Tori @prettorett - Tumblr Blog

Jul 8

Yk I’ve had this idea of like something to do with six. Maybe six meeting reader who is in like a similar program to the sierra program n he only ever finds out ab it because they’re told to collaborate? Could lead any which way after such tbh thats where idea ends 😓

Alternatively, something to do with Henry Letham. Anything would do, fluff, angst, anything n all. I needa rewatch the movie lwk tho cuz I got soo lost towards the end n I’m not sure if it’s because I watched half one day n the other another day or what 😓😞

henry letham x male reader

tags: sleepy morning fluff, sickfic, established relationship, canon divergence; everything is Okay, kind of proposal (it's henry after all)

a/n: this was genuinely so hard to pick dude i love them both </3 but i rewatched stay the other day and had to see him happy and cherished 😞😞

✎﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏﹏

Henry stirs very slowly. Awareness reaches him in faint threads, knitting itself together as the memory of his dream already begins to fade and he becomes aware of his body again. It's a far kinder awakening than the harsh blaring of his many alarms wrenching him from sleep most days of the week, even with the faint achiness present in his limbs.

Warmth crowds in from all sides—the flattened pillow against his cheek, the rumpled blankets and sheets he's buried in, his own body heat, soaked into the mattress beneath him—and still he's cold. He's quick to notice its terrible absence in his foot, where it sticks out from under the covers, and just as swiftly he pulls it back in, curling into himself.

In the same motion, eyes still pressed loosely shut, he swings his leg back, searching out the man-sized furnace he shares a bed with in hopes of leeching some warmth.

When instead he finds a vague spot of ebbing warmth in the empty space behind him, Henry huffs mournfully into his pillow, prying his eyes only halfway open. He blinks a few times, eyelids sluggish and achy with an already-rooting headache, and attempts to focus on the clock on his nightstand. Drowsy as he is, he might as well be staring at it through a glass pane. A very foggy, very thick glass pane.

He turns to the window next, figures he'll have a better shot at gauging the time there—it's light out already, but the sun seems muted, pale, and isn't pooling inside the way it does around noon, so Henry estimates he can sleep in for another hour or two.

He stretches his limbs out, quivering all the way to his teeth, and then goes boneless back into his pocket of warmth right as the bedroom door creaks softly.

Henry's eyes squint back open where they'd fallen shut during a jaw-aching yawn, and more warmth finds his chest at the sight of you heedfully slipping back inside. His gaze slips when you turn to shut the door, down the expanse of your bare back and the low-sitting waistband of your shorts. How you aren't freezing your ass off is beyond him. Then again, you haven't been saddled with a particularly stubborn fever for the last several days.

"Oh," you say upon spotting his drooping, sleepy blues gazing up at you. "You're up early."

"What time'sit?" he mumbles, rolling over to face your half of the bed and patting your vacant spot with his palm.

"Just past eight," you reply as you crawl up the mattress and settle in beside him. "How are you feeling?"

"Where'd you go?" He demands in lieu of an answer, distantly aware of how disgruntled the question comes out, but sue him, he doesn't enjoy waking up to an empty bed anymore, especially after he had to banish you back to your own place for a few nights so he wouldn't get you sick before finishing with your finals. So, he just tucks his nose against the junction of your shoulder and neck and sighs.

"Had to take a leak, I need your permission to get out of bed now?"

Henry hums noncommitally into your shoulder, holding his tongue but swinging a thigh over your hips. Instead of a true response, he jerks both ice-cold feet out and presses them cruelly against your legs, snickering when you hiss. With great might you power through, and slip a hand up out of the covers to press flat against his cheek, then forehead.

"We might have to go to Urgent Care if your fever doesn't break," you hum, a thread of worry tightening your voice. Henry is quick to shake his head with dismissive looseness. Neither of you own a car, so he'd rather avoid paying for a ludicrously overpriced Uber—and the thought alone of stepping into a subway station in his state, with all its sounds and smells and lights, makes his head pound. Still, it hurts less than it did yesterday, and far less than the day before.

"I'll just sleep it off," Henry mumbles into your skin, weaseling a flat hand between the back of your ribcage and the bed, effectively trapping you. Already, that same sinking weight of tiredness makes itself known again in his limbs. "'M already feeling better."

Your fond puff of breath falls into his hair, followed closely by your fingers, which begin sifting through dark, sleep-mussed tufts and scratching gently over the base of his scalp. The sensation sparks feathery little chills racing down his spine, in response to which he noses further against your neck.

He has a feeling he won't be able to fall back asleep, but he keeps his body loose and his eyes shut, just to bask in the moment for as long as he can. You, on the other hand, seem to have no problem dozing off again—seeing as you had your last final exam yesterday after a particularly punishing exam season, so Henry understands, and when he eventually angles his neck up to watch your sleep-soft face, does so quietly, gingerly, so as not to disturb you.

He props his head up on his open palm, heel pressing into his temple. Your stomach rises and dips in even waves beneath his leg, eyebrows loose on your face, lips parted a mere hair's breadth.

Henry's chest feels funny just watching you. He itches to scour for his sketchbook—wherever the hell he left it—and capture you on its blank pages. But he's too tangled with you, and preserving your peace at the moment takes firm priority.

He can hardly believe it, even still, that he gets to have this. Gets to have you. For months you'd existed to him as some unattainable wonder, one he'd only permit himself to appreciate from measured distances: across a lecture hall or a few benches down from you at the subway station. Then, somehow, you'd spoken to him, your eye caught by one of his paintings at a portfolio exhibition, and the two of you hit it off so smoothly, you'd gone out to a 24-hour diner after the event and talked all night. He'd been buzzing by the time you two parted ways in the early hours of the morning, both from all the coffee he'd downed as well as the elation of having finally, properly met you.

