrong here, okay? You're getting me worked up too, just sitting there."
He nodded, his flush returning to his face and his lips turning upward, and he was relaxing. He was giving in. To you. That knowledge made heat pool in your core. So good.
You leaned forward against him, one hand scratching his scalp and lowering yourself to his ear, "You have no idea how badly I want you, Dr. Grace."
His title had an affect on him, just as you suspected. Ryland groaned at your words, his hips moving up against you. Oh, he really had no idea yet. Just wait, you thought.
You ran a hand down his chest, feeling the light muscle beneath his shirt, “Such a smart boy…at least until I start touching you, it looks like.”
His face was so red, heat was emanating off of him, blonde hair falling just above his eyes, and he said your name like he was begging for something. To stop teasing?
You began moving against him, playing with the hem of his shirt. You tapped his stomach, asking permission. He nodded eagerly, and sat up to help you remove it.
You leaned over to kiss his shoulder and down his arm, while it wrapped around to hold your mid back, keeping you on him. Close to him.
"You were hiding nice arms under those cardigans," you told him.
He smiled a little sheepishly. You huffed a laugh and bit his bicep gently.
"You— oh wow—" he managed, his tone wobbly.
You kept your hips moving on him. He moaned loudly when you grinded against his erection, and it was like music to your ears. You didn’t have to wait any longer to wonder what he sounded like.
You couldn’t stop yourself, your breath quickening as you rode his thigh, occasionally hitting him where he cried out for you, and building up the wetness already collecting in your pants. The friction was addicting. The way he sounded, the soft, pliant look he gave you — it was too much.
“Your sounds are making me insane, Ry,” you told him. You were already getting lost on him, and all your clothes were still on. Impatient of you, a little. He really didn't seem to mind. His long fingers were splayed out on your thighs, like some lazy and false attempt to stop you from grinding so hard that failed before he tried it.
But God — the way he was looking up at you, like he was helpless to do anything but that.
If you didn’t know any better — didn’t know the way his cheeks flushed, his eyes went wide, little whiny pants falling beautifully from his parted lips — you’d say he looked agonized.
Absolutely wrecked beneath you.
And it was making you dizzy, the bulge of his hard-on still hitting your clit with the perfect friction of his jeans. He would let you come undone, right here, just like this, wouldn’t he? he might even cum, too. Make a mess of his pants before he could even get it out, with you riding his thigh and grinding his trapped cock like your life depended on it.
“Baby—“ he panted. And the word alone had you inhaling sharply, a moan escaping you.
“Fuck, say that again,” you commanded breathlessly.
He choked back a moan, “baby, please.”
You had to stop your movements against him, you knew you did. You wanted to do this right. But his wrecked, desperate gaze was driving you wild, heat pooling in your core and dripping from you with just the soft sounds you coaxed from him. You were getting wound up just from learning how far you could push him.
What else would he let you do?
“Ry…” you huffed, “you feel so fucking good under me.”
He scrunched his eyebrows together and his hands came up to grip your waist so tight you wondered if there would be marks there tomorrow.
You hoped so.
You were getting feverish, seeing him like this, hearing him gasp and his hips stutter with the effort of not bucking up mindlessly into you. You could also tell, his eyes squeezing shut, and his breathing quickening, he was either getting close or getting really nervous.
You had to make sure it wasn’t the latter.
“Ry?”
He gave you a pathetic little, “uh-huh?” Like he was hardly there in front of you anymore.
You ran a hand along his jaw, “Ryland.”
He opened his eyes.
“Relax, baby. We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for.”
You reassured him, somehow managing to stop your incessant grinding against him.
He nodded, gulping, “I want… this.”
He brought his hands up to your face, caressing your cheeks, and looking at you with such intensity, “I want you.”
You nodded, his half-lidded gaze making you feel so hot everywhere.
“How do you want me?”
He shook his head, hands in your hair, “I want you…,” he swallowed, “to do whatever you want.”
