The first time he takes you out, he does it old-school. Opens every door, pulls out your chair, makes sure your glass is never empty. He’s got that weathered Hollywood charm—always smells like expensive cologne and leather from his truck. He doesn’t flash cash, he just has it. Pays for everything before you can even reach for your wallet.
He texts you like a boomer when he's older and settled himself down a bit more. Full sentences, proper punctuation, sometimes a single thumbs-up emoji. He still sends you memes and is actually funny and well versed in gen Z shit lol. You know that means he’s thinking about you when he sends you memes with 0 context.
Colt is surprisingly domestic. When you stay over at his place—a sleek but lived-in house in the hills—he insists on cooking breakfast. He makes perfect scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and strong black coffee. He tells stories about the stunts he’s pulled, the bones he’s broken, but never in a bragging way. More like he’s letting you in on the secrets of his world.
He’s protective, not possessive. If some guy at a bar hits on you while Colt’s grabbing drinks, Colt just appears at your side with a calm “You good, sweetheart?”—and the guy backs off immediately. He doesn’t need to puff his chest. The confidence is enough.
He loves buying you things you’d never buy yourself. A cashmere sweater because it was cold. A vintage record player because you mentioned you liked vinyl. Not flashy jewelry or cars—just thoughtful, practical luxuries that make your life easier or warmer.
His favorite thing is when you fall asleep on his chest while he’s watching action movies. He’ll stay perfectly still, arm curled around you, until you wake up. Then he just kisses your forehead and says, “You snore cute.”
NSFW! MDNI 18+
The first time you sleep together, he takes his time. He’s been around long enough to know that rushing ruins everything. He strips you slow, kissing every inch of skin as it’s revealed, murmuring dirty praise into your ear. “Fuck, look at you. So damn pretty for me.”
He loves guiding you. Whether you’re on top or he’s bending you over the kitchen counter, he keeps a hand on your hip or the back of your neck—steady pressure, full control. Not rough, but firm. He wants to feel every movement, to make sure you’re taking it the way he wants.
His favorite position is missionary with your legs hooked over his shoulders. He gets to watch your face, your tits bouncing, and he can lean down to bite your lip or whisper dirty things. He fucks deep and slow, building you up until you’re begging. Then he picks up the pace, grunting, “Come for me, baby. Let me feel it.”
He’s a giver in bed. He’ll eat your pussy for as long as you let him—on the couch, in the shower, first thing in the morning with morning breath. He loves the way you whimper and grab his hair. His tongue is precise, knows exactly where to lick and suck. When you finally cum on his mouth, he groans like he’s the one getting off.
He talks dirty, but never mean. “That’s it, take my cock. You feel so fucking good.” “Such a tight little thing f'me, huh?” He knows the age gap turns you on, and he’s happy to lean into it without making it weird. It’s about trust, not power.
He cums a lot, and he’s not shy about it. When he finally lets go—after making sure you’ve cum at least twice—he buries his face in your neck and pumps hot ropes deep inside you or over your stomach, growling your name. Then he stays buried for a moment, catching his breath, lips pressed to your pulse.
Aftercare is non-negotiable. He cleans you up with a warm washcloth, gets you water, wraps you in a blanket. He’ll hold you on the couch, running his hand down your spine, and ask if you need anything. If you’re sore, he’s immediately checking if he was too rough. You have to reassure him you loved every second.
He has a thing for spontaneity. If he’s working late on set (he does stunt consulting now), he’ll text you a picture of his hotel room keycard. “Come keep me company.” You show up in something short, and he has you pressed against the door before it’s even closed, kissing you softly and like a schoolboy. But he fucks you like a man who knows exactly what he’s doing.
His favorite spot to cum is your mouth. He’s not demanding—he’ll ask, “You want my cum in your mouth, sweetheart?” while stroking himself. And when you take him down your throat, he praises you the whole time. “Good girl. Swallow it. Show me how pretty you look with my cock down your throat.”
Synopsis: Doctor Grace kept the glasses on and so did your toga.
Pairing: Ryland Grace !soft dom x fem!reader!college student
Warning: smut !MDNI! | p*rn with small plot | no use of Y/N | fem receiving - unprotected p in v | college adult students | age gap |
Words Count: 3.8k
Note: I’m starting to see Ryland lil different these days unlike on my first ff that he’s shy baby or maybe professor grace is just really giving dom energy. Idk. pls correct my college dropout ass for any misterm used.
Disclaimer: This is a non-profit fan work made for entertainment purposes only. All rights and credits belong to the original creators. Any fictional elements or resemblance to real people or events are purely coincidental.
[REPOSTING] || MASTERLIST ||
“Good morning to members of the faculty, distinguished guests, proud families, and—most importantly—the class of this batch, graduands. When I look at all of you today, I don’t just see caps and gowns. I see thousands of hours of trial and error.”
There he is. Doctor Ryland Grace. A stunning man in his mid-thirties, wearing his doctoral regalia with slightly messy hair and tired eyes that somehow only made him more charming. PhD in Molecular Biology and one of the most well-known professors—not just at your university, but even at nearby campuses in the state.
You can’t deny how good his physique is under that doctoral toga he is wearing while delivering his speech. Maybe the fact you’ve seen him a hundreds of times with those intentionally fit shirts he is wearing in his classes.
“Science teaches us that progress is rarely a straight line. Rockets drift. Experiments explode. Sometimes you spend months proving your own idea was completely wrong. But that’s the thing about discovery—you adapt, recalculate, and keep going. When you first came here, most of you were searching for direction. Now? You leave this place as people capable of changing the trajectory of whatever world you step into…”
Everyone applauded as he finished his speech and went back to his seat to join the other members of the department. Since you were seated near the stage, you have a nice spot to see him.
As the ceremony continues, You noticed that he has this timely checking on the crowd, looking for something and taking it back pretending to be interested in the ceremony that he has attended many times, too many to count.
After a couple of attempts eyeing the crowd, his eyes finally landed on you. stayed for a couple of seconds trying to make sure if it was really what he was looking for. You tilted your head and that's a confirmation for him of you.
It took ages to start marching to the stage, luckily your department and name were part of the first ones to get their degree made from the blood, sweat and tears of years but hours of waiting was just but of years suffering in college.
As your name was called, you walked across the stage with pride swelling in your chest, the sound of applause echoing through the hall as you accepted the paper that certifies all your years of hard work. One by one, you thanked each faculty member for their congratulations, shaking hands with professors ranging from the kindest mentors to the strict ones who had been a complete pain in the ass during your studies.
And then, most importantly—
“Congratulations. You deserve it.”
Dr. Grace offered his hand, and you gladly took it, warmth spreading through you at the sincerity in his smile. You barely have physical contact with him so simply shaking his veiny hands were already sending you tickles. “Thank you, Dr. Grace.”
His eyes straightly looking at you like trying to convey a message. You had to let his hand go and move forward when a line of graduates who also wanted to greet the Doctor filed up on the stage. He continued to greet and shake hands but his eyes were secretly following you.
Dr. Grace was one of the great professors in the town, with a kind of strict deadline, but just the same as other professors with a bunch of papers to go home with. He was considerate, had longer patience explaining and soft spoken.
He wouldn’t lie that you are one of his favorites— no competition since the rest of his favorite students were male students in the same level of nerdiness as him who he played online games with during his free time.
But with you, it's different. His approach was soft, but the tense he gave when he was around was silently heavy.
You have also noticed his patterns, he can fully explain the theories of the origin of the universe or maybe the light years towards other nearby stars from earth but he can barely answer questions about his love interest when fangirls in the room start to tease him. Not when you are in the same room.
Another thing’s for sure. You two can't be alone in the same room.
As the ceremony finished, everyone was looking after their special one who attended the event with them, but you look for someone else instead. You found Dr. Grace in the side of the hall greeting the graduates as they exit the auditorium.
He’d already taken off his doctoral robe, leaving him in a fitted polo that looked like it was barely holding itself together—his broad chest stretching the fabric enough that the buttons seemed ready to give up the moment he took one deep breath.
“Hi, Dr. Grace…” You said behind him. He turned around to face you, “Looking fine today.” He’s looking damn fine.
He chuckled with that compliment you have him. Ryland often gets that as a greeting or casual compliment to him by his colleagues when nothing is said in the hallways or in an awkward faculty room. But he felt different when you said that to him. He knew he shouldn't entertain that kind of unusual feeling he felt from his student. It feels inappropriate, unprofessional, exciting, euphoric.
“Oh, Hi… congratulations again.” He said while his toga was hanging in his arm. “Nice dress by the way.” He complimented the dress you were wearing beneath that was overpowered by your toga.
“Thank you, Dr. Grace. Nice gown too. seems like that's your favorite, saw that last year too.” You joked with him.
He looked at his doctoral robe and subdued laugh, “Yeah, I have no choice tho. PhD thingy.” conceited but suits him. it's his bragging rights anyways.
After small laughs, a moment of silence takes place, “So…” He started. “What are your plans then?” He asked.
You realized you haven't planned anything yet since all this time you were amazed on how he got his PhD and was dreaming to have one, making your path unplanned as your mind occupied dreaming of how great to have a PhD like his. “Maybe get some PhD and be a strict cool college proctor, what do you think?” You answered.
Every answer you have never fails to surprise him how clever your mind is. “I guess I'll have someone to recommend for my replacement then. Hope you can get it by next year tho.”
You are eyeing every part of his face, it was like this is the last time you gonna be able to see him. You are looking at someone who made your college journey less stressful and be motivated to complete it.
Looking at him made something ache quietly in your chest. While everyone else was busy saying goodbye to classmates and friends, this felt different for you—far more bittersweet than you wanted to admit. You had spent years convincing yourself he was just a harmless school crush, something small and temporary. But deep down, there was always a part of you that knew he wasn’t and supposed to be not.
Doctor Ryland Grace had been part of nearly all your major subjects since third year, which meant he had somehow become part of your routine too. And now you’d have to walk away from it all—the stupidly well-groomed hair he always fixed with his fingers, the glasses hanging low near his chin whenever he got carried away teaching, and even that clean, addictive scent of his that used to drive you insane during morning classes.
“Wait? What? what ‘by next year’? Are you resigning?” that suddenly hits you.
He answered, “Well, yes? still thinking about it, but I already gave them a heads up.”
You wanted to ask more details as you thought you could still go around here and expect to see him, but guess this makes it harder to go home knowing it wouldn't be sure if you'll see him again. “I should get his socials— no that's not how a student acts.” You said to yourself.
"Who are you here with?" He asked while looking for anyone around.