He's endlessly fascinated by you, in a way he never is with other people. With art, certainly—maybe even a particularly good song or poem, but never people. People are fickle and frustrating, often cruel, prone to disappointing him. But since that evening you first spoke to him there was a sort of good-natured disposition to you, in the way you spoke but also in how you listened. He was so certain he'd scare you off once he'd started speaking, quoting Tristan Reveur and detailing the admittedly bleak inspiration behind his painting—but you were fascinated, seemingly as rapt with his words as he was with you.

He's pulled out of his reverie when you crack an eye open.

"Do I have toothpaste on my face or something?"

A tiny smile curls at the corner of his mouth, shaking his head as he skims his palm from your ribs along your warm, bare chest and up your neck. His palm lifts, only to leave his fingers tracing your jaw, all the way up to the hinge below your ear. Meanwhile, your own drifts lazily up and down his back over his loose sleep shirt.

"I love you," he murmurs, very matter-of-factly, swinging his thumb around to the other side of your jaw, catching it in an infirm grip. "Know that?"

"I had my suspicions," you reply playfully. "I love you, too." He feels the faint shifting of muscles under his fingertips as you draw up a soft smile. Your eyes don't stray from his mouth for an instant, but Henry keeps your head fixed on the pillow. Despite your efforts, you are endearingly easy to read.

Your hand strokes higher, the heel of your palm ultimately falling into the shallow dip between his shoulder blades and applying a degree of pressure that's more a question than anything else. Henry purses his lips, angling his head slightly away.

"You'll get sick," he says when your brows gather in a frown.

"I got my flu shot this year."

"Go back to sleep, you look exhausted."

"I should be telling you that," you grumble, still trying to urge him down into a kiss with the hand on his spine. Henry shakes his head in fond exasperation, curling his fingers to scratch down your jaw—and you seize the opportunity in order to dart your head up.

Fortunately for your immune system, regardess of the defeated groan you soon make, Henry just about manages to intercept the kiss with his palm, sealed over your mouth.

"Stubborn," he muses, pressing the pad of his thumb underneath your chin to feel it shift as you swallow, peering up at him with a cross of betrayal and amusement. Your tongue darts out, poking wetly at his hand, but Henry holds his ground. It'll take much more than that to gross him out.

If only to appease the pitiful edge to your expression, Henry ducks his head, presses a few fleeting pecks to your temple and the top of your cheek over his fingers. Your fingers drum insistently over his back, but your eyebrows loosen faintly once he leans his upper body over yours. The warmth of your breathing chest seeps into his, his skin oversensitive and tingly the way it gets when it's feverish but soothed by your body alone.

When your free hand drifts up to his narrow wrist and pulls it down, Henry doesn't resist, just straightens and blinks down at you. You kiss him, finally, and he allows it because he can very rarely deny you anything—and whatever, he's sick, he thinks he deserves a kiss from his (very mulish) boyfriend.

It's warm and chaste, but far from a quick peck. You finally return to his hair, cupping the back of his head to keep him in place while your lips slide with familiar ease against his. He thumbs blindly at your collarbone, slipping his eyes shut. Like a switch suddenly flipped, Henry forgets why he was even so adamant on not allowing you to kiss him. Well, he doesn't forget, exactly, just decides very promptly that if you do get sick, he'll gladly nurse you back to health, just as you've been doing with him.

The kiss fractures every now and again, though continually reconnects after half a beat, both of you reluctant to pull away.

Henry curls further around you when a shiver zips through him, one he isn't entirely sure is attributable to his sickness. His chest is so tight, heart stuttering under the immensity of his adoration he doesn't know what to do with it. He has to get it out somehow, put it down on paper with charcoal and paint. Feels he has to make something out of it, or else it might slip away and he won't have anything to show for it.

"Love you," he repeats against your lips, reaching up to the side of your neck, feeling under his pressing index finger the steady thump of your pulse. "Marry me."

Your smile ends up being what fully breaks the kiss. You scratch distractedly at his scalp, going a little cross-eyed as you try to meet his gaze, noses knocking.

"What a proposal. Very romantic," you tease, but Henry doesn't laugh—though not for lack of fondness. Strangely enough, he's completely untroubled, not embarassed nor anxious over what you may think or say, whether you'll be put off by the idea or move to pull away.

You won't. He knows you won't.

"I'll buy you a ring, I'll get you flowers, whatever you want," he continues, darting between both of your eyes. "You're it for me."

"Alright, loverboy." Your hand on his head comes around to cup his cheek, tracing the bag under his left eye with your thumb. "Let's think about this for a minute—"

"I'm not just saying it. I mean it."

"I know you do," you say, ever patient when it comes to him. "I'm just thinking logistics here. We're college students working minimum wage, baby."

"It doesn't matter," Henry says, smiling minutely, shaking his head despite knowing you're right. "I'll ask my parents for some money."

You laugh, and his forehead drops to your shoulder, huffing in faux defeat. It's so damn cold in this room; he presses himself flush to you, thighs and hips and chest melting into you under the covers, wishing he could crawl into you and curl up there, soaking up the heat that runs like a current under your skin. He presses his mouth to your neck for a few seconds, if only to warm his lips, and then you twist your head down, meeting his eye. He clears his scratchy throat.

"So, not a no?"

Your lips twitch, eyes tired but open and earnest. "Not a no."