Your stomach flipped at his admission. God, he was so good. So willing.
You exhaled shakily, leaning over to breath his scent and speak in his ear, “I want to make you feel good.”
He whimpered. Fuck, he whimpered.
“I want to ride you, baby.”
He groaned, a low and pained sound and his cock twitched under his jeans.
You reached down to his belt, tugging at it and unbuckling it tortuously slow.
“But first….” You dragged his zipper down, and reached for the waistband of his boxers, “I want to taste you.”
“You’re…” he was breathing so heavy, “you’re gonna kill me.”
You smirked, dragging his waistband lower and lower until his cock, thick and weeping, sprang free. It fell against his stomach, already leaking onto him. Begging for your attention. Fuck, he was perfect. He was going to stretch you just right.
"Fuck," you commented at the sight of him.
You were teasing him, with no intention of going easy. You gently blew cold air to his tip and he hissed, reaching out to hold your head, before he pulled back, hesitant.
You let go of his pants, letting them fall, and grabbed his hand, guiding it back to your head.
“Hold me wherever feels right. I mean it. And stop thinking so much.”
He nodded, his pretty face so gorgeously flushed for you.
You shot forward and ran your tongue up his shaft before he could protest, eliciting a broken moan from his throat.
“Shhh—-shit,” he gripped your hair.
“Thought you had a thing about language,” you teased.
“You—“ he gasped as you swirled your tongue at his head, “you’re —- oh my God you feel so good. I can’t —“
Most of his words dissolved into moans.
You could listen to his broken voice like this for you forever and never get tired of it. A little raspy and fully desperate. One hand lost in your hair, the other scrunching the sheets so tight it looked like he might rip through the fabric.
He huffed your name pathetically, “I’m not… not gonna last very long.”
You were sure of it.
“I know baby,” you murmured before taking him again, mouth around his cock, slowly bobbing your head as he stretched your throat. You didn't dare complain, you're not sure you've ever wanted anything more. His face was scrunched up, and you moaned around him, which made him grip your hair tighter and let out a strangled sound. With your other hand, you moved to hold his hips in place, telling him not to grind into you.
You quickly whispered, "patience," before taking him in your mouth again.
Once or twice you abruptly stopped moving, just to drive him a little crazy. You let him nearly bottom out, swallowing around him to see him expose his neck needily. He let his head fall back and he begged quietly, "please, please, please."
It was hard not to give him what he asked for. You took him a few times, taking all the time in the world, occasionally looking back up at him, and you could tell he was struggling — hips nearly shaking, trying not to cum down your throat.
You released his tip with a pop. God he was so worked up that he looked like he was in pain. Any second now.
"Don't hold back," you told him, pumping him with your fist, "that's it, just let go for me, I want to watch you. You better not be all talk, Dr. Grace. Show me how crazy I make you."
And he listened, as good as he was, releasing into your hand and on his own stomach with an unabashed whine. His whole body stuttered. Eyes squeezed shut. Then his chest was heaving up and down, and you swear he's never looked more beautiful.
If you weren't soaked before, you were now. You could hear your heart pumping in your chest. You brought your thumb up to your own mouth to taste the cum he left on you and he regarded you with heavy eyes, huffing like you were overstimulating him.
Maybe another time.
You haphazardly wiped what was left on your hand on your own shirt before pulling it above your own head, not giving him a second to come down from his high before getting closer to give him another gentle kiss. So soft and attentive it was like you didn't just make him see stars and planned to do it again.
You brought your hands to his face, and you kept your voice low, "you did so good…so responsive, baby."
He sighed, some mix between exposed and relieved, laying there catching his breath, completely spent, "Oh my God."
"Good?"
He pushed his glasses up to his hair and covered his eyes with his hand, but you saw him start to smile, "shut up. You know it was."
"Sure sounded like it," you confirmed.
He shook his head beneath his hand, and started laughing a little breathlessly. He finally lifted his hand to look at you, expression soft and unsure and searching your eyes for something.