“I have no one… They are both busy.” No new to you and was expecting it anyways.
For a second he felt bad, He knew he should do something for you.
Treat outside? No, people would think creepy older professor taking his newly graduate student out for a date
Gift? He prepared nothing— the pen!
He recalls you complimenting a pen every time he took it out for an occasional event or when he ran out of a pen to use but the problem is, it is in his office in the next building. That would be inappropriate to ask you.
“I guess I’ll just see you around then? Bye Dr. Grace.” A bitter sweet smile as you walk past him.
“Hmmbefore you go…” He said that made you turn back around to him again.
“Ryland, you shouldn't be doing it. You can just send it to her. ship it or something else. darn it.” He said to himself.
“I have something to give you…”
The footsteps are getting heavier as you two get closer to his office. You were pretty following him, no idea what he was prepared to do, and Ryland doesn't know why he came up with this when all this time he is keeping himself in the same room with you.
Ryland shouldn’t be worried. Really.
He is just handing you his pen, his gift. That was it. Inside his office. Just the two of you. In an almost empty building where nobody would know you were there together.
…okay. Now he is worried again. worried of himself that might snap at any moment. But he kept it cool, as he always does. perfectly not showing any sign of uneasiness.
As you reached his office, he immediately opened it and let you enter first, “Ladies first.” He mumbled. He only realized that he locked the door behind him when he questioned himself why his finger automatically pushed the button as soon as it closed. Like his body did secure privacy by itself without him asking it to do. But now he can’t take it back since it would be noticeable then.
You notice the amount of silence he gives. Yes, he does it sometimes when he is focused with his papers or something else. He often casually talks with you or maybe checks on you if he misses to explain anything from the lecture.
“Here you go…”
and he gave you his precious fountain pen.
He could see how your expression changed, it was a mix of adoreness and confusion. It took you some second before you could compose your words, “I love this, I really do. But— I mean—” You pressed your lips together, “This is too much, Dr. Grace. I can't accept it. This is from your academia.”
“That's fine. It's just a token, after all what I want from them is experience and recognition.” He simply answers, hands in his pocket and sitting on the edge of his table.
You repeat yourself, “I can’t accept this, I have nothing to give you back.” or maybe you could. something that you were thinking about for a long time now.
While he continued to explain why he doesn't need it.
But you have other plan, grabbing his tie towards you and caught his lips with yours.
That made the doctor freeze for some seconds, and didn't move at all, like his brain had completely short-circuited trying to process what was happening. You even pulled him more to deepen the kiss.
This is wrong.
When his subconscious hits him, Ryland immediately pushes you away enough for you to take a step backwards. “W-what did you just do!?” His eyes widen while panting, refusing to believe you just kissed him.
He’s been trying to compose himself not to make stupid move, not stepping in the boundary.
When he realized you froze on where you were standing, he immediately went back to you and held your shoulders to check. “I’m sorry, sorry. I just— Are you okay?”
He gulped. “W-why did you do that?”
“Why? Didn't you like it?” You finally had the guts to ask him.
He was looking straight into your eyes through his glasses, so you knew he couldn't lie. “You are my student.” He gulped.
“Basically I am no longer your student, Dr. Grace. I just graduated if you haven't noticed.” You were giving him all the reason for him to tell you the truth.
“Okay okay— then I was your professor. In t-this college.”
You place your hand on his chest and play with the button of his polo before looking up at him, “Does it mean you don’t like it, Ryland?”
Not with his name. God, not the first name.
Dr. Grace firmly squeezed his eyes shut and slowly shook his head side to side, like he was physically trying to fight off the effect you had on him. You could see him biting his inner lip by the way his mouth moves silently.
This was a battle between integrity and interest for Ryland—but also between two regrets: losing the job he worked for years, or losing the chance to finally have you..
“It’s just the two of us here. No colleague, No peers, Nobody else. Just us.” You paused when he opened his eyes and met yours, “So, tell me, Ryland. What do you really want?” You watched your hand on top of his chest moving along his heavy breathing.
Jaw clenched. throat bobbed. No turning back.
“You're not my student anymore anyways.”
His huge hands cupped your jaw and pulled you to seal your lips into his kiss. nose bumping. his tongue took dominance right away and explored your mouth. It was messy. Your lipstick smudges off your lips. He was starving. Definitely years of holding back and denying his need for you.
Your feet step backwards as he pushes you, never leaving your lips away from him while pulling your face to him like it was never enough. It would never be enough for him.
Your back hits the wall. He immediately took both of your wrists and pinned them above you. “You wanted this, don't you?” He said in between the kisses while his tongue was still exploring your mouth. “You’ve been messing with my head for years.”
He continued, “Do you know what your skirts you are wearing in my class do to me? Do you?” His forehead is leaning on you. eyes were drooling to each other. “It made me want to devour you.”
Your leg involuntarily lifts in the air as he pulls it to his waist. “Show me then, Ryland.”
It didn't take him a second to lift your dress and bend down to level his face to your core. You helped him to set your dress aside. He placed your leg to his shoulder for him to have a better view of you. “Nothing but white lingerie? Is this something you prepare for your graduation day?” You can feel his warm breath in your inner thigh.
“No.” You answer with your voice shaking while his hand on your thigh. “It's for my special professor.” You whispered.
You heard him curse, “You are making this harder for me to be gentle on you.” He said.
“I never ask you to be gentle on me, Ry.”
That's it. That's all he needs to hear.
He tugged your panties aside and started licking your core, making sure you felt his whole tongue wiping you up to your clit. You can sense how much he wanted this. His tongue rubs in your clit in a perfect circular motion enough to send shivers that you feel to your entire body.
His eyes were half-lidded, completely unbothered by the way his glasses had slipped crookedly down his face, barely hanging on the tip of his nose. His tongue moves down and does a little shove on you. “Fuck. Ryland” You grabbed on to his hair.
He replaces his tongue with a finger, and looks at you with full lust in his eyes. “I should have touched you in the back of the class”, slowly thrusting to you and adding another finger, “…whenever I made the class watch documentaries they don't even like.” You gasped for air when he started to increase the pace of his fingers.
“I could have devoured you a long time ago. I could have you instead of those wet dreams, the one that wakes me up in the night.”
He stopped when he noticed a change with your expression, he knew you started to build up your orgasm. “W-why?” You asked with a pleading tone.
“Don't be selfish. Don't you want to share your orgasm while I'm inside you?” Even Ryland couldn't believe the words coming out from his mouth. Maybe this is what happened for years of denying from himself when he knew the fact he wanted you. Integrity is bullshit when the common good is the pleasure you two shared.
He was about to take his glasses off when you stopped him, gently pushing them back up the bridge of his nose instead. “Keep it on.”
The sound of unbuckling his belt made you more excited. and he noticed that. before he could have himself freed, he looked at you. “Want to unbox it yourself?” He guided your hand and slipped into the rubber of his boxers. running to his pubic, and shortly to his shaft.
He instantly reacted when your hand slowly wrapped around him inside his pants. A small jerk in his abdomen was visible.
Like other girls in your class, you’ve been wondering how big he is. You can’t help but to think of it sometimes, especially the time he walks in the class with his sweatpants. And now it's in your hand, you can definitely confirm with the other he is massive. You have decided to take him out. sprung free. out from its cage.
You were surprised when he took your hand off him and suddenly held your throat and made you look up with him. You can still sense his gentleness. He was still worried it might hurt, every move had caution. “Move your dress, else I’m going to rip that out.” It was a warning. It wasn't trying to dominate, but letting you know what his desperation could do.
You followed what he said and as soon as you lift your dress, he pins his cock to your core and rubs it there. He made a jump and wrapped your legs around his waist, and attacked your neck. You let out a small moan right in his ears.
“I've been thinking for months or maybe years that I could survive this need for you when you finally graduated…” He mumbled in your skin, “...but here you are. In my office. Desperate and wet for me.”
Your wetness was already covering him. “Look at me, I wanted to see you.” As soon as you looked at him, your mouth parted open and eyes rolled back as he thrust into you without any warning. He watches you as you react with him inserting inside you. “Fuck— Dr. Grac— Ryland!” Inch by inch, you were taking him well despite his massiveness.
You bit your lip while adjusting to his size. The way your walls clenched around him wasn’t helping Ryland to give you more time while you were still trying to adjust.
Ryland loses his mind when another clench he felt around his cock inside you. “It’s your fault. your fault.” You did not complain and take whatever he gave you. Brows furrowed as he kept thrusting on you. Glasses fogged by his breath.
Your head was back again leaning in the walls, giving him a nicer view and access to your neck. His tongue once again explored the exposed skin in your neck and sucked some spots enough to leave light red spots.
“Is this part of the lesson you t-teach?” Your question made the doctor chuckle but did not stop shoving himself. “What’s the lecture then?”
“A Functional Study of Behavioral and..” He pants in your ear while continuously thrusting deeper to your core, “...and Physiological Synchronization during Human Reproduction.—fuck”
You are trying your best to contempt your moans, “That s-sound interesting, Dr. Grace.” can’t help but to gasp whenever he is getting deeper and harder, “Was it necessary to conduct e-experiment now?”
“Yes.. perfect time to conduct.” and caught your lips again to a torrid kiss.
“Aren't you amazed with human anatomy? Like this.” He took his dick out of you and slid back in till its base. You screamed out his name. “Like how my dick fits inside your little hole there.” He said while you were losing your mind.
“Please… please— oh fuck.” You plead. that familiar pleasure was starting to build inside you. He can feel it. Your squeeze was tighter now despite how wet you are around him. “Ryland— Please…”
“Wait for me. Wait for me.” he said and continuously hit the same spot that drove you towards your edge. Your nail dug to his shoulder, luckily his shirt was thick enough not to leave any scars.
Not long after, Ryland felt his climax approaching. “I'm near. I'm near. Baby. I'm near. A-are you?” muttered in your ears.
You pressed yourself further against the wall, letting him stroke firmly into you as he hit right against your G-spot. Your mouth hung half-open as you tried to catch your breath while his hips continued working against you.
Right rhythm of his thrust inside made you fully build your climax in you. He watches you through his glasses as you call his name that echoed in the walls of his office. After a couple of sliding into you, you finally reached your peak. You locked your legs in his waist and made him stay inside for a couple of seconds. “Hey- stop! I’m n-near. I might— fuck— come inside.”
You can see the way he panics before letting him go. It only takes a few strokes, he came all over your dress.
You both were running out of breath but you were trying not to laugh. “What’s so funny, miss? Hmm?” He said while giving you a small peck in your lips. “You should have seen your face when you panic.”