He kisses you again, disregarding his prior concerns—he just can't help himself. Soon, you're both smiling too much to sustain it. Without looking away, Henry searches under the covers for your hand. Once he finds it, he lances his slender fingers between your own, imagining the feel of a smooth golden band around one of them. Imagines, for the first time in a long time, growing old, and doing it beside you.

"Get some sleep," he quietly says, then, somewhat cheekily, "Mr. Letham."

You snort, but comply and let your eyes drift shut.

"Who said we're keeping your last name?"

prettorett

Jun 27

rockyhatemark

doctor's visit (ryland grace x gn!reader) PART 1 (PART 2) summary: you find it harder and harder to ignore the cute scientist that always sits next to you during your meetings wc: 7k cw: smut! submissive ryland and the glasses stay ON !! MINORS DNI !! a/n: little nervous about this one :’) why’s ryland’s character so hard to get right?? enjoy! (cross-posted on ao3)

It took everything in you to squash the laugh that threatened to bubble out of your throat when you beheld the person dubbed the “leading scientist in Astrophage”. You weren’t sure what you expected, but the lanky man stumbling out of the jet, nearly falling backwards off the little ladder, wasn’t quite what you pictured. The second his foot touched the concrete landing pad, he hunched over to pick up a small orange traffic cone sitting next to the plane and proceeded to hurl whatever he’d last eaten into it.

Stratt grimaced, fidgeting anxiously next to you to get moving, and gestured for you to follow her once the scientist seemed to gather his bearings enough to stop heaving.

“Doctor Grace, how was your flight?” She asked.

He only replied with a thumbs up. A set of glasses were askew on the bridge of his nose and he didn’t move the orange cone far from his mouth when the two of you neared.

“Doctor Grace, this is Doctor (L/n) who’s here to make sure you’ve made it in one piece before we discuss your findings. Excuse me for a moment.”

As Stratt moved to discuss something with someone on the landing strip a couple of feet away, you took that as your queue to approach the man. He looked pale, watching wearily as you approached with a smile.

“Enjoy the view on the way here, Doctor?”

You wasted no time, moving to find the doctor’s free hand that wasn’t holding the vomit filled cone, to feel for his pulse. It was frantic, pounding against the pad of your fingers but unwavering. He let his hand fall limp in your hold, out of strength to do much besides stand in place.

“Well… I can’t say I saw much. I was unconscious for most of it. Loved the last bit though, when we’d landed and weren’t in the air anymore. Hey, do you have any water? Some guy gave me a pill and I think it’s still stuck in my throat.”

A smile creeped onto your face. You’d known this man for barely a minute but you could feel that he had a gravitating way about him. Something charming and sweet. Dropping his arm, you nodded to him and gave him the water bottle you’d brought along. You also held out a small white pill. He instantly shook his head.

“Ah, no thank you. Last time I took a pill from a stranger, I woke up on an aircraft carrier.”

“It’s dramamine, Doctor.”

A pause.

Defeat.

“Okay.”

You helped him open the bottle, as one of his hands was still occupied holding his puke cone, and watched as he gulped down mouthfuls of water to chase the dramamine.

“Pulse is strong. How’s your breathing?”

“Uh- fine, I guess?”

“How many fingers am I holding up?”

He adjusted his glasses with his wrist to finally properly fit over the bridge of his nose and blinked. “Two.”

You gave a firm pat to his back, which he groaned at. “Welcome aboard, Doctor Grace!”

While your first meeting was brief, that was not the last time you saw Doctor Ryland Grace. After he finally found his sea legs, he became a regular presence at every meeting in regards to Project Hail Mary.

You weren’t invited to many meetings, only joining when they were about the health of the crew during their journey to Tau Ceti. The robot being constructed to care for the comatose astronauts was an impressive piece of technology unlike anything ever built but it needed to be programmed perfectly to ensure the crew’s safety. If it went wrong- the crew would die and so would the rest of Earth.

That’s why you were brought aboard, to help bring up any possible problem that could happen with the crew on their trip and how the robot would handle it. You worked closely with a slew of other doctors, each of you bringing your own experience to the table.

As a Doctor specializing in neurology, your input was crucial. Being in a coma for several years was not ideal and could do some irreparable harm to the brain, which you disclosed as such in your meetings. It was an intricate dance, trying to solve the multitude of potential problems that came up with so many people with differing opinions

They also occasionally had you stationed as an on-call doctor when you weren’t discussing the mission, setting you up in the medical wing of the giant aircraft carrier to handle any ailments of the crew. You didn’t mind the busy work, it gave you something to do when you weren’t in the lab helping with the robot or fighting with a room full of scholars.

The first time Doctor Grace showed up to one of the medical meetings, he was 15 minutes late.

Stratt gave him a look that exuded annoyance as he scrambled to sit in the only empty chair at the table, which happened to be between you and the most powerful woman in the world.

“Sorry everybody,” he waved quickly in apology with an awkward laugh and dumped a folder of papers on the table. The room was dead silent. “This place is a maze! I got lost somewhere on deck C I think. They should really put up some signs.”

If Stratt wasn’t five feet away, you would’ve giggled. There were signs all over the ship. In several languages.

A cardiologist from Brazil tapped his pen against the metal table in agitation. “As I was saying…”

While the conversation buzzed on, discussing circulation and muscular atrophy that would arise from the crew's prone state for several years, you felt a shoe knock into yours. Turning your eyes away from the table, you were surprised to find Doctor Grace looking at you.

“Do you have an extra pen?” He whispered, not very quietly. He was leaning towards you like you were swapping secrets. The soft fabric of his quarter zip brushed against your arm.

Getting some glares from those sitting closest to you, you only nodded back and slipped an extra pen out of the spiral of your notebook.