"You really are perfect," you said to him, thumbs making circles on his cheeks.
Ryland looked like he could cry, "look who's talking."
His eyes dragged down your half-exposed form, inhaling and looking back up at you with something close to disbelief. Awe. Devotion? His hand rubbed your shoulder, and pushed your hair back again, "you're so beautiful, sweetheart."
You shook your head at him. How could he not know how good he was, how wonderful, and the effect his had on other people? You thought about where you were again, and realized how you hardly remembered what it was before he got there. In a strange way, it was like this mission revolved around Ryland Grace. Like he was single-handedly bright enough to keep the sun from dimming at all.
And you couldn't get enough of it.
You lowered yourself back to his ear and flicked your tongue out against it until he closed his eyes into the sensation.
You kept your voice low, "I think I remember saying something about riding you, yeah?"
He made a low sound, nodding up at you, "it does ring a bell."
You reached up and pulled his glasses back down again, "need you to keep these on, Dr. Grace."
He shuddered and groaned again at your use of his title.
You let him process that, wasting no time in working on the button of your jeans. Ryland leaned over, clumsily helping you pull them down your legs, drinking in the sight as you exposed more of your skin. You almost commented on how hot it was that he was completely bare before you had even taken anything off.
When you slid everything off completely, you straddled him again, and ran your hands down his chest until you reached the dirty blonde trail of hair at his belly button. There was still some of the mess he made from earlier clinging to him. And you figured there was no point in cleaning it up if you were just going to make another mess.
He looked at you like he couldn't quite decide where to put his hands first. Eventually he reached up to gently cup your breasts, thumb brushing over the nipple. Your eyes shut at the feeling.
Ryland was touching you so softly it somehow left you feeling the absence more and more as he moved to the next spot.
So softly that for just a moment, you could care less what stars were dimming and what energy-greedy bacteria were making their way across your skies and anything that wasn't his hands on you. Finally.
He was still looking at you like he couldn't make sense of it. You leaned down to kiss him everywhere you could think of until you wiped that expression off his face. If his eyebrows weren't drawn together in pleasure, he wasn't as lost and blissful as you wanted him.
He hummed as you kissed his cheeks and his jaw and the tiny bump on his nose like you'd never get the chance again, feeling his hardness against you as you moved.
"That was fast," you teased.
"Shut up," he murmured against your lips.
"How long have you been touch-starved like this?"
Ryland sighed, "a while.. dont even, don't even remember right now."
That made you let out a low groan and whisper, "that's what I want to hear."
He seemed like he wanted to say something else.
"Can I—?"
"Yes," you told him without knowing what it was.
He cupped your breasts and brought his mouth to your nipple, sucking gently. That made you grip his hair tight. He whined, tongue moving in circles as you tugged his hair.
"You like when I pull your hair, huh?" You asked, and he managed a pathetic stutter.
You let him continue his ministrations on the other side, watching his lips suction your nipples and his tongue flick out and fuck— his glasses were starting to fog up from his concentration there.
"Perfect boy," you purred, and he let out such a gorgeous sound as he ran his tongue over you.
You pulled him off slowly.
"Want you to feel what you do to me," you told him, guiding his hand to what was dripping from your folds.
He made another desperate, choked sound when his fingers brushed your pussy. He looked up at you for approval, making you feel needy all over again.
"Put those pretty hands to use, yeah?" you asked him sweetly.
The dirty talk worked well on him, you noted. And of course, he listened, his thumb searching gently for where you were most sensitive, and watching your expression to gauge his success.
Ryland thumbed tiny, tight circles at your clit, and apparently all it took to make you moan was watching his perfect hand, the veins along his fingers, flex carefully against you.
"Ry," your breath hitched. You held onto him.
"I know," he looked between you and his thumb on your clit frantically.
"Ry—"
"I know, I know…"
His name fell out of you like a prayer, like you might even consider believing in a heaven when he was done, because God how could you finally have him like this? Like you've always wanted.
"Ryland.."
