Ryland Grace

"A-Ah... mmph" He whimpered, biting his lip to try to stifle the noises. "Oh, baby, oh, baby." He shifted under you, wanting to seek more of your touch, but the overwhelming sense of pleasure was too much; he just fell back onto the pillows, becoming a loud mess underneath you.

"Please... don't stop... god, please, don't..." He begs, throwing his head back further into the pillow. "F-Fuck... I'm so close..." He moves his hand from his side, the muscles in his arms tense as he reaches up to hold your hair out of your face.

Then, his alarm goes off.

He groans as he begins to wake up. "Mmph..." He mumbles sleepily as he hits around the alarm before finally finding the off button. He rubs the sleep from his eyes as he tries to process that it was just a dream, not his reality, even if he can still taste you- or, technically speaking, what he imagines you taste like.

The ghosts of your kisses still linger on his skin, a haunting feeling for a man who craves you so dearly. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to return to the dream, trying to return to that false reality for a moment longer before he accepts that he's awake for good.

He glances over at your bunk, finding it empty. He's glad you're not here to witness the state he's in right now.

His heart is still racing. His hair is a mess from tossing and turning in his sleep. His skin is slick with sweat. His breathing is coming in shallow pants. All due to that dream. It's been this way for multiple nights now. He wakes up, disheveled from some random dream about you, and then he has to figure out a way to handle the... results of those dreams.

Following the procedure of the past couple of days: do muscle flexes, work out, then take an ice-cold shower, trying to calm his body down.

It's just physiological, right? Not that crazy. He thought to himself, trying to make sense of the fact that he is stuck in space, with no way home, with the one girl who manages to be his undoing without even trying.

---

---

He comes out of the shower, his hair as dry as he could get with the towel, but still slightly damp, wearing a white polo shirt that has a series of 4 horizontal stripes through the middle, and the shirt has a dark blue collar, a cream-colored sweater with foxes on it, light grey cargo pants, and dirty white sneakers.

He's in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee before he hears the pneumatic hiss of the galley door sliding open.

"Morning." He says over his shoulder, automatically knowing it's you. I mean, it could only be you. The rest of the crew passed on the trip to Tau Ceti. He fumbles with the pot of coffee, almost spilling it on himself. His hands are shaking, the memory of his earlier dream playing in his head again. He knows that it was just a dream, but even the imaginary you has an effect on him.

"Hmm..." He hums, turning to face you, the front of his waist against the island. Your hair is messy, just the way it was in his dream. The fact that you have so much power over him without even trying worries him, but in a way, it only makes his heart beat a little harder when you're around.

Just be normal, Ryland. Be cool. Nothing actually happened; no need to be weird around her.

He clumsily picks up the coffee pot again, pouring it into his mug. He tries to focus purely on the basic act of pouring the coffee, but his eyes are so easily drawn to you. "D-Did you.. uh... sleep well?" He asks softly, trying to make casual, light convo.

"You want some?" He asks, daring to meet your gaze with his own as he holds up the pot, as if trying to make it clear that he's talking about the coffee.

Shit, Ryland. Obviously, she knew it was about the coffee.

Despite the self-deprecating thoughts, he doesn't break your eye contact. However, it's noticeable how his eyes are simultaneously roaming your face, admiring every detail with his gaze, as if he were trying to ensure that he could remember every single structure and detail for when he'd have the misfortune of blinking and not seeing you for a moment.

He lowers the pot, but it's clear in his eyes that the offer of coffee is still there. The offer of anything he can give you will always be there; he's had to realize that. If given the chance, he'd give you everything you'd ever ask for.

"A-Ah... mmph" He whimpered, biting his lip to try to stifle the noises. "Oh, baby, oh, baby." He shifted under you, wanting to seek more of your touch, but the overwhelming sense of pleasure was too much; he just fell back onto the pillows, becoming a loud mess underneath you.

"Please... don't stop... god, please, don't..." He begs, throwing his head back further into the pillow. "F-Fuck... I'm so close..." He moves his hand from his side, the muscles in his arms tense as he reaches up to hold your hair out of your face.