“I am not planning to have a result of the study after nine months…” kisses your lips, “Plus a baby is not quite best option for a graduation gift.”
Ryland guided your shaking legs down, helping your feet find the floor again. “Sorry I ruined your hair and made a mess in your dress.” His hands caressing your arms.
“No worries, It’s all for you actually. Glad you noticed it.” You respond.
“Definitely noticed it.” His eyes fixed on you.
For a moment it was fun, finally you knew you shared the same attraction with your professor. But you guess this is a bitter sweet goodbye as you two need to part way once you walk out the campus.
“After this, I need to bring you to a proper date, okay?” Ryland said while still panting. Bullet of sweat in his forehead.
“But for now, let me hand them my resignation first.”
============================================
Note: Planning to write another abt professor Grace being jealous to a peer or smthng. Tags?
What do y’all think Ryland’s apartment would smell like? I’ve been thinking about this WAY too much but it just amuses me. I think there’s definitely an air fryer
You are not jealous that your fuck buddy is being flirted with at a party. More importantly, you are not jealous that your academic rival is being flirted with at a party. Because that'd be silly.
Ryland Grace might be one of the most overconfident, obnoxious, insufferable guys you've ever met.
...Maybe not overconfident. That would mean he doesn't have the stuff to back it up, and, unfortunately, he does.
That might be the most annoying part of all of this, that Ryland Grace can actually meet your wit and banter. That he's as fun to be around as he is annoying, that you really wish he'd tell that smoking hot girl to piss off and come over to you.
What was that last part?
No. That'd mean you're jealous, and you aren't. This isn't an exclusive thing between you two, just two people who like to have sex.
Have you had sex with anyone else since you two started hooking up? Not the point. The point is you're at a party and probably should be doing the same thing he's doing: flirting with people.
You look around the party for someone, anyone to come up to when you see a familiar face and you walk over.
"Mark Watney, right?"
The man looks at you and smiles, he's blonde and boyish- maybe reminding you a bit of... no. Reminding you of no one.
"Hey- yeah! We've met before, right?"
You two fall into an easy conversation over drinks, talking about your respective works and schooling and for a moment you see yourself going home with him or at least on a date later when-
"Hey are you free right now- sorry, Park was it? Do you mind if I steal her? Thanks, buddy."
And suddenly you're being dragged away by none other than Ryland Grace.
His hand is warm around your wrist. He has a loose grip, like he already knows you won’t actually fight him on it. You stumble a half-step before catching up, shoes clicking against the floor as he weaves you through clusters of people toward the hallway.
“Wow,” you say dryly, once you’re out of earshot of Mark and the crowd. “Subtle. Really. No one will suspect a thing. You’re great at this whole casual thing.”
Ryland doesn’t let go immediately. He turns to face you, still too close, still holding on just long enough for it to feel deliberate.
“You looked busy,” he says.
“I was,” you shoot back. “That was kind of the point.”
“You seemed… interested.”
You huff a laugh. “God, you’re insufferable.”
“And yet,” he says, finally releasing your wrist, though his fingers brush yours on the way out, “you let me drag you across the room without putting up much of a fight.”
You open your mouth to argue that. Which you can’t.
Annoying.
“You interrupted me,” you say instead, folding your arms. “I was having a perfectly nice conversation.”
“With Mark,” he says, like the name leaves a bad taste in his mouth.
“So you do know his name?”
“Not the point.”
“Feels like the point.”
“You were having a conversation with Mark,” he just repeats.
“With Mark,” you echo, pointedly. “Who, by the way, did not physically remove me from any conversation to do so. Feel like I found a real winner.”
Ryland exhales through his nose, glancing past you toward the party just for a moment.
“You were going to go home with him.”
It’s not a question.
“So what if I was?”
Something flickers across his face. It’s fast, gone before you can pin it down.
“That’s...” he starts, then stops, jaw tightening briefly. “That’s not what this is.”
“Yeah, it’s not.”
The music from the other room thumps faintly through the walls. Someone laughs, distant and bright. And here you are, in this quieter pocket of space, standing too close to a man you absolutely, definitely are not jealous over.
“You had options too,” you add, nodding vaguely back toward the party. “That girl looked very interested.”
“She was boring. Dull.”
“And I’m not?”
He meets your eyes then, properly this time, and whatever easy sarcasm he usually wears slips just enough to show something more focused underneath.
“You’re a lot of things. Boring’s not one of them.”
Your stomach does an annoying little flip. Stupid stomach, you ignore it.
“Then why drag me away?” you ask. “If you weren’t jealous.”
“I didn’t say I wasn’t.”
Damn it.
You blink. “Oh.”
He seems just as surprised he said it, honestly. His gaze drops for a second, then comes back up, steadier.
“I just…” He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling. “I didn’t like it.”
“That I was talking to someone else?” you press.
“That you were about to leave with him.”
The honesty of it sits between you, heavier than either of you seem prepared for.
You swallow, then recover, because that’s what you do with Ryland. Meet him where he is, push back just as hard.
“We’re not exclusive,” you remind him, softer now but no less firm.
“I know.”
“And I’m not yours.”
His jaw ticks, which makes you a little self satisfied. “I know.”
“Then what-”
“You wanted me to come over.”
“I-... what?”
“You kept looking at me,” he says, stepping closer now, closing that last bit of space you hadn’t realized was still there. “While you were talking to him. You kept checking if I was watching. Like you wanted me to come.”
“That’s-” You shake your head. “That’s not-”
“It is. You do that thing where you pretend you don’t care, but you do.”
God he's insufferable. You haven't been able to stand him since you met him, because if Ryland Grace is one thing, it is sure of himself. Sure that whatever he has to say is the one and only true answer.
Unfortunately, it usually is, which makes him even more annoying. A guy who doesn't know what it's like being wrong in his chosen academic field is insufferable.
It’s even worse that Ryland is a decently nice guy outside of it all. Whenever you're talking about things outside of work and sex he's… sweet. It’s annoying. He cares about what you have to say and learns about your interests, he even read a book for you because you said in passing you enjoyed it.
Maybe that's why this is all more weird. The non-labels you put on each other and the way you bite at each other's necks in bed and in the classroom.
You think of the jealousy that bubbled up in your chest when you saw him with that girl, just talking. You feel like a high schooler with a crush, and it's embarrassing. You wouldn't even admit to yourself you were jealous till he did.
Why does it bother you so much? You’re casual, you two fight all the time, talk all the time, you know too much about each other, he's stupidly attractive, he smiles too brightly, he…
When did you start saying positive traits?
He’s really messed you up.
“Why do you always have to be so frustrating, Grace?”
Ryland huffs out something that might be a laugh, though there’s no real humor in it. He shifts his weight, like he’s trying to decide whether to deflect or double down, and, predictably, he doubles down.
“Because you don’t listen.”
Your eyebrows shoot up. “I don’t listen? That’s rich, coming from you.”
“You don’t,” he insists, stepping a little closer again, like proximity will somehow make his argument win. “You hear things, sure, but you decide what they mean before I even finish saying them.”
“Oh, I’m sorry,” you snap. “Am I misinterpreting the part where you dragged me away from someone I was hitting it off with because you ‘didn’t like it’?”
“Yes,” he says immediately.
You stare at him. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I didn’t say you couldn’t go home with him, I didn’t say you weren’t allowed. I just-” He cuts himself off, exhaling sharply. “I wanted you to choose not to.”
You cross your arms tighter, like that might hold your composure in place. “That’s not how that works. That’s not how this works.”
“I know how it works.”
“Do you?” you challenge. “Because it feels like you want something from me that you won’t actually say out loud.”
His gaze sharpens. “Funny. I was about to say the same thing about you.”
You open your mouth, then close it.
Annoying. He’s so annoyingly good at this. Why does he have to be good at everything? Can’t he be bad at something?
Relationships, you guess.
“I don’t want anything,” you say, a little too quickly.
Ryland tilts his head, studying you in that way he does when he’s about to dismantle an argument piece by piece. “Right. That’s why you were staring at me from across the room like you were waiting for me to kiss you.”
“I was not-”
“You were.”
“I was observing,” you correct. “There’s a difference.”
“Oh, of course. Purely academic interest.”
“Exactly.”
He steps even closer, and now it’s ridiculous how little space is left between you. You can feel the heat off him, the faint scent of whatever soap or detergent he uses.
“Then what was your conclusion?”
“That you have terrible taste,” you say, but it comes out softer than intended. “She was dull, remember?”
“That’s not it.”
“No?” you challenge, though your voice lacks its usual bite now.
“No. You were wondering if I’d leave with her.”
You hesitate, just for a second, yet long enough to give yourself away…
Ryland exhales, something almost like relief threading through it. “Yeah,” he murmurs. “That’s what I thought.”
You hate that he’s right. You hate it even more that you don’t actually want to argue it.
“So what if I was? You don’t get to care.”
“You don’t get to care either.”
“I don’t,” you insist.
He gives you a look, skeptical, “Yeah, right.”
You glare at him. “God, I hate when you do that!”
“Do what?”
“That,” you say, gesturing at his face. “That look. Like you’ve already solved the problem and I’m just lagging behind. You always do it when we’re talking.”
“Well,” he says, not even a little apologetic, “in this case-”
“Stop it.”
“Stopping, we can talk about something else?”
You groan, “I don’t want to talk, Grace.”
He almost smiles, “...We could go back to my apartment.”
You hate how you don’t even remember the next twenty minutes before you end up at his place. You’re pressed up against his door, his lips locked against yours in a sloppy kiss. He tastes like shitty beer and mint chewing gum and you can’t get enough.
You do remember how it felt, however. The rush of adrenaline as he pulled you away, the way fumbled with the keys, breath uneven, forehead leaning against the door before he got it.
Now you’re getting dragged into his bedroom, getting his and your own shirt off in the process, leaving them somewhere in his hallway to pick up later.
“You just need to get fucked, don’t you? That’s all you’re good for anyways…”
You hate how much his words turn you on. It’s like admitting you’re losing, but you can’t seem to care as you kiss him deeper, pulling at his hair that is far too soft.
“So needy,” he chuckled, a smirk playing on his lips.
His hands are all over you, caressing your bare skin in an infuriating manner.
“You’re such an insufferable person,” you murmur, although there’s not any anger in those words.
“You keep saying that.”
“That’s because it’s true.”
Your words hold little meaning due to your hands, which are currently pressing on his chest. His hands push you backward so hard that you’re sitting right at the edge of the bed, your legs touching the mattress. Before you realize what is happening, he’s pushing you back, making you fall on the bed with a thud. You can't stand how cocky he looks at you when climbing over you and easily overpowering you. Stupid muscles.