"Yeah?"
"Don't you dare stop," you told him.
"I won't, I won't," he promised up at you, "you're unbelievable, and I want… wanna return the favor."
"So good," you whispered, and his movements faltered, His hips bucking up to you. His cock hit you and he whined again, trying to stay focused.
He turned his hand, and with two fingers, he lightly tested the walls of your entrance instead. You fluttered for him instantly, nodding your head to prompt him forward.
"I can't—Can't believe how wet you are," he was panting, mind hazy. But you really fucking liked hearing him talk like this. His intrusion was so welcome, your walls squeezed, practically sucking him in.
With his fingers inside you, Ryland flattened his palm against your clit and the sensation of all of it was too much. You grinded against his hand, pushing his fingers deeper, stretching inside you, and his palm flush against you.
"Right there, right there," you assured him, "that's it that's it that's it, you feel so good. Doing so good."
He whined at your words, loudly. Yeah, that checks out, you mused to yourself. Ryland Grace had a praise kink. Couldn't take a compliment, but he reacted so well to being told how good he was doing for you.
Noted.
You watched him work on you, the veins in his lower arm were visible with his palm flexing. He was laid out beneath you, skin bare and flushed, glasses a little foggy, refusing to look away.
"Okay," you breathed, your core fluttering, "need you."
"You have me," he answered, fully serious.
You laughed, high and out of breath, "no I mean…I need you inside of me. Now."
"Oh, yeah… yeah, I—," he panted, "I'd love that."
You laughed again. he broke out of his trance a little, "what?"
You shook your head, reaching down to line yourself up with him, fully gripping him again, "nothing, Dr. Grace."
"Oh, shi— holy moly—"
Ignoring the fact that he actually just said holy moly at the feeling of your wet folds against him, you felt a surge of affection at the same time. He was cute. And a loser. A very hot loser. And you needed him worked up again.
You were toying with him, running his tip back and forth along your wetness. He was leaking with precum, and he looked up at you with a pout and a little bit of defeat.
"What's the matter, hm?" You asked.
He sighed so beautifully, "tease. N-not fair."
"But you just sound so pretty." You rolled your hips over his length.
He was letting his head fall back again. As if he wasn't strong enough to do anything about it. He probably was, you glanced at his strong arms again, and you didn't mind the thought. But you were so content with watching him struggle, knowing he just couldn't fight it. All he managed was a needy grip on your hips to keep you there, as if you could fly from his orbit.
Unable to wait another second, you lined him up and sank onto his length, your head snapping back with the stretch. He gasped as you took him, mouth agape and moans falling out. He was getting a little overwhelmed with the feeling, it seemed. Lost in it. He watched his cock disappear into you as his brows drew together in that impossibly tight way.
"Ry, you fit so perfectly…like you were made for me," you said. The stretch was delightful, turning into a feeling of complete fullness. Joined together as close as you could possibly be, and it still wasn't quite close enough.
"You feel— you feel—"
"Finally out of words, huh? Don't stop talking, Dr. Grace."
Ryland was whimpering, hips struggling to stay in place. He wouldn't last forever, but at this point, neither would you.
"Feels so good," he managed, "I can't think straight."
You were starting to feel the same way, losing your control a little as you slowly began moving up and down, circling your hips. You could tell he wanted to fuck up into you instinctually.
"Go on, baby, move with me," you told him.
He began moving, meeting you in thrusts that matched the pace of you sinking onto him. As he picked up speed, you felt his tip brushing against that spot deep inside of you that made you cry out.
"Fuck! Talk to me, talk to me," you said sternly.
"Uhhh— can't. Feels so good, taking it so well, so so well," he said. When he saw the effect his words had on you, he was spurred on, eyes focusing on you and moving with more sustained rhythm.
"Tell me — tell me I'm doing good," he asked you, thrusting up into you faster, "tell me I'm doing a good job—"
He sounded wrecked, begging for approval and praise. You liked the neediness.
"Tell me how good I am for you."