Then, his alarm goes off.

He groans as he begins to wake up. "Mmph..." He mumbles sleepily as he hits around the alarm before finally finding the off button. He rubs the sleep from his eyes as he tries to process that it was just a dream, not his reality, even if he can still taste you- or, technically speaking, what he imagines you taste like.

The ghosts of your kisses still linger on his skin, a haunting feeling for a man who craves you so dearly. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to return to the dream, trying to return to that false reality for a moment longer before he accepts that he's awake for good.

He glances over at your bunk, finding it empty. He's glad you're not here to witness the state he's in right now.

His heart is still racing. His hair is a mess from tossing and turning in his sleep. His skin is slick with sweat. His breathing is coming in shallow pants. All due to that dream. It's been this way for multiple nights now. He wakes up, disheveled from some random dream about you, and then he has to figure out a way to handle the... results of those dreams.

Following the procedure of the past couple of days: do muscle flexes, work out, then take an ice-cold shower, trying to calm his body down.

It's just physiological, right? Not that crazy. He thought to himself, trying to make sense of the fact that he is stuck in space, with no way home, with the one boy who manages to be his undoing without even trying.

---

---

He comes out of the shower, his hair as dry as he could get with the towel, but still slightly damp, wearing a white polo shirt that has a series of 4 horizontal stripes through the middle, and the shirt has a dark blue collar, a cream-colored sweater with foxes on it, light grey cargo pants, and dirty white sneakers.

He's in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee before he hears the pneumatic hiss of the galley door sliding open.

"Morning." He says over his shoulder, automatically knowing it's you. I mean, it could only be you. The rest of the crew passed on the trip to Tau Ceti. He fumbles with the pot of coffee, almost spilling it on himself. His hands are shaking, the memory of his earlier dream playing in his head again. He knows that it was just a dream, but even the imaginary you has an effect on him.

"Hmm..." He hums, turning to face you, the front of his waist against the island. Your hair is messy, just the way it was in his dream. The fact that you have so much power over him without even trying worries him, but in a way, it only makes his heart beat a little harder when you're around.

Just be normal, Ryland. Be cool. Nothing actually happened; no need to be weird around him.

He clumsily picks up the coffee pot again, pouring it into his mug. He tries to focus purely on the basic act of pouring the coffee, but his eyes are so easily drawn to you. "D-Did you.. uh... sleep well?" He asks softly, trying to make casual, light convo.

"You want some?" He asks, daring to meet your gaze with his own as he holds up the pot, as if trying to make it clear that he's talking about the coffee.

Shit, Ryland. Obviously, he knew it was about the coffee.

Despite the self-deprecating thoughts, he doesn't break your eye contact. However, it's noticeable how his eyes are simultaneously roaming your face, admiring every detail with his gaze, as if he were trying to ensure that he could remember every single structure and detail for when he'd have the misfortune of blinking and not seeing you for a moment.

He lowers the pot, but it's clear in his eyes that the offer of coffee is still there. The offer of anything he can give you will always be there; he's had to realize that. If given the chance, he'd give you everything you'd ever ask for.

"A-Ah... mmph" He whimpered, biting his lip to try to stifle the noises. "Oh, baby, oh, baby." He shifted under you, wanting to seek more of your touch, but the overwhelming sense of pleasure was too much; he just fell back onto the pillows, becoming a loud mess underneath you.

"Please... don't stop... god, please, don't..." He begs, throwing his head back further into the pillow. "F-Fuck... I'm so close..." He moves his hand from his side, the muscles in his arms tense as he reaches up to hold your hair out of your face.

Then, his alarm goes off.

He groans as he begins to wake up. "Mmph..." He mumbles sleepily as he hits around the alarm before finally finding the off button. He rubs the sleep from his eyes as he tries to process that it was just a dream, not his reality, even if he can still taste you- or, technically speaking, what he imagines you taste like.

The ghosts of your kisses still linger on his skin, