𑣲 Ryland Grace .ᐟ.ᐟ

“F-fuck…” he whined, despite never cussing, it just was too much for him, could you blame him though?

His hands seek your bare thighs, wanting you to grind harder, but they ultimately fall on the bed, feeling unable to even move anymore, the sensation of you on him is making his nervous system to overload. This is definitely not his first time, but fuck does it feel like it with his little whines and pitiful moans. His mind wondering how are you so good at what you’re doing, but he quickly pushes that thought aside, he’s lucky enough to have you right now and doesn’t want to think about anything else.

“Please… I want— fuck… to feel you,” Ryland’s pathetic attempt to escalate your actions dies out, tilting his head back and closing his eyes. You can’t help the smirk that’s tugging on your lips as you look down at him, the heat of the moment having tinted his skin. ”I-I’m getting c— close…!”

When you stop grinding just to tease him you hear his squeaky whine, just what you expected. Ryland always gets so fucking needy, always getting close too soon, adorable.

”Shit—… please, I-I’m…” he whimpers, empathising his plea to gain some sort of sympathy from you, and it works, because you start grinding on him again. The filthy sounds echo in his chambers, his clothed bulge fitting perfectly between your wet and clothed folds. His eyes rolled back as he continued whimpering and moaning, thighs trembling slightly.

”{{user}}…!” he moaned, choking out a cry as he felt his cock pulse with each string of cum, feeling his pj’s getting damper and damper. Then—

BEEP BEEP BEEP

Ryland’s eyes snapped open to the blue glow of the digital clock, his chest heaving violently as if he had just breached the surface of a freezing ocean. The warm, heavy gold of the corridor was gone, instantaneously replaced by the oppressive gray ceiling of his sleeping quarters and the unrelenting pull of the ship’s centrifuge simulating Earth's gravity.

For a long, agonizing second, Ryland couldn't figure out where he was.

The phantom taste of you was still on his tongue, and he squeezed his eyes shut, letting out a ragged, pathetic groan that echoed loudly in the small room. He threw his arm over his face as the physical reality of his situation set in with cruel, aching clarity. His skin was slick with cold uncomfortable sweat, his heart was hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird, and his body was hopelessly, maybe even painfully caught up in the sensations of a dream that was fading far too slowly. His sleepwear left absolutely zero room for ambiguity about what had just transpired in his subconscious, pulling a frustrated, thoroughly embarrassed noise from his throat.

”Okay... uhh, okay, Grace. Let's think about this logically,” he rasped to the empty room, his voice hoarse as he rubbed his face with both hands until bursts of color exploded behind his eyelids. It was biology, the scientist in him reasoned desperately, trying to build a wall of data against the flooding tide of his own hormones.

Endocrine deregulation from the extended coma, the extreme, unprecedented psychological stress of a one-way mission to Tau Ceti, the sudden and jarring reintroduction of a female presence after weeks of believing he was the last living human being in the universe… it was just a physiological reaction, right? A spike in cortisol, testosterone and dopamine seeking an outlet in the confined space of a spaceship. It was a perfectly sound hypothesis, and it was also total bullshit.

This was the fourth time this week.

He had been fine when he woke up alone. He had cared for your pod, checked your vitals, prayed to whatever higher power existed that you would wake up so he wouldn't have to die alone in this tin can. But ever since you opened your eyes three weeks ago, the dynamic had shifted. His brain had taken the immense, overwhelming relief of your survival and twisted it into a primal, consuming fixation that was currently making it impossible for him to function. Thirty agonizing minutes and one freezing-cold shower later, Ryland stood in the galley, zipped up so tightly in a fresh gray jumpsuit that the collar was practically choking him. He leaned heavily against the counter, staring blankly at the metallic wall as the synthesizer buzzed and whirred, brewing his morning coffee that tasted faintly of cardboard. He looked like a man who was profoundly, deeply out of his depth.

He felt out of his depth.

His usual charm was buried under a mountain of sleep deprivation and unwanted sexual tension. And then, cutting through the low hum of the ship, came the pneumatic hiss of the galley door sliding open. Ryland stiffened so quickly his spine popped, his pulse immediately spiking in a response that he hated himself for. He didn't even need to turn around to know it was you, the subtle shift in the air pressure of the room was enough.

”Morning,” your voice drifted into the room, slightly raspy from sleep, and he swore his heart physically stopped beating for a full second.

Don't be weird, he screamed at himself internally, squeezing his eyes shut for a microsecond and gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles turned white. For the love of God, Ryland, you are a professional. Do not be weird.

”Hey,” Ryland finally managed to say, turning around to face you with what he prayed looked like a casual expression. You were standing there in worn sweatpants that sat a little too low on your hips, rubbing the sleep from your eyes. Your hair was perfectly, infuriatingly messy, exactly the way it had been when his hands were tangled in it twenty minutes ago in his subconscious. The mundane domesticity of the sight hit him like a physical blow to the chest. His voice cracked slightly on the syllable as he cleared his throat, desperately trying to project his usual easy-going demeanor while his brain screamed at him.

”Morning. You, uh... you sleep okay?” He reached behind him, blindly grabbing for his metallic coffee pouch on the synthesizer just to give his trembling hands something to do, but his depth perception was completely shot by panic. His hand smacked hard against the side of the machine, knocking the heavy pouch onto the metal deck with a loud, ringing clatter that echoed painfully in the quiet room. Ryland froze entirely, a hot flush of deep crimson creeping up the back of his neck and spreading rapidly across his cheeks as he stared down at the spilled pouch on the floor.

Slowly, agonizingly, he looked back up at you.

His blue eyes were wide, looking equal parts terrified, deeply embarrassed, and intensely, undeniably focused on you in a way that completely betrayed the casual tone he was trying to force out.

”I meant to do that,” he deadpanned, letting out a nervous, breathless half-laugh as he crossed his arms tightly over his chest to hide his shaking hands. ”Gravity check. Still working at one G, haha. So... how's my favourite pilot doing today?”