He was going to make you insane, and you had to find your voice over the sounds of your bodies meeting.
"My good boy," you nearly growled it out.
His cock twitched inside of you, and he let out a guttural sound. He was trying so hard to let you finish before he came inside you, and as usual, you were making it hard for him.
You leaned down to him, keeping up the pace, and finding that sensitive spot beneath his ear just to coax more noise from his lips.
"M'so close, I'm— I can't believe I'm inside you like this, I can't —just so —"
You didn't mind his babbling, noncoherent and ragged, in fact it was effective. Losing yourself in his strained voice, in the reality that you were here and you finally had him and he was hitting you right where you needed and just as desperate for it as you were. Acting like he required you to breathe. It made pleasure thrum through your body, orgasm building.
He was slamming into you, knowing his cock managed to find that spot that had you dizzy for him. Knowing you could have ridden him senseless, using him for your own pleasure. He wouldn't have cared one bit. He'd let you use him completely, and lie there begging for more.
"Look at me, please," he asked weakly, "look at me—"
And his soft, vulnerable gaze is what did you in. Cheeks so flush, hair sticking to his forehead, glasses filthy and fogged over. His open, willing eyes sent you over the edge, and whining high and loud, you clenched down around him and came. You shuddered as waves of pleasure traveled from your core through your body.
You felt elated.
And Ryland was right there with you— feeling you clench down on him was all he could take. It had him moaning loud and thrusting into you as he broke, releasing his cum inside you in long bursts. His whole body was shaking with his release. You felt the heat of him dripping from you, and let the last waves of heat wash over you knowing he came inside you. Your pussy was still fluttering as if overcome with aftershocks.
You leaned down to rest your forehead on his, both of you struggling to catch your breath.
If anyone was still around and not at the party, they definitely heard you. Fuck if you cared.
Ryland was flushed beautifully. He looked like the sun itself, so much so you hadn't even noticed it set completely from the small window in your cabin. You kissed his nose and he shuddered. He said your name in a hushed, low tone.
You breathed with him for what felt like an eternity. You moved enough to free him from your tight walls, and he hissed, still sensitive. When both of you spilled onto him, he gave you one last, delightful little whimper.
You stayed there pressed together , your chests moving. And as he usually did, Ryland struggled to stay silent.
"I ..," he swallowed thickly, still recovering while you adjusted his glasses (again), "I just want to clarify something."
You pulled back to look at him.
He watched you softly, eyes on your chest, your neck, and back on you face, his hand coming up to caress your back.
"You're still feeling the whole 'not doing it alone' part, right?"
You drew your brows together.
"Because," he continued, "I'm not going to be able to stop thinking about you and, we, I mean while we're talking about all this end stuff and watching it go by either way, I just think—," he was getting in his head again, "I think…."
You grabbed his face.
"Don't you think for a second I wasn't absolutely certain, Ryland. If the next thirty years are all we get, or the next thirty minutes, I mean it. Success or failure, and the whole mission aside. You're… you're not going anywhere."
He almost sobbed with relief, pulling you against him again.
"Oh man…," he sighed into your hair, "how'd I get this lucky?"
"I ask myself the same question," you admitted, "I guess I wouldn't take back any of it. The Petrova line and the astrophage and wondering when it'll be before we get too cold and too hungry."
"I guess not," he agreed, "I'm…just glad it's not us going up there. At least we have a little time."
"A little time," you agreed into his neck. Taking in his scent and his hand moving gently across your back.
A little, but not enough.
Then you sat up, looking at him wildly. And he knew that look, regarding it with some concern.
"Why do I get the sense you're about to suggest something insufferable, sweetheart?"
"I am," you eyed him.
And he looked up at you in that soft, adoring way, head tilted and prompting you gently to go ahead. Because he'd listen. Of course he'd listen.
"I suggest we start not wasting it."
A/N: I hope everyone enjoys! I will make a masterlist eventually when I put more fic on this blog…. perchance I will post part 2.