“Thank you. Hey, you’re that doctor that checked up on me on my first day here, right? Thanks for that, by the way, the pill really helped. I nearly filled up that cone though, that was a little embarrassing.”

He laughed, another awkward chuckle that had you glancing sidelong at him.

Someone who used humor when they were uncomfortable, it seemed.

Taking a quick look around the room to make sure no one was watching, you leant towards him, bringing your heads closer together. He startled back a bit but didn’t pull completely away.

“When I first got here, I got so seasick I puked all over my tour guide’s shoes. At least you made it to a cone.” You whispered, smiling at the memory.

Doctor Grace looked at you in shock, eyebrows raising into his hairline. “Really?!” He was really bad at whispering.

“Doctors, do you have an idea you’d like to share with the room?” The leading creator of the nurse robot, Doctor Lamai, peered at your hunched forms.

Jerking away from each other, Doctor Grace and yourself didn’t talk for the rest of the meeting but you had to fight a smile when he slipped you a folded note that just had a crude drawing of a puking face.

Any meeting that you attended after that, Ryland- as he’d asked you to call him- would find a seat next to you. After learning how tough of a crowd most of the medical crew was, the two of you didn’t talk during the discussions again. But you did start passing notes like a couple of school children.

Did you know that the brain is a human’s fattiest organ? -R

Yes -(Y/n)

Really? -R

I’m a neurologist, Ryland. The brain is my job -(Y/n)

Oh yeah -R

Did you know that a human brain produces enough energy to power a small lightbulb? -R

This robot is basically like that big marshmallow doctor robot in that one movie -R

Baymax? -(Y/n)

Yeah that sounds right -R

Ours probably won’t be as cute as Baymax is -(Y/n)

Probably not. Maybe we should suggest something to make it cuter. Paint it in pink glitter and give it some eyes -R

Somehow I think that’ll make it even scarier than it already is. Go back to the drawing board -(Y/n)

I saw a bird today -R

What kind of bird? -(Y/n)

Seagull -R

Well, we are out at sea -(Y/n)

It’s a little too far out in the ocean to be seeing birds, don’t you think? They get tired -R

Maybe it was a stowaway? -(Y/n)

Poor guy :( -R

You learned a lot about Ryland over the next several weeks.

Ryland was full of fun facts and interesting thoughts. He’d barrage you with them any chance he had, and you would listen. While medical facts were mostly common knowledge to you, fun facts about anything else was always a pleasant conversation starter.

He taught you everything there is to know about Astrophage and how it works, once even letting you visit him in his little personal lab to see the little microorganisms yourself. He’d carefully prepared a slide for you, making sure the focus was perfect before stepping back to let you peer into the microscope. When you started barraging him with questions, he was more than excited to answer- leading you around his mini lab with a hand on your back.

You learned that he has a mild shellfish allergy- a rather unfortunate finding. He spent a couple of hours in the medical wing laying on a cot, popping Benadryl like candy and breaking out in hives after some cross-contamination with shrimp in the cafeteria kitchen.

His favorite animal is a fox and he has a surprisingly large collection of fox related things to prove it.

He was a molecular biologist, now turned loud-and-proud middle school science teacher. He loves his students dearly and spent the greater part of several years revolving his life around their education.

He rarely ever swears. At least, not the actual words, but their modified, kid-friendly versions. He’d have teachers knocking down his apartment door if he swore in front of his class, unintentionally expanding their vocabulary.

When he was trying really hard not to laugh, he’d make this tiny snorting noise that sounds an awful lot like a spray bottle.

He doesn’t know how to use chopsticks. Not the right way, at least.

He has no immediate family, no pets and no partners.

He was an enigma really; someone that felt so out of place on this ship. Ryland felt too… normal to be here. Not in a negative way, just a… he-should’ve-never-been-dragged-into-this kind of way. He was too warm compared to most everyone else here. The aircraft carrier was bursting at the seams with cold government officials and specialists in every science or space related field to ever exist. Many were too professional, too self absorbed to realize they had a stick up their ass.

Ryland was a breath of fresh air and you felt increasingly drawn to him every time you interacted.

It also didn’t hurt that he was attractive. Like… insanely attractive. His hair was perfectly messy every single day. He wore his glasses in such a way that you’d never seen anyone wear glasses before, hanging off one ear when he wasn’t using them. A near constant 5 o’clock shadow was always gracing his face. Despite his clothing choices which some around you found unprofessional, he pulled off everything he wore. His fox cardigan, his yellow rain coat, his cringy science-pun t-shirts. It shouldn’t, but it made him that much more alluring and it was getting harder and harder for you not to make a move.

You were friends- acquaintances at the least- but he’d never shown any interest. At least not that you’d seen. He was awkward sometimes but he was awkward with everyone. You didn’t want to make things weird, so you stuffed those feelings deep and filed them away for later. Plus, he was technically higher ranking than you in the Hail Mary hierarchy. He was Stratt’s right hand man. Maybe he didn’t want to ‘pull rank’.

These sorts of thoughts kept you up at night while you tried to ignore the sounds of the 3 other medical staff sleeping around you in your shared bunk. He wouldn’t get out of your head and you weren’t sure how much longer you could ignore that tightening string in your gut.

On Friday nights, the room on the ship that served as the social meeting place for many of the crew, equipped with a bar, was packed to the gills. You usually dropped by to say hi to the couple of coworkers and other doctors that you were friendly with but never staying for long. You just didn’t know anyone well enough to want to stay and chat. At least you didn’t… until one particular Friday night.

The hunched form at the bar clad in that unmistakable fox cardigan caught your eye almost immediately. He was hard to miss.