“I’m an insufferable person,” he repeats, and his smirk deepens. Then he leans closer, his nose brushing against your cheek as a chill runs down your spine. “And you can’t get enough of me.”
You are about to interject with a sharp remark aimed at showing him what you think of his attitude until…he’s biting on your neck. It’s not a comment but a shuddery breath of air that comes out of you.
His hands start to travel downwards to the point where they meet the button of your jeans. The pressure his hands apply on them seems almost too much for your skin. Your button opens followed by the zipper. His hands move from there to find your waistband.
“You never know when to stop,” he whispers against your neck, “always thinking you know everything, and proud of it, too…”
He pulls down the hemline of your pants along with your undergarments and sits back on his knees, ripping the fabric free from your ankles. When you try to speak again, all that comes out is a whimper while he’s spreading your legs apart while enjoying the moment of victory.
You glare at him, trying to collect yourself. “That’s because I’m usually right.”
He gives an exasperated laugh like that’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard today.
“You seem pretty certain about yourself.”
His fingers brush against your clit and you can’t help but buck your hips, trying to get closer to the contact. But instead, he retracts just enough to keep you hanging by a thread, your body burning with need.
"You’re only irritated because you know I’m not inferior to you."
He slides a single finger inside you, but it’s far from enough. His eyes stay trained on yours, as if daring you to make eye contact. His fingers are wider than yours, and he fills you up better than you ever could. Not because of him. Definitely not due to stupid handsome Ryland Grace.
"You are so-," you’re cut short when he adds a second finger and your body gives a needy whine.
“Aw, did you want to say something?”
Your lips part to give a witty comeback, but before you can even think it, he tweaks his fingers perfectly…
“That wasn’t so hard, was it? You can say it. I like hearing you say that I’m better.”
“No, you- you’re not,” you stutter, but it sounds hollow. Your mind feels foggy and you feel helpless against him.
He pushes into you, pressing his body closer to yours. His thumb rubs against your clit, sending shockwaves of pleasure through your body. You moan in response.
He gives a contented chuckle, as if hearing your sound of arousal is the greatest compliment he could ever receive. He bends his fingers again, searching for that magic spot inside of you until he finds it. He doesn’t stop rubbing against your clit, either. The sensations become too much for you to bear.
“I think you do. I think I’m the only person that- that can get you this worked up, don’t I?”
His voice is full of arrogance, and you’re not fighting the urge to sink your teeth into him. All you can do is gasp and moan in pleasure, arching against his touch.
"Just say it. Say it, and I’ll make it worth your while."
You shake your head, refusing to utter the words he needs to hear. He hasn’t improved, you’re not going to give in. Not ever.
The pressure in your center mounts as his digits move faster than before, drowning your mind in waves of ecstasy. You’re on the edge, about to fall into bliss, and you’re breathing hard and shaking uncontrollably underneath him. His arrogant smirk is still plastered on his face, and you can’t stand it. You detest his self-satisfied expression, but you don’t dare speak up. The pleasure he brings is too much for you to resist.
"C’mon," he urges gently. "We both know that’s true. You’re playing coy with me now."
Oh God, you’re close, so close when-
He stops his hands.
You moan pathetically at the abrupt halt of his fingers, grinding your pelvis upward involuntarily.
"No no no," he whispers triumphantly. "Don’t be impatient. You can do this. You can tell me that I’ve won."
“Insufferable,” you tried saying, but it comes off sounding like a groan rather than a comment meant to sting.
His laugh was sharp, cocky, sending warmth spiraling through your body in an instant. He continued working his fingers, but now he did it slowly and gently, not hard or fast enough.
You tried wriggling around to make him apply pressure, but he held you down by putting one of his hands on your hip.
"You're so close," he whispered, and you felt it too, just within reach. "You're right there."
"Just shut up," you said, but you didn't really have any authority left when you said it. You couldn't deny how desperate you were for him.
With his other hand, he inserted a third finger into you, making you feel stretched to breaking point. “Just say it,” he commanded. “Say it and I’ll give you what you want.”
The pleasure was getting to be too much for you. The world seemed to spin and blur around you and all you wanted was relief from-
"You win," you say chokingly, surrendering at last. "You win, all right? You're better, you're better, you-"
He doesn't allow you to finish, his fingers pressing into you deeper, hitting that sweet spot within you that makes you spasm in response. Your toes curl against the sheets and your fingers dig into the covers.
He continues his constant rhythm, pumping his fingers inside of you and flicking your clit with his thumb while continuing the constant stream of compliments, yet these compliments he whispers softly into your ear, almost like a lullaby. "Good, good, you're so good, you're so good at this, you take my fingers so good, you're so good for me." You despise how these words make you feel your eyes roll back.
"You're so close," he purred, his fingers moving without mercy but not yet enough for your pleasure. Your hips bucked against his touch, desperate, and you found yourself pleading with him.
"Please," you whimpers, unable to say anything more than that. "Please, please, please-"
"Oh." He was smug-sounding, clearly pleased at your desperation. "You are so good, so good, but... What exactly do you want, can you tell me?"
A sob came from you and your hips started moving erratically against his fingers. So close and so much torture, you were close.
"Do you want to come?" his voice was too smug and filled with satisfaction. "Do you want to come?"
"Yes!" You moan and sound near to insanity. "Yes, yes, yes! Oh, please, please-"
He curled his fingers within you once again, right where it was supposed to make you lose your mind and a loud whine escaped your lips.
“Please, what?" he asked in a murmur, his fingers continuing to move without stopping. He increased the pressure on your clit, making your head spin. “You gotta use your big girl words.”
The rate at which his fingers moved in and out of you quickened. You could not think straight anymore; in fact, you could hardly remember who you were at that point. You needed more and more, needed him to increase the speed and deepen the depth-
“Please what?” he repeated, now close enough to whisper into your ear. "Tell me what you want."
Your hands grabbed onto his sheets as you struggled to speak. “Please... please make me come.”
He stuttered momentarily, obviously having not expected those words to come out of your mouth.
"Mmm, did it really kill you?" He asked, sounding smug as hell, making you hate him a little bit but also hating yourself for enjoying it. He began to move his fingers faster and faster, striking the exact spot every time.“Asking to come, that’s a good girl, that’s so good. You’re being so good, and you want to come, don’t you? Stupid girl wanna cum?"
You groaned in return, words forming nowhere. The pressure was added to your clit once more, and you squirmed under his touch.
He was relentless, fingers working faster and faster, pounding into that place within you again and again. You were so, so close, but you just needed a little bit more-
He bent down then, lips searing the flesh behind your ear. "Look at you," he whispered. "So pathetic, so helpless, so needy. You want this, don't you? You want this from me."
And that was too much, you cried out, head thrown back into the pillows, arms flailing about, trying to grab anything that might offer some sort of relief.
"Are you… are you close?" He whispered hoarsely in your ear, his fingers not stopping their ruthless motion. "Is the dumb girl close to coming?"
Words died on your lips, leaving you to whimper and sigh as your legs trembled, your hips involuntarily bucking into his touch.
He moved closer, his fingers speeding up and you let out a loud moan.
"Yes, yes, that’s it, you’re so close." He whispered again.
And then it hits you. It breaks down the dam in one fell swoop.
You come with a choked cry, pleasure crashing into you in waves. Ryland kept touching you, fingers continuing their movement inside of you, hitting that spot inside you as you bucked your hips into his touch.
You sobbed, hips twitching as you rode out the waves of pleasure. He praised you, whispers in your ear, and they made your mind spin.
Eventually, you relaxed against the mattress, se and limp. He withdrew his fingers from your body with a soft, wet sound. You moaned at the loss, but your body was too heavy.
He bent down and kissed you on the side of your neck.
"You did such a great job," he said. "You paid attention to everything I told you to do. You want some more?"
You nodded; you were still too relaxed to say anything. He lifted himself up and lay beside you, touching your lips with his fingertips. You weren’t trying to hide your eagerness when you sucked on his fingers, moaning at the taste of the salty, metallic tang of yourself. You glanced up at him, meeting his gaze. The expression in his eyes was almost glazed-over, like he felt as much as you did. He pulled his fingers from your mouth, and you whined in protest.
"Shh," he said, smoothing your hair back. "You did so great. You did so great."
You cuddled into him, feeling weak but satisfied. He put his hand on your hip and stroked you in slow circles. He was silent for a while, and you just enjoyed the aftereffects of the whole thing. After a few minutes, he finally spoke.
"Are you ready to keep going?"
You looked up at him, still weak in the knees, but you nodded.
"Yeah… yeah, I'm okay."
He moved then, rolling on top of you. His hands traveled over your body in an almost possessive manner, and you arched under his touch, wanting him even more. He leaned down and kissed you hard on the neck before flipping you over. "Good girl,” he whispered. “We're not done yet."
You moaned at his words, a heat beginning to rise within you. He pressed you down onto the mattress, his hands roaming over your body in a possessive way. His hands settled on your hips, fingernails biting into your flesh, leaving marks that had your toes curling in pleasure. He positioned himself over your legs, and the hard press of his erection against you had you moaning loudly.
His hands grabbed your hips, holding you tight as he positioned himself. Fingers bit into your flesh.
"Just loving being a slut for me... you're only ever mine right?"
You moaned, nodding eagerly. "Only you."
He thrust into you slowly, claiming you an inch at a time. Your moans followed his thrusts. He leaned in, his face buried in the crook of your neck. His forearms bore the weight of his body, pushing you against the mattress. For a while, he was silent, his breath coming in short bursts on your skin. You felt the tension in his muscles, his control, as he held himself back from plunging into you completely. He let out a long, low moan, struggling to hold himself together.
“Oh god, you always feel so good.”
Your moans were your answer as he was aware of you being overtaken with the urge and craving that you had begged to fulfill. Your movements were in an attempt to beg for more from him, only for him to push you down further onto the bed.
“Want something?” he taunted arrogantly.
“You know that I do.” Your intention was to be tough, but your moans came through more like a sad whine. His smile made you aware of how much pleasure you felt him give you before he pulled out of you completely in an attempt to make you feel like there wasn’t enough.
You let out a slight moan in your frustration at trying to move your body upward to achieve some friction from your efforts. However, his restraining hold did nothing but satisfy him.
“See…” he said with amusement in his voice. “Even without me you are a disaster, wait till I get started.”
You moaned once again, frustration rising inside of you. “Move, move, please,” you pleaded, trying to raise your hips once again.
"Move?" he echoed. "Can I hear a please?"
With a frustrated sigh, you answered: “Please, move. Please.”
His face turned smug once again. “Good girl,” he purred. And with that, he moved forward again, thrusting in quick and hard. You moaned loudly, gasping in pleasure from the sudden feeling. He groaned deep and hoarse in turn. With one hand, he shoved your head down onto the mattress.
He kept moving, with a fast and rough rhythm. He slammed into you, as if he had to prove himself to you, his hand keeping your head firmly planted against the mattress. You moaned beneath him, totally unable to do anything but submit to him.
"Didn't you want this?" he murmured. "Didn't you want this from me? Didn't you want this?"
And then you moaned again, submitting completely to the sensations. You were already unable to speak coherently, only able to whine.
"You did so good,” he said again. "Being so good for me... just fucked stupid..."
He shifted a little, changing the angle and hitting a new spot inside you. You cried out, pleasure building and building with each thrust.
He groaned at the sound, his hand tightening in your hair. "There you go,” he murmured. “There you go, that's the spot. Right there."
You were consumed with pleasure, feeling like you were about to lose control. You held onto the sheets for dear life.
"You think Mark can do this?"
It dawns on you how serious he is being, realizing that it isn’t a joke anymore, but rather that he wants more from you.
"N-no..." you whined. "Can’t... oh god..."
You were so close, about to go over the edge again. Words were streaming from your mouth, meaningless pleas and curses.
"I see, dumb girl. I own you."
And his tone of voice made your entire body shake and wet your clit.
Because he was going to cum as well, you could hear how desperately he wanted this. How his hips moved randomly without any kind of rhythm. How raw and desperate his voice sounded at that very moment.
What a mess you were squirming under him, asking for some relief that wasn't coming while he was fucking you and pressing his chest to your back.
"God, I'm…" He's gasping for air and making wild thrusts into you. "I'm-"
"Please, please, please..." All you could do was whimper because of the pain and ecstasy in his actions.
"Just one more time, damnit, you're-" He panted. "-you're such a good girl."
Just like that, he shifted his position a little and placed his fingers onto your clit, making you moan with delight and shivers going through your whole body.
He growled, making low, harsh noises from deep inside his throat. "Yes, just like that," he said.
“Yeah, yeah, I’m- I’m--"
He comes hard, deep within you. His entire body shudders from the force of his orgasm, while you feel yourself contract tightly as he comes inside you.
His body remains there for a brief moment, breathing roughly into your skin. Then, he pulls himself out and rolls off of you, collapsing onto the bed next to you.
There was nothing left to do but lie still for a few moments and breathe, both of you out of breath and gasping for air. The only sound filling the room other than the labored breathing coming from you was dead silence.
You were tired, but filled with electric sensations. Your head was buzzing from the overload of sensations that had just taken place. It felt like being run over by a truck, but you wanted even more of it.
"Stop thinking too much," he finally spoke up.
"I am not overthinking anything," you replied, defending yourself.
"Well, you are always overthinking everything. I can practically hear your brain whizzing around inside that pretty little head of yours."
He leaned onto one elbow and gazed at you. Your gaze followed and noticed how his cheeks were flushed and hair all ruffled from your touch. He looked debauched, in a way that was brought upon by you.
"I'm not thinking too much about it," you reiterated, stubbornly defensive. "I'm just...processing."
"Which is what I was doing," he replied with a laugh.
You scowled up at him. His grin only made you feel even more flustered. Moving around, you could feel how moist your thighs were and realized that you were going to have to clean up yourself, but Ryland beat you to it by rising to go get a cloth.
You watched as he walked away from the bed, observing how large and muscled his back was, and found yourself irritated at your body’s reaction to the sight. It wasn’t really fair of Ryland to be so incredibly attractive.
He returned to the bed and sat next to you, cleaning the area between your legs.
After finishing, he tosses the rag into a corner, lying down beside you. Both of you are exhausted and covered in sweat, and the sheets seem to be stuck to your skin. It isn’t comfortable, but neither of you moves.
After a few moments of silence, both of you staring at the ceiling, you cannot stand it anymore.
"You were jealous," you say suddenly. "Tonight earlier. You were actually jealous."
He chuckles, not even denying what you said. "Yeah, I was."
Asking why, you shift onto your side so that you could look directly at him. "Why? It’s not like… we didn’t make a deal of becoming exclusive or anything."
"No, we didn’t." He paused. "But-"
He stopped, his forehead wrinkling. It seemed unusual for him to show such uncertainty about things.
"I don't like you with other people," he admitted.
"...I guess if you have that kind of feeling, we need another name for what's going on between us."
He looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
Sighing, you clarified, "If you aren't okay with me seeing other people, then we need a new term to define whatever this is besides 'casual.'"
Ryland thought for a few seconds before answering. "So you're saying...?"
"You want exclusivity," you clarified. "You want a relationship."
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded once, jerkily. "Yeah. Yeah, I think I do."
You’re shocked, for a moment, before you shake your head, kissing him once.
“Sleep first and then we can talk about it, deal?”
“Deal.”
________________________
A/N: I'll probably edit this all at a later date idk if I'm a fan I sound too robotic. But I can't have this sit in my drafts when I have nothing else to add. Prequel to this next? IDK!! Reqs open as usual, enjoy :)
is this a safe space to say... your recent grad school Ryland piece has me thinking about him liking dumbification?
him being all cocky and shit while he fucks you dumb, "oh you poor thing," he coos. "you can't even think, can you baby?"
anon this is a safe space for everything we can absolutely discuss dumbification
god…… grad school ryland, that dickhead. you two are both insanely fucking smart yet ryland somehow thinks he has some one-up against you??? like if he were to rank his peers he’d be number 1 and you’d be number 2. and ohh it gets you under your skin baddd. bc you’re just as smart (if not more) and having ryland be all like “yeah sure whatever” pisses you AWWFFFF. and yet at the end of the day when he’s impaling you on his cock, watching you lose your ability to think and speak as your cunt gets plowed he’s soooo fucking annoying about it. “all that talk earlier about you being the best and the most worthy to be here? where’d that go, huh? ‘cause all i see is a dumb little thing who can barely speak because she’s getting fucked too good. yeah? you fucking love this shit. don’t lie to me.”
and you do. you hate yourself for it, but you do. being talked down to like this turns you on so bad. that post-nut clarity hits you like a truck, though. and instead of spending time in bed together post-coitus you quickly get dressed and go on a walk. and by the time you come back he’s gone.
a/n : i’ll sincerely dedicate this to my geekbar and also listen to “California - Demo” By Phantom Planet for the vibesss :))
alsoooo i decided to make this a series
————
The first thing you notice is the sound. Not loud, not even disruptive in any way. Still present enough that it settles into your awareness the moment you stop moving.
Just—there, the feeling of something constant that refuses to be ignored once you know to listen for it.
A soft, layered vibration hums through the metal beneath your feet. Subtle but steady. Like the ship itself has learned how to breathe differently, slower and deeper than before.
You pause in the hallway, your fingers tightening slightly around the datapad in your hands as you let yourself feel it for a second longer than necessary.
It’s become normal now, and that's the part that unsettles you more than anything else.
A few weeks ago, it would have sent your heart racing; your thought’s spiraling into every worst case scenario you could imagine, each one louder than the last.
Now it just means he’s awake.
You push off the wall with a quiet exhale and continue pursuit towards the lab. Your steps are slower than they need to be, like you are giving yourself time to adjust before walking into something you already expect.
The door slides open with a soft hiss, and the temperature shift hits you immediately. Cooler air brushes against your skin, drier, sharper, intentional in a way that reminds you this environment is controlled down to the smallest detail.
Engineered, just like everything else here.
Because the moment you step inside, you aren’t alone anymore.
Ryland is already there, hunched slightly over the console, one hand braced against the surface while the other moves through the air in quick, precise gestures, like he is trying to physically shape the explanation he is giving.
Ugh- Of course he is.
“And if we adjust the- no, no, that’s not what I meant-okay, hang on-”
A series of tones answers him, rising and falling in a pattern that is too deliberate to be random, too structured to be dismissed as noise.
Not mechanical. Not empty.
Musical, almost.
You lean lightly against the doorway, letting your shoulder rest there as you watch him for a moment before announcing yourself.
He doesn’t notice you at first. He’s too focused, too animated, posture alive with energy in a way that makes the room feel smaller around him.
“You’re overcompensating,” you say casually, your voice cutting through the space with just enough volume to reach him without breaking the rhythm completely.
He startles.
Actually startles, shoulders jerking slightly before he catches himself.
His head snaps toward you, eyes widening in brief surprise before recognition settles in and softens everything. “Oh- hey. You can’t just sneak up on people like that.”
You raise an eyebrow, pushing off the doorway just slightly. “Don’t be a hypocrite.”
“Yeah, but I’ve grown as a person since then.”
“You have not.”
“I absolutely have.”
Another series of tones fills the room, a little quicker this time, like an interruption layered over your conversation.
Ryland glances back immediately, his attention shifting without hesitation, like the reaction is automatic now.
And there it is again.
That feeling. Not sharp enough to hurt, not strong enough to name, but present in a way that makes you aware of it anyway.
The way his focus moves so easily now. Not away from you, not replaced, just… divided. Shared.
“Sorry,” he says quickly, still half turned toward the console, his voice carrying that distracted edge he never quite notices. “We were in the middle of something.”
“I figured,” you reply, pushing yourself fully off the doorway and stepping further inside, your pace unhurried but deliberate.
Closer. Carefully measured, even if you don’t think about it too hard.
Your gaze drifts past him toward the containment structure, towards the figure inside it.
The first time you saw the creature, it didn’t even feel real. It felt like something your brain refused to process properly, like it was missing a step somewhere between sight and understanding.
It still feels like that sometimes.
All angles and deliberate movement, a body that moves with a kind of precision that feels more engineered than organic, each motion controlled and intentional in a way that makes it hard to look away.
And yet there’s thought there. Awareness. Presence that presses quietly against the edges of the room.
He notices you. You can tell.
Not because of his eyes (did he have any?), you still aren’t entirely sure how that works, but because something about his posture shifts, just slightly, like attention redirecting.
Ryland straightens a little, glancing between you and Rocky like he suddenly remembers he has to bridge that gap. “Oh, this is-” He gestures vaguely, then lets out a quiet breath. “Okay, this part is still weird, but yeah.”
Another series of tones answers him, softer this time, slower, almost careful.
Curious.
You tilt your head slightly, studying the creature with a steadier gaze than before.
Another tone sequence follows, longer this time, layered with something that almost feels like intent.
Ryland turns back immediately. “No, no-”
You watch him again, the way he leans in, the way his voice shifts without him noticing, softer and more focused, like he’s trying to meet him halfway even though he doesn’t think like he does.
And something in your chest shifts in response. You step closer without thinking too hard about it.
“Does he have a name?” you ask, your voice quieter now.
Ryland pauses, glancing back at you like he almost forgot you were there. “Yeah. Well, kind of. The closest translation we’ve got is… Rocky.”
You nod slowly, letting the name settle as you look back at him. “Rocky.”
A beat passes, just long enough to notice.
Then a soft responding tone, lighter than before.
You blink, surprised despite yourself.
Ryland lights up immediately, the reaction instinctive. “Oh-? He liked that. That’s definitely a response.”
“Good,” you murmur, softer now.
You don’t realize how close you’ve stepped until your shoulder brushes against Ryland’s, the contact light but grounding in a way you weren’t expecting.
It’s accidental. It has to be.
But neither of you move away.
“He’s been helping,” Ryland says, his voice quieter now, less performative, more honest. “With the astrophage problem. Different perspective. Different everything.”
You nod slightly, still watching Rocky. “Yeah. I figured we weren’t getting through this alone.”
“Hey,” Ryland says after a moment.
You glance at him.
He is already looking at you, closer than you expected, his expression softer, more focused in a way that feels different from before.
“I meant what I said earlier,” he adds, voice lower. “You’re doing better than you think you are.”
Your breath catches slightly, the words landing heavier than they should.
You look away first. “Thanks- I’m still not great at taking compliments.”
“Yeah,” he says lightly. “I’ve noticed.”
Another soft tone fills the space, pulling both of your attention back.
Rocky has shifted closer to the barrier, his posture angled toward you both, not just observing but engaged in a way that feels deliberate.
Like he is watching something unfold.
“That’s new,” Ryland murmurs under his breath.
You cross your arms loosely, tilting your head as you study Rocky. “What, he doesn’t usually stare?”
“He does,” Ryland says, glancing between you and Rocky, “just not like that.”
“Like what?”
He hesitates, then lets out a quiet breath. “Like he’s trying to figure something out.”
You look back at Rocky, the weight of that observation settling somewhere uncomfortable.
“Yeah,” you say softly. “I feel that too.”
Ryland looks at you again, something unspoken sitting just beneath the surface of his expression.
There is a question there.
He doesn’t ask it. You don’t answer it.
And Rocky watches all of it.
————
The hum is softer today. Lower and steadier
You’ve started recognizing the differences with Rocky, his subtle shifts in pitch, rhythm, the way the vibrations settle into the metal around you.
You work diligently, fingers tracing the laptop as you type in key phrases. You’ve been talking to Rocky for almost 5 hours now, the first 2 being filled with frustration against the language barrier but it’s easier now.
Instead, there’s a soft sequence of tones—longer than normal, more complex. The translator hesitates for a fraction of a second before catching up.
“You are alone.”
You glance around instinctively, like you’ve somehow missed something.
“Yeah,” you say. “Grace is probably-” You gesture vaguely. “Somewhere. Doing… science things.” Still focused on the delay, attention barely split.
A beat.
“You are different when Grace is present.”
You blink.
That wasn’t what you expected.
“…What?”
Another soft hum.
Observant.
“Your voice changes tone. Your body orientation moves closer. Your heart rate increases.”
Your stomach drops slightly.
“That’s…” you start, then stop.
Because there’s no easy way to dismiss that.
“That’s not- I mean, we’re just-” You huff quietly, shaking your head. “We’re working together. That’s all.”
Rocky is too still. Processing.
“Incorrect.”
The word lands flat and certainly.
You stare at him.
“I’m not- what?”
“You are not ‘just working,’” Rocky continues, tone unchanged. “You look for proximity. You maintain contact beyond functional necessity.”
Your chest tightens.
“That’s… normal,” you insist, though it comes out weaker than you want. “We’re the only two people here.”
“Grace does not behave this way with all variables.”
Variables.
“You mean us two?” You let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I’m not a variable.”
“Correction,” the translator hums. “You are the preferred variable.”
You don’t know why that hits harder than anything else he’s said.
You look away first and your arms follow by cross loosely, more defensive now
“You’re reading into it too much.”
“I am reading observable data, though.”
“Yeah, well, your data’s wrong.”
Silence.
“You avoid sustained eye contact when discussing Grace.” Rocky adds.
Your head snaps back toward him. “Okay- can we not do this?”
“You experience an elevated stress response when physical distance increases.”
“That doesn’t matter.”
“You initiate contact more frequently when Grace withdraws.”
You inhale sharply.
“Stop.”
The word comes out quieter than you intended.
But it’s enough. Rocky goes still again. Not retreating. Just… pausing.
Processing.
“You are uncomfortable.” he states.
You laugh, but it’s hollow. “Wow, great observation.”
Then, somehow softer, “Why?”
That question doesn’t feel clinical. It feels… direct. Too direct.
You swallow, glancing toward the empty doorway like you expect Ryland to walk in and interrupt this—save you from having to answer.
He doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.
Rocky hums again, slower this time.
“You and Grace exhibit pattern recognition consistent with prior familiarity.”
Your breath catches.
Just slightly.
“…What?”
“You respond to each other with predictive accuracy beyond current shared experience.”
Your fingers tighten against your arms.
“That doesn’t mean anything.”
“It suggests previous interaction.”
Your heart stutters.
For a second, just a second something flickers.
A feeling. Not a memory.
But nearing the edge of one.
You shake your head quickly, grounding yourself. “We don’t remember anything before this. That’s the whole point.”
“Memory absence does not negate prior existence.”
The room feels smaller suddenly.
“You’re making assumptions.”
“I am forming hypotheses.”
“Based on incomplete data?”
“Yes.”
The honesty in that throws you off more than anything else. You stare at him then look away again.
“…Even if you’re right,” you say after a moment, quieter now, “it doesn’t matter.”
A pause.
“Why?”
You hesitate, because the answer is simple.
Because it’s complicated.
“Because, we’re basically strangers” Liar. “And I’m not going to build something off… guesses.”
The silence that follows is different.
Heavier.
Rocky doesn’t respond right away.
But when he does, it’s slower, more deliberate.
“Grace exhibits similar avoidance patterns.”
Of course he does.
“That doesn’t mean anything either.” you respond quickly.
“It means the behavior is mutual.”
You shake your head again, more forcefully this time. “Or it means we’re both trying not to make things complicated.”
“Define ‘complicated’ Question?”
You open your mouth—Then stop.
Because you don’t have a clean answer for that.
You lied, it’s because you do. But you don’t want to say it out loud. Complicated, what a perfect word to describe the war going on in your mind.
“It just would be,” you settle on.
Weak. Unconvincing. Even to you.
“Fear response,” Rocky concludes.
You let out a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah. No kidding.”
The door slides open behind you and you flinch slightly at the sound.
Ryland steps in mid-motion, already talking. “Okay, so I think I finally figured out the—oh.”
He stops. Looks between you and Rocky.
Something shifts in his expression.
“You guys… uh,” he gestures loosely, a slight smiled ghosting his lips, “having a conversation?”
You straighten slightly. “Yeah. Just working through some translation stuff.”
“Without me? Betrayal.” he says, walking further in.
“You ditched us.” you point out.
“I left for like thirty minutes.”
“That was a very extended thirty minutes.”
He glances at the console. “Anyways, should I be offended or impressed?”
“Both.”
“Love that.”
Rocky hums softly.
Ryland glances at him, then back at you. “So what did I actually miss?”
You turn the screen slightly toward him. “First, I added a larger vocabulary. Then I adjusted the frequency mapping. It cuts the lag. Not perfect, but better.”
He leans in beside you. “You just did that?”
“Yeah.”
“Casually?”
“Keep up.”
“Rude.”
“It’s accurate.”
He smiles without meaning to.
“You’re smiling,” you say, glancing at him.
He blinks. “What?”
“You’re smiling. Why are you cheesing so much?”
“Well, it’s good… progress is good.” He replies too quickly.
You study him for a second longer than necessary.
Then shrug. “Yeah. Progress is good.”
You turn back to the console. This should be the end of it, except it’s not.
Because the feeling lingers.
And then—
————
The air is warmer.
That’s the first thing he notices.
Not the ship.
Not the sterile quiet of space.
This is… alive.
There’s noise and it’s low, scattered, not overwhelming. Voices blending together, the occasional burst of laughter cutting through like something sharp and bright before settling again.
Music hums faintly somewhere in the background.
Ryland leans back slightly where he’s sitting…on something soft, probably a couch, maybe a chair and he exhales through his nose, the world just a little… off.
Not spinning. Not unstable. Just looser.
Like the edges aren’t as sharp as they should be.
“Okay,” he says slowly, squinting slightly at nothing in particular, “I’m gonna go ahead and say it.”
There’s a pause.
“You say that like everything you say isn’t already optional.”
The voice hits him sideways, it’s familiar. He turns his head.
There you are. Well, kind of. Not clear enough and not even fully in the picture. Just there.
You’re sitting next to him, angled slightly toward him, one leg tucked under you in a way that looks comfortable in the way people only get when they’ve been somewhere long enough to stop thinking about how they sit.
He can’t see your face. It’s blurred at the edges, like his brain is refusing to focus on it directly.
But everything else he frustratingly notices.
The way your shoulder leans just slightly into his. The way your hand rests near his on the cushion between you. The way your presence feels anchored.
“Language is stupid.” His eyes flicker towards you like he’s just come to a groundbreaking conclusion.
You snort.
Actually snort.
“Wow,” you say flatly. “That’s… yeah. Revolutionary. Really pushing the boundaries of human knowledge there, Grace.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, gesturing vaguely with one hand. “We made it up. All of it. Just… decided that certain sounds mean certain things and then got mad when other people didn’t agree.”
“I think that's… how communication works.”
“No, it’s chaos,” he corrects. “It’s organized chaos. There’s a difference.”
You tilt your head slightly, considering that.
“Okay, I’ll give you that,” you admit. “But it’s still better than not having anything.”
“Is it?” he challenges. “Because right now, if I wanted to say something really important like, life-changing, deeply meaningful. There’s a solid chance I’d just… mess it up.”
You glance at him.
He can feel it. Even if he can’t see it clearly.
“That sounds like a you problem.” you say.
He scoffs. “No support?”
“I’m supporting you by being honest.”
“That’s not support, that’s criticism.”
“It’s constructive criticism."
“It’s not constructive, it’s just… constructive-adjacent.”
You laugh again, softer this time. Closer.
And something in his chest shifts. Not sharply. Just… enough.
“Okay,” you say after a second. “Let’s test your theory.”
“Oh no.”
“Oh yes,” you counter immediately. “Say something meaningful.”
He blinks at you.
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Like… on command?”
“Yes.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“You just said language is chaos. Adapt.”
He exhales, dragging a hand down his face as he leans back slightly. “This feels like a trap.”
“It is.”
“Great.”
You wait patiently and entirely too comfortable with the silence.
He shifts slightly, suddenly aware of how close you are. On the way your knee brushes his. Of the way your hand is still right there, close enough that if he moved his fingers just a little—
He doesn’t.
“Okay,” he says finally, voice quieter now. “Uh…”
Nothing comes out. His brain goes blank. Not empty.
Just full of the wrong things, how he’d focus on stuff like how your laugh sounds. Like how your shoulder feels against his. Like how easy it is to sit here and not think about anything else.
“…wow,” you murmur. “This is painful to watch.”
“I’m working on it.”
“You’re really not.”
“I am.”
“You’ve said ‘uh’ three times.”
“That’s part of the process.”
“It’s a bad process.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly.
Suddenly, “I really like talking to you.”
The words land simply and unpolished.
But still real.
The space between you shifts. Just slightly…not enough to break anything. Just enough to matter.
You don’t respond right away.
And for a second, he wonders if he messed it up. If that was too much.
“…that wasn’t so hard,” you say, softer now.
There’s something different in your voice. Less teasing and something genuine.
“That wasn’t what I meant,” he says quickly, because suddenly that feels important.
You tilt your head. “No?”
“No.”
“Then what did you mean?”
He hesitates. Now the words feel too big.
Too specific.
“I don’t know,” he finally admits.
And that’s the truth.
Because whatever this feeling is, it feels light, floating, a slightly off-balance thing sitting in his chest. He doesn't have a name for it. He just knows it happens when you’re around. He just knows it’s there now.
All the time.
“That tracks,” you say lightly.
But you don’t pull away.
You don’t move. If anything you lean just slightly closer.
And that doesn’t help.
At all.
“You’re doing it again,” you add.
“What?”
“Overthinking.”
“I’m not overthinking.”
“You are.”
“I’m really not.”
“You literally just said ‘I don’t know’ like it was a scientific conclusion.”
“That was a valid answer.”
“It was a cop-out.”
He smiles and can’t help it.
Because this back-and-forth, easy, effortless rhythm; it feels like something he could stay in forever.
“You’re impossible,” he says.
“You like it.”
There’s that phrase again and it lands differently this time.
He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.
Because it’s obvious… even to him.
This is dangerous.
The music shifts slightly in the background.
Someone laughs across the room.
“Okay,” you say after a second, nudging his shoulder lightly. “Your turn.”
“My turn for what?”
“Ask me something meaningful.”
He groans. “Absolutely not.”
“Come on.”
“No.”
“Do it.”
“I refuse.”
“Coward.”
“That’s not—”
“Coward.”
He turns toward you, closer now than before. Closer than he should be.
“Fine,” he says, quieter now. “Why do you—”
He stops.
Because he doesn’t know how to finish that sentence.
Stay? Laugh? Make everything feel—?
He exhales. “…never mind,” he mutters.
You don’t push it. You just watch him,quietly and patiently
Like you already know what he was going to ask. Like you already know the answer.
And that does something to him. Something he can’t quite place.
Something that lingers.
Even as the edges of the memory soften. Even as your voice, your face—start to slip away.
————
What the fudge was that?
Ryland blinks.
The lab snaps back into place. Cold. Still. Controlled.
You’re still there across from him annoyingly focused on the laptop.
Like nothing happened. Like there isn’t something sitting in his chest that wasn’t there before.
He exhales slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Push it down. That’s what he does. That’s what he’s good at.
“It’s working?” he asks, like his voice isn’t slightly off.
You glance up. “Yeah. Mostly.”
He nods.
“Good,” he says. Simple. Easy. Normal.
Like that memory didn’t mean anything.
And he lets it sit there. Just another piece he doesn’t know what to do with.
hi!!! idk if ur still taking ryland requests but can you do ryland x mechanic/engineer reader (preferably fem!!) and shes the only other person that wakes up in the hail mary? and they get closer and closer knowing that they will end up dying together
⋆˚꩜｡ Hopelessly Alone In the Heart (Like I’ve Always Been From The Start)
a/n: PLEASEEE forgive me if this is so off & not what you wanted, this is the first fanfic i’ve posted… like for the first time in 5 years but my adoration for Ryland Grace overrides my anxiety
(edit) : i made this into a series :D
⋆˚࿔————⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔————⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔————⋆˚࿔ ⋆˚࿔————⋆˚࿔
It wasn’t bravery, far from it actually. It was finally a chance to prove something to yourself, a chance to be able to say, “I’m finally worth something.”
Even though you were applauded for doing something so heroic, it constantly felt like you were Sisyphus. Pushing the boulder of your insecurities and doubts that had stuck on you your entire life. Like as if no matter how far you got, it would always roll back down.
Those thoughts clouded your mind, not the fact that you’re hurtling towards your inevitable death to God knows where.
You had woken up a few weeks ago, recovering from the whiplash of being woken however many years later. Nothing soothed you for the first few days; only memories of what once was your past mocked you in photos, like they were fragments of a life you were observing not reminiscing.
It was hard to talk to Ryland at first. The both of you communicated like it was the hardest thing in the universe. Every word had to be dragged out and inspected before it was spoken. But eventually, you both fell into a rhythm of awkward conversation starters turning into something softer, something real, something that lingered just beneath the surface, unspoken but felt like a current neither of you knew how to name yet.
But here you are now, sitting in the command center, staring out into the stars. The tiny specks of light reflecting in your eyes, it was a constant that kept you grounded from drifting too far into your thoughts… you didn’t really have the strength to tackle those demons just yet.
Somewhere, Grace is trying to avoid space altogether and currently recovering from a mild hangover. His feet trip over the mess of scattered papers littered with math problems, the scribbles and equations that showed evidence of sleepless nights.
You two soon realized how far you both were from home and, in a moment of quiet surrender, gave in to the loving comfort of alcohol.
His eyes glance around once or twice when he reaches the command center. Desperately looking for the only friend he has, and once he catches sight of you, he releases a breath of relief he didn’t even realize he was holding. Just seeing you there makes things feel a little less out of control.
There you are.
It’s a thought that comes too easily now. Too naturally. It unsettles him at how steadier everything feels when you’re in the same room.
“You doing okay?” His head tilts, his eyes filled with concern, but he softens it with a small and careful smile, like he doesn’t want to push too hard.
Your head whips toward him, startled but not exactly scared. “Jesus, you scared the daylights out of me,” you mutter quickly, voice a little rough. You cover your face with your hands and groan, dragging them down slowly. “Do… you always walk that quietly, or is that just a special skill you use to haunt me?”
“I didn’t want you to start thinking too hard…since uh- we’re out of vodka.” he huffed, leaning a shoulder against the wall. His eyes trace over you, and are more observant than he lets on. He notices how you burrow yourself into that jacket draped across your shoulders, something you’ve worn ever since finding it in your bin of personal belongings.
He’s catalogued that habit without meaning to. After all he was still a scientist, even now annoyingly observing patterns, recording details. Except this isn’t data.
Well, It’s you.
A moment of silence passes that almost reaches awkwardness. Nothing is said, but neither of you have the guts to fill it. You look away, then back out towards the window, a slight furrow clustered in your eyebrow’s as your thought’s begin to wander again.
Ryland steps closer towards the large window. He inhales heavily, like he’s steadying himself, then lowers himself across from you. A small grunt leaves his mouth, he props himself cross-legged.
Not too close.
Close enough that he can feel your presence, but far enough that he can pretend it’s accidental.
“Hey- What do you call a sheep who can sing and dance?” he interrupts suddenly, body angled toward yours as he raises his eyebrows. His voice tinged with mellifluous virtues, clearly attempting to try and break whatever spiral you were slipping into.
And maybe the one he was slipping into too.
“What the hell are you talking about?” you huff, blinking at him, confusion written all over your face but there’s blatant amusement there too.
He relaxes and reminds himself; you're still here.
“What do you call a sheep who can sing and dance?” he repeats, a little more insistently this time, he’s committed to the bit.
You scoff and nod slowly, a reluctant smile tugging at your lips. “Uh… I don’t know. What do you call it?” You lean forward just slightly, you’re humoring him more than you want to admit.
He notices the shift immediately.
You leaning closer shouldn’t matter as much as it does.
“Lady Ba Ba.” His delivery is completely flat, but there’s a flicker of pride in his expression when he notices the constrained smile on your face, like he’s just won something small but important.
A scoff escapes you, and suddenly it’s the funniest thing in the world. Maybe you at last you became unhinged from this timeless void they called space. “That’s stupid,” you mutter, closing your eyes as you chuckle, shaking your head. “Jeez- That was genuinely awful.”
“I knew you’d enjoy that,” he says, nudging your shoe with his with a small, grounding gesture.
The contact is light.
Brief.
But it lingers.
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. “Or I’m finally going insane.”
“Oh—” he pauses, tilting his head like he’s thinking it over, “we’re already past that point.” He shakes his head. “I think that ship sailed the second we woke up.”
You glance back at him, raising an eyebrow. “That doesn’t make me feel any better.”
“It shouldn’t,” he replies easily. “But it does make you less alone in it.” He points at you.
That lands softer than expected.
You don’t respond right away, but your shoulders loosen, and this time when the silence settles, it doesn’t feel quite as heavy “Feels like we skipped right past ‘coping’ and landed straight into ‘barely holding it together.’” You mutter softly.
Ryland hums in agreement and rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to smooth out thoughts that won’t settle. “That sounds about right.” He glances at you, then quickly away, he doesn’t want to make whatever this into a big moment.
“But hey… we’re doing a pretty decent job for two people who woke up in a metal box with no memories and a dying sun to fix.”
You huff quietly. “When you say it like that, it sounds worse.”
“Oh, it is worse,” he says immediately, deadpan. “I’m just choosing optimism. It’s a survival tactic.” He nudges your foot again, lighter this time.
Testing.
You don’t move away.
His chest tightens at that.
There’s a pause, but it’s not uncomfortable. It feels… settled.
You pull your jacket tighter around yourself, fingers brushing the worn fabric. “Do you ever feel like…” You hesitate, chewing on the inside of your cheek. “Like we’re supposed to remember more? Like something important is just—” You gesture vaguely near your temple. “Right there, but we can’t reach it.”
Ryland’s expression shifts, something quieter, more serious slipping through. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he leans back on his hands, staring out at the same endless stretch of stars.
“All the time,” he finally admits. “It’s like… hearing a song you used to love, but you only remember one line of it.”
You nod slowly, eyes still fixed forward. “Yeah. Exactly that.”
Another beat passes.
“And I hate that it doesn’t even feel like mine sometimes,” you add. “Like I’m trying to remember someone else’s life.”
Ryland exhales through his nose, a quiet, understanding sound. “Maybe that’s not the worst thing,” he says. “Gives you a chance to decide who you want to be now.” He shrugs one shoulder. “No embarrassing childhood stories. No exes to run into.”
No one to lose, he almost adds again.
But he swallows it.
You glance at him, eyebrow raising slightly. “You definitely had embarrassing stories.”
“Oh, absolutely,” he says without missing a beat. “I can feel it. Deep in my bones… I was probably the guy who referenced too many old shows.”
You let out a real laugh at that, louder than before. “You were definitely that guy.”
The sound hits him harder than it should.
Like something warm spreading through his chest, something he hasn’t felt in a long time.
“Hey,” he points at you, mock offended. “You don’t know that for sure.”
“I don’t need to. It’s obvious.”
He grins, clearly pleased. “Wow. Profiling me already. That’s harsh.”
“Engineer,” you reply simply, tapping your temple. “Pattern recognition.”
“Ah, so I’m just a data point to you now?”
“Pretty much.”
He gasps dramatically, placing a hand over his chest. “I thought we had something special.”
Your eyes flicker toward him, just for a second too long.
“We do. It’s just… statistically predictable.”
That does something to him.
He hides it behind a snort, shaking his head but the word special lingers, echoing in a place he doesn’t quite want to examine.
Silence settles again, but it feels warmer now. Lighter.
After a moment, Ryland glances at you, his voice softer. “You know… for what it’s worth,” he says, a little hesitant, “I actually think you’re doing better than you think you are.”
You don’t respond right away. Your fingers tighten slightly around your sleeve.
He notices.
He always notices.
“I mean it,” he adds. “You woke up into… all of this madness,” he gestures vaguely around the ship, the stars, everything, “and… you didn’t shut down. You’re still here. Still trying to figure things out.” He shrugs. “That counts for something.”
Your throat tightens just a little, and you blink a few times, focusing on the distant stars so you don’t have to look at him. “You don’t even know me,” you murmur.
He nods slowly.
His gaze lingers on you, quieter now. Softer.
“Yeah,” he says. “But I suppose I know you now.”
And he means it more than he should. More than he’s ready to admit.
That sits between you. Heavy, but not in a bad way.
You let out a quiet breath, your shoulders dropping in comfort of his presence just a fraction. “You’re not as annoying as I thought you were,” you admit.
He grins immediately. “High praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Oh, I absolutely will.”
You shake your head, but there’s no bite to it. Just something softer, something almost… safe.
And that word “safe” feels dangerously close to something else.
After a second, he clears his throat, like he can’t let things stay serious for too long. “Alright, I got another one.”
You groan immediately. “No. Absolutely not.”
“Why did the—”
“No.”
“—astronaut break up with his girlfriend?”
You drag your hands down your face. “Ryland—”
“He needed space.”
You stare at him for a long moment, completely unimpressed.
Then, despite yourself, you let out a quiet laugh.
“…That one was worse.”
“Yeah,” he nods proudly. “But you laughed.”
And he watches you as you do.
Memorizes it in a way that feels a little too intentional.
You shake your head, looking back out at the stars, but this time… they don’t feel quite as heavy and for the first time in a while, neither does your thoughts.
—-
After that conversation, things had become easier between you two. Communication became lucid, and you didn’t hesitate to speak your thoughts the more you bantered back and forth, like something in you had finally stopped bracing for the worst. He was like a best friend, but that still didn’t feel like the right word to describe this abnormal bond, it was something quieter and heavier, and it mattered more than either of you were ready to admit.
He felt it too.
And it unsettled him more than anything else had from what he can remember.
Because Ryland had always been careful. Methodical. Even when he left molecular biology to teach middle schoolers, it had been a safe decision and was something grounded, something simple.
This wasn’t safe.
You weren’t safe.
This situation was unpredictable in all the ways he didn’t know how to prepare for.
He kept finding himself growing closer to you.
Not in big ways or anything he could name out loud. Just… tinier things. He found himself standing a little too close when you worked together. Letting conversations stretch longer than necessary. Choosing to sit beside you instead of across, like proximity itself was something he couldn’t quite stop chasing. His knee grazed yours, fingers lightly nudging against yours when he reached for the same datapad, lingering just a moment longer than necessary. Neither of you pulled away.
He was attractive, in this nerdy way that made you remember a time before this. A couple memories of his face passed by; dumb jokes, the kind that should’ve been unbearable but somehow weren’t, him teaching you about the science of whatever you were heading toward, voice animated, hands moving like he couldn’t help it.
He noticed the way your gaze lingered on his hands when he talked, the way your attention sharpened when he got excited, the way your expression softened when he forgot to filter himself. He noticed the way your shoulder pressed closer to his when you leaned over a console, the way your fingers twitched when his hand brushed yours again. Every accidental brush, every fleeting touch, held weight.
And every time, it made him hesitate like he was standing on the edge of something he didn’t know how to step into.
Because if he named it… if he let himself think about why your attention felt different from anything else, he wasn’t sure he’d be able to go back.
Days passed, stretching into something you didn’t bother to keep track of. The two of you remembered more each night but never reached a full conclusion. It was like trying to hold onto a dream after waking up. You eventually figured out he was a teacher based on the drawings students made for him and a class photo he brought along, edges slightly worn like it had been handled often.
He stared at those drawings longer than he should have. Feeling a sense of regret, like he had abandoned a loved one. He tried to feel something besides wistfulness. Tried to anchor himself to the version of him that made sense.
But lately it was you that felt real.
You felt familiar.
And that scared him in a way he couldn’t explain.
Because familiarity implied history.
And he couldn’t remember a single moment with you but his body kept reacting like he should.
Like he already knew the way you’d respond before you spoke. Like he already knew the rhythm of you.
It was endearing, more than it should’ve been, and it made something in your chest soften in a way that caught you off guard.
Every touch, accidental or not, stayed with you longer than it should have. Every shared laugh drew your shoulders closer. Your fingers brushed over each other, deliberately just slightly longer. The world narrowed to the warmth of each other’s presence. Each small contact was electric, almost impossible to ignore.
When one of your daily conversations occurred, you admitted, “Honestly… I’m scared of dying.”
The words feel heavier once they’re out, like they’ve settled into the space between you. Ryland doesn’t answer right away. You can feel his attention shift toward you, even without looking.
“…Yeah,” he says eventually, quieter than usual. Not joking this time. “I think about it more than I want to admit.”
He hates how exposed that sounds.
Hates that you can see through him so easily.
Hates more that he wants you to.
You glance at him, catching the way his gaze drops to his hands, fingers fidgeting like he doesn’t know where to put them. It’s different seeing him like this, without the humor to soften the darkness, without the easy confidence he usually leaned on.
“You always shut down when things get too real,” you say, not unkindly but stated as a matter of fact.
But your voice is softer now.
Careful.
Like you’re handling something fragile.
Like you’re handling him.
He lets out a small scoff, something between a laugh and a sigh. “Yeah. Occupational hazard, I guess.” He rubs the back of his neck. “If I keep everything compact, it doesn’t feel like it’s right there, you know?”
If I don’t, I might say too much.
If I don’t, I might say your name like it means something different.
You nod slowly, turning your body just slightly toward him now, close enough that your shoulder brushes his. He doesn’t move away. His hand rests near yours on the console. Neither of you moves it, letting the proximity speak.
“But it still is,” you murmur.
“Yeah,” he admits.
A quiet pause stretches.
“You don’t have to make it easier for me all the time,” you say softly, head tilted toward him.
You don’t know why it matters so much.
Just that he does.
That makes him glance up, a little surprised you had caught on. His eyes linger on yours, pupils dark and attentive. “What?” His voice cracks softly, and you notice a hitch in his breath.
“You do that,” you continue, steady but gentle. “You turn everything into a joke, or you try to make it less heavy for me.” You furrow your eyebrows. “But no one’s doing that for you.”
There’s a slight shift in your posture, closer without meaning to be. His hand inches toward yours, fingertips brushing and lingering like an unspoken invitation. Neither of you move.
“I mean… I’m fine,” he says, though there’s a catch in his voice that betrays him.
You give him a look that's not harsh, just knowing, eyes holding him longer than usual. “Y’know, you’re really bad at lying.”
That earns a faint huff from him, soft, intimate. “Wow. Rude, Okay.”
But he doesn’t look away this time.
“I’m serious, Ryland.” you add, softer now, voice dropping a little. “You don’t have to carry it by yourself.”
His gaze lingers. His fingers brush yours again, holding the contact a heartbeat longer. Your chest tightens.
“I don’t even know what I’d say,” he admits, voice low.
“You don’t have to speak poetry,” you reply. “Just… don’t avoid it, I guess.” You shrug slightly, though your eyes don’t leave his. “Being scared means you still care.”
A moment passes. His fingers graze yours again, this time teasingly. Your breath hitches. His shoulder is almost touching yours. The air between you feels impossibly charged.
“You’re… different,” he says softly, almost breaking.
“And you,” you murmur, letting your shoulder brush his deliberately, “aren’t as indifferent as you pretend.”
He swallows. His hand drifts closer to yours, stopping just shy of touching your palm. Neither move, both aware of the unspoken tension, the unclaimed spark.
“This is new,” he murmurs.
“What is?”
“You being the somewhat emotionally responsible one.”
You roll your eyes slightly, but there’s warmth. “Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late,” he says, a faint smile pulling at his lips.
Your breath catches. Your fingers inch closer, almost touching. The warmth between you is unbearable. Every brush, every glance, a silent question neither dares to answer.
Too easy to lean into.
Too dangerous to resist.
And for a second, the fear doesn’t feel quite as loud; it's quieter, like it’s been pushed away for another day..
Replaced by something warmer.
Something heavier.
Something that settles in your chest and refuses to be ignored.
Something that, if you thought about it too long… might start to feel like… something else entirely.
I just watched Project Hail Mary AND UGHHHGGGG i need to write about Ryland Grace asap so please send me some requests don’t be afraid i’ll write anything atp