This was the first time you’d seen Ryland here. You weren’t sure why he never came, but he was the one person on his whole ship you’d actually consider sharing a drink with.

Immediately making a bee-line for the bar, you saw that the doctor was flipping through several sheets of paper, head in his hand as he read. The people surrounding him at the counter were making light conversation, enjoying a beer and enjoying their Friday night.

Ryland was working.

“Y’know this room is supposed to be a reprieve from work, not somewhere you bring your work to, right?”

The blonde looked up in surprise as you squeezed to stand in the small empty space between him and the guy sitting on the barstool next to him. It was a tight fit, and Ryland immediately shuffled over an inch in his seat to give you some more room.

Or to avoid touching you, which didn’t sit right in your stomach.

His glasses were near falling off his nose. He looked tired.

“I know but I couldn't sleep so I decided to come here. I brought some homework because I needed something to keep my mind busy and so I don’t look like a total loser sitting here by myself. Is it working?”

“Well,” you hummed. “I don’t think you’re a loser but I might be a little biased.”

He smiled, twirling a pen between his long fingers over the papers. You nodded over to where a karaoke machine sat and the 3 Hail Mary crewmates sat with their extra counterparts. “Why don't you go join them? You know them well enough, right? You’re working with them all the time.”

Ryland shifted in his seat to look over his shoulder. His knee pressed against your thigh which made it extremely hard to focus on his answer.

“No, I don’t think I really fit in with their crowd.”

“Why not?”

“They’re brave. Strong. Sometimes I don't even know why I'm here to be honest. Why Stratt dragged me here. A humble middle school science teacher.” He laughed lightly, but it wasn’t a genuine one.

Your heart squeezed into a knot for this man who’d been uprooted from his comfortable life as a teacher and thrown into this madness without his consent just like many others. He felt unsure about his place here and besides Stratt who had him on a leash, he had no one, it seemed.

Besides you, you hoped.

You prayed he enjoyed your company enough to feel a little less alone.

“Well,” you leant back against the bar to properly look at him. He looked up at you over the golden frames of his glasses. “I’d say you have every right to be here. You discovered how to kill an Astrophage and see what it's made of. You discovered how they breed and now we have the means to create a powerful fuel for the mission that will save humanity. All important things we might not have right now without you.”

Ryland huffed and drew a little circle on his paper. “I’m sure someone would’ve thought to poke Astrophage with a stick eventually. And learning how they breed didn’t take too much thinking either, surely someone would’ve-”

“You can't spend your whole life focusing on the ‘what if’s’, Ryland. We're here now thanks to you, whether you wanna see it that way or not.”

Finally, a real smile split his face and he nodded slowly. You couldn’t tell if he’d accepted your words as truth or not, but they at least lifted his spirits a little. Plus, a tiny bit of red painted his ears.

“Thanks, (Y/n). Can I… buy you a drink?”

Your stomach fluttered. “Yes, as long as it’s not anything too hard. I’ve got a shift tomorrow.”

He nodded quickly and signaled to the bartender. “Two beers please.”

Bottles in hand, you continued to lounge against the counter next to him, nursing the beverage and making small talk. He’d offered his seat to you but you refused.

Looking out over the crowd, you spotted two individuals huddled together in the dim corner of the room. Ryland noticed your gaze and turned to look too. When he beheld the two scientists tangled together, he shook his head and turned back to you with a raised brow.

“I think DuBois and Shapiro are hooking up.”

“Seems that way.”

“Dont you think it’s a little crazy? I mean, he’s going to be trucked off into space soon and she’ll be left here. What's the point in hooking up when it'll only end in tragedy? You’re just asking for heartbreak.” He shook his head, fiddling with the plastic label of his beer.

You shrugged. “I don't see any harm in it. Sure it’ll hurt eventually but why not live in the moment? Humans yearn for connection, it makes sense they’d want to have some sense of normalcy before the end of the world. It's probably nice to forget about the apocalypse and enjoy someone's company for a while, take your mind off the doom and gloom.”

Ryland was quiet after that, suddenly turning anxious if his ducked head was any indication. Had you said something wrong? You drained the rest of your beer.

“Is that something you find yourself doing?” He asked quietly, feigning nonchalance but his foot was bouncing erratically against the bar stool.

Nervous.

A smile began to creep onto your face. “Not currently.”

His foot stopped.

Relief.

“But… if the right person came along I wouldn’t be opposed.”

His hand squeezed the bottle and his shoulders drooped.

Disappointment.

“Oh… haven’t found the right one yet?” He picked up his head with a painfully fake smile and a nod, looking around the room like he was helping you scout the place. “Lots of interesting people on this ship. A pilot would be cool, huh?”

“Yeah but they’re a bit too cocky for my taste.”

He tapped his finger against his stacks of paper. “Okay, what about… another doctor? Or one of the government officials?”

You grimaced and he cringed back. “Right, no doctors or government staff If not them, then… what are you looking for?”

Ryland’s eyes were searching yours for a glimpse, a hint of what you might be feeling.

With the tiniest bit of liquid courage running through your veins, you tapped your beer bottle against your leg and lightly began playing with the sleeve of his fox cardigan. He became impossibly still.

“Someone real. Down to earth. Not afraid to be themselves… a nice smile and a pretty face sure helps too.”

The doctor gulped and you reveled in the sight of his Adam's apple bobbing in the soft light of the room. He inclined his head once, fingers twitching against the bar. “I’ll keep an eye out for you,” he whispered.

Neither of you broke the heated eye contact until the man you were standing next to fell back in laugher and knocked you off your balance. You were able to recover quickly, but not before pressing even closer to the scientist and nearly falling into his lap. His hand had immediately planted onto your hip in an attempt to keep you steady. Being this close, you could feel the breath from his nose on yours. Your heart was pounding.

The room grew in volume as people flocked to gather around the karaoke machine that was playing a song you couldn’t even bother to name. Not while Ryland held all of your attention.

While his chest heaved, you slowly moved to stand properly on your own two feet but holding his gaze. You took the hem of his cardigan in your hand. It was so soft.

“Want to go for a walk?” You asked quietly, glancing at his stack of papers that had been forgotten about.

Ryland said nothing but started brushing his work into a haphazard pile good enough to hold in one arm and stood up. Standing at his full height, you were reminded again how tall the man was. When he offered his hand as a silent question, an inquiry to make sure he wasn’t reading anything wrong, you didn’t hesitate to take it. No one batted an eye at the two of you as you led him through the crowd and out into the silent metal hallways beyond.

Ryland could not unlock the door to his room fast enough.

He only had one key to his name while on the ship, you’d think it would be pretty easy to manage. In theory it was, but when his nerves were blasting through the roof and you were fiddling with the belt loop on the back of his pants, he got a little distracted.

You giggled as the scientist finally fished his key out of his pocket and proceeded to drop it on the floor with a clink.

“Sorry,” he strained, scooping it up from the floor and finally fumbling with the lock.

Once the door swung open and the two of you stepped inside, you did a quick observation of the room. It was extremely small, barely enough room for one person, let alone two. There was just enough space for a twin bed and a small desk attached to the wall. Rylands’s belongings were strewn everywhere there was space. While it was cramped, there was something he had in his room that you didn’t.

A window.

A tiny circular porthole- so small you couldn’t fit your head through it if it was able to open- but a window nonetheless. Your room was deep in the middle of the ship so no windows for you. As it was around midnight, there was nothing but inky blackness on the other side but you wondered what it would look like when it was daytime and the ocean was blue. For now, the soft glow of a tiny lamp kept the room illuminated.

“Oh god- don’t mind the mess. I don’t get many visitors.” He stood awkwardly in the center of the room, brushing some discarded clothes aside with his shoe. “But to be fair, it’s impossible to keep a room this small clean. I mean, no dresser, no closet. I’m not 100% sure but I think this used to be a storage-“

You liked to think you knew Ryland pretty well now, and knew when he was about to spiral into a rambling fit. He was especially prone when he was anxious. As much as you loved to hear him talk, now wasn’t the time.

When you took a step forward and fisted the lapels of his cardigan in your hands, his words died immediately.

When your hands tugged his body down and your lips slotted against his, his whole body froze up.

You didn’t push beyond a couple of seconds before pulling away a hair- keeping him close but giving him the room to decide if he wanted to stop or come back for more. For all you knew, he was just bringing you back to his room to show you his collection of fox things. Through lidded eyes, you watched as his eyelashes fluttered, dazing down at you in shock.

Suddenly worried that maybe you had indeed read things wrong, you began to ease up your grip on his collar. When his hands shot up to keep your head in place, cradling your jaw in his large palms and returned the kiss with eagerness, you smiled against him.

Months of brushing around each other snapped.

Your mouths were tangled in a heated dance- his body moving closer and pressing yours against the door, like he was trying to melt into you. He still had his glasses on, which meant you were being a little cautious of how close you pressed your face into his. You didn’t want to stab your eye on the rims, what a mood breaker that would be. But you didn’t want to ask him to take them off. In fact, you wanted to beg him to keep them on.

When his hands dropped to your waist to pull your hips together, you wound your arms around his neck, your hands immediately finding the back of his head- finally able to feel the mussed hair that snagged your attention day after day.

It was extremely soft, just as you’d imagined. Perfect, just like the rest of him.

Time blurred and you weren’t sure how long the two of you stood there, tasting each other like you were starving. Eventually, you decided it was much too hot in the tiny room and you were both wearing way too much clothing.

Dragging your hands from his hair to trail down the strong column of his neck, you dipped your hands into his cardigan, sliding your fingers over his shoulders and pushing the cream knitwear off in the process.

He shivered under your touch, when your fingers glanced over his biceps as the cardigan fell to his elbows. His hands let go of your waist to allow the fabric to fall to the floor in a pile. When his hands returned, they planted themselves on the door next to your waist.

It wasn’t to tower over you, or to trap you against him. No, it was because he needed something to keep him upright or he was at risk of squishing you entirely against the metal when his knees gave out.

You broke the kiss with a soft gasp, chest heaving against his where his shirt stretched over the muscle.

You’d never seen Ryland without something thrown over the top of a t-shirt- always wearing some type of jacket or lab coat or something. Now that he was without one, your hands mapped over his arms and shoulders.

As he busied himself with your neck, gently nosing at the soft spot just behind your ear, you swore.

“Shit, Ryland. What are they feeding you in the cafeteria? Protein powder?”

He laughed against your skin, dipping his lips down to your shoulder. His scruff tickled and the metal of his glasses were ice cold compared to your heated skin. “No. I just… go to the gym sometimes.”

“Sometimes.”

“Mhm-“ he choked on his affirmation when you slid your hands up his abdomen to feel underneath his shirt. The muscle was warm and fluttered against your fingers.

“Can I see what else you’ve been hiding under all these layers?”

Clothes were shed in a record amount of time, save for the couple of extra seconds Ryland took to take off his pants because he almost tripped over his own feet. He did seem to hesitate when he got to his boxers, fiddling with the hem, but when you hooked your fingers into the elastic, he let the fabric fall.

Once every part of you was exposed to the chill, circulated air, Ryland began chasing your mouth again but stopped with a grunt when you pushed him back onto his bed.

The look on his face was priceless, enough so that you laughed as you knelt on the hard mattress and swung a leg over his hips to straddle him. If Ryland had been red before, it was nothing compared to the color of his face now. His eyes glanced over your body, appreciating but not lingering out of nervousness as he stammered.

“You want to-?”

Straightening his glasses to fit properly on his face, you nodded. “Is this ok?”

“Yes! Yes- I’ve just never… my ex was more traditional I guess so we never… She always liked me to be on top.” He let out a breathy laugh and a shy smile.

Everything about this man was so endearing.

“As fun as that sounds, I want to try this first. I can see you better this way.”

Another audible hitch in his breath as he nodded. “Okay.”

His large palms found purchase on your thighs and he sighed blissfully through his nose when you bent forward to kiss along his jaw. It feathered under your lips and he tilted his head back to happily give you more surface area to work with.

When you finally ground your hips down onto him, he bucked under the pressure. A completely unintentional gesture that had him apologizing. You chased that response, rhythmically moving your pelvis in tandem with his.

Ryland whimpered.

You’d be damned if you didn’t try to get him to make that sound a hundred times more before morning.

You spent several minutes exploring his neck with your tongue while keeping a firm pressure with your hips, gently swaying in circles against him. You found a spot right at the juncture between his neck and shoulder that had him moaning. By the time you eased up, red marks bloomed along his throat and Ryland was already breathless. Chest heaving against your palms, he looked heavily up at you through those glasses of his and gave you a shy, lopsided grin.

“That was nice.”

You raised a brow. “I’m gonna have to work harder if all I get is a ‘that was nice’, Ry.”

His smile dropped. “No! That’s not what I meant- I just… I’m gonna be honest it’s been a while since I’ve…” his voice quieted, letting you fill in the blanks.

You knew he had an ex- he’d brought her up occasionally in your conversations when the moment called for it- but you didn’t know how long ago that had been. If you had to guess, it was probably before he became a teacher. Which if what he was saying was true… then he’d hadn’t been with anyone since then and had gone several years without being intimate with anyone (besides himself, anyway).

Ryland took your momentary pause as a bad sign.

“Not that I haven’t wanted to! I’ve just been really busy. Teacher stuff. Grading. Lesson planning. And with a teacher’s salary on top of crippling student loan debt? Fancy restaurants can be a little too steep. Even fast food is getting expensive. I don’t even have a car! I bike to work! Can’t afford a coffee date some months.”

Another rambling tangent. One of his pointer fingers tapped erratically at your thigh.

“Well, you’re in luck Ryland,” you state, pressing a hand to his chest to feel his heartbeat, just like you had when you first met. Just like before, it was pounding but for a whole different reason this time. “I don’t think there’s any high-end restaurants on this aircraft carrier so I don’t need any of that fancy treatment. What if we have cafeteria oatmeal and orange juice on the flight deck together tomorrow morning instead?”

He was nodding before you’d even finished your sentence. “Yeah, that sounds nice.”

“Good,” you smile, raising yourself up to kneel properly over him.

His neck bobbed when you finally took him in your hand. He was warm and firm, the perfect length and size without being too much.

You felt him resist the urge to buck into your fist, instead throwing his head back against the mattress with a groan, tightly squeezing your thighs with his hands to ground himself. He was already leaking into your palm within a couple pumps.

“I-I don’t know how long I’ll be able to-“

“We’ve got all night, Ry, don’t worry.”

He nodded, comforted by your words. He was soft as silk and overly sensitive, it seemed. With the help of your hand, the scientist came quickly, just as he feared he would, painting his abdomen white. You shushed him before he could even think about apologizing.

One positive thing about him going so long without intimacy meant his refractory period was minuscule. He was hard again in minutes, which he’d blushed about.

When you finally sank onto him, moving slowly both for yourself and Ryland’s sake, all thoughts left your mind besides the ones that revolved around the man underneath you. You didn’t care about the dying sun, or Project Hail Mary, or your job. By his expression, Ryland was feeling the same.

His hands were surely leaving bruises on your thighs but you didn’t care one bit. Not when your bodies fit together beautifully. Fully seated, hips locked, you could’ve cried at how he felt inside you. He was just the right size, brushing every spot he needed to and then some without being too overwhelming.

When you began to move, Ryland helped where he could- offering your body stability and putting those muscled arms of his to good use. The veins on his forearms were bulging and the tendons in his neck were prominent against his skin.

You didn’t know how soundproof the metal boxes the higher-ups deemed bedrooms were, but you doubted they would do a good job of masking any of the noises the two of you were making. Ryland was keeping quiet as much as he could manage, teeth grinding. You were a little less reserved, gasping and groaning as you bounced. Let his neighbors hear, you didn’t care. Not when you finally got your chance with the scientist you’d been eyeing since the moment he stepped out of that jet.

Just like he was perfect for you, you could tell you were providing enough relief for him in return because you could feel his thighs begin to quake.

When he bucked up into you again, your hold on that string deep in your gut snapped and you saw white. Feeling you finish brought Ryland to the edge too. He was just barely able to lift your body high enough to free himself and release over your abdomen.

The next several seconds were spent breathing in tandem. Ryland was watching you like you hung the stars in the sky. With all of the movement, his glasses had skewed again. Huffing a laugh, you bent forward to straighten them and then pressed a long lingering kiss to his lips. You felt his fingers glide up to your ribs then wander to your spine, pressing your chest tightly to his.

His glasses were foggy by the time you pulled away, your shared breath heating the lenses.

“You ok?” You asked, brushing a thumb over the dusting of facial hair along his jaw. He nodded into your palm.

“More than ok.”

You woke up to snoring.

Not the loud, reverberating kind, but a soft and soothing hum that blended perfectly with the constant moans and groans of the ship you’d become so accustomed to.

Blinking open your eyes, you stared at the metal ceiling. It took several seconds to remember where you were. For a moment, you assumed you were in your room but when tiny glimpses of sunlight danced over the walls and when a hand twitched lightly against your waist, the memory of last night came rushing back.

The bar, your conversation with the scientist, and then-

A soft smile erupted across your cheeks as they warmed. Ever so slowly lifting your hand, you brushed your fingers through the head of hair that was tucked into your neck.

Indeed, Doctor Ryland Grace was laying by your side, pressed impossibly close to your body due to the cramped nature of his bed, and blissfully asleep.

All feelings of hesitancy and shyness he’d had hours earlier were gone as he slept, the doctor partially draped over you- an arm slung over your waist, a leg thrown over one of yours and tucked between your thighs. He was snoring against your neck where his face was pressed. You were pretty sure he was drooling. His feathered hair was soft against your fingers, even more unkempt than usual.

You could’ve stayed like that for hours, warm and comfortable even in the pathetic excuse for a bed.

Several minutes passed before he began waking up, stirred by the gentle pass of your fingers along the short hair at the nape of his neck. He shifted around slightly but didn’t move to pull away from your side.

He sighed against your skin, the fluttering of his eyelashes against your throat telling you he’d finally opened his eyes.

“Good morning,” you said quietly, not wanting to break the peaceful tranquility of the room that was rare to find on the bustling carrier.

You felt him blink a couple times before he responded, a smile sounding on his lips. “Morning.”

God, his voice was perfect- a rough, deep baritone thanks to hours of sleep. It had you turning your head towards him, pressing your lips to his hairline. You couldn’t see his face, but the stretch of stubble across your throat told you he’d smiled even more.

Several minutes went by in companionable silence, neither of you wanting to pull away. His fingers brushed lazily against your waist and yours didn’t stop thumbing through his hair.

You wondered after a while if he’d fallen back asleep before he mumbled a question. “What time is it?”

Peering over his head, you squinted at the small digital clock that sat on the tiny built-in desk.

“8:58.”

A pause.

Then panic.

Ryland shot upwards, unsticking himself from your body and scrambling out of the bed in a flurry of limbs and movement.

“Shhhhhiitake mushrooms!”

You watched from the bed, lightly amused as you watched him stumble around the cramped space in a frantic search for clothing. Lord above, he looked just as good from the back as he did the front.

“Something wrong?”

“I was supposed to go with Stratt to a crew meeting an hour ago.” He threw his legs into a pair of boxer briefs (which you were pretty certain were on backwards but he didn’t seem to notice or care), followed by a pair of jeans. “Kinda surprised she hasn’t barged in here already to get me up, actually. She’s done it before.”

You just hummed, watching him slug a blue button up across his shoulders and struggle with the buttons. He threw a glare at you that had no fire behind it. “Will you show at least a little sympathy? She could probably throw me into the ship’s jail for this.” He missed a button at the top of his shirt, which meant the whole shirt was now fastened lopsided. He didn’t seem to notice that either.

“I’m not going to complain that we got an extra hour or two of sleep together.”

His cheeks bloomed. There’s that shyness. He didn’t fight your statement, instead busying himself with tugging a beanie over his bedhead. When he sat on the mattress next to you to start putting socks and shoes on, he searched the room with squinted eyes.

“Do y’know where my-“

You held out his glasses. At some point last night, you’d relieved him of the spectacles for his own comfort (and so you could kiss him as senseless as you wanted to) and carefully placed them under the bed where they’d be safe from being squished.

“Thank you.”

Looking a little less than put together, he started collecting the notepads and folders stuffed with papers on the small desk, gathering everything into his arms.

“Uh- well, we missed breakfast so how about we meet up for lunch? Or dinner? Or breakfast tomorrow? Or we don’t have to do anything together at all if you don’t want to. Totally your call, really.” He kept his gaze down at the papers, avoiding your eyes. You smiled.

“Well, I start my shift in an hour and can’t leave the medical wing until I’m relieved.”

His shoulders dropped a little.

“But… there’s no rules against having visitors.”

Ryland looked at you over the rims of his glasses, starting to smile himself. “Yeah? Ok! Yeah, I’ll- Do you have a preference for lunch? I’ll bring you something. Or I can get you a little bit of everything from the cafeteria? Do they allow that?”

You sat up with a laugh, holding the thin bedsheets against your chest to keep the last little bit of warmth from him against you. “I’ll get the same thing you’re having. I’m not picky.”

The doctor nodded to himself, shuffling toward the door with large strides. Twisting the handle, the door opened barely an inch before he doubled back like he forgot something. You expected him to search for something else he needed, not expecting him to rush over and press a fast kiss to your lips. It was your turn to blush.

“Right! Ok, I’ll get us something good. See you in a little bit! And lock the door on your way out, will you? Thanks!”

With his goodbye, he rushed out of the room, gently shut the door and began racing away. You heard his pounding footsteps reverberate the walls as he ran down the hall.

His room was too quiet now that he was gone, only the sounds of the ship keeping you company.

It took you several minutes to shake out of your star-struck stupor.

When the blonde showed up in your quiet office in the medical wing at 12pm sharp, precariously balancing two to-go boxes stuffed full with cafeteria food and harboring a broad smile, you quickly realized just how tightly Doctor Ryland Grace already had you wrapped around his finger.

a/n: ryland grace: the people’s pillow princess. thank you for reading!

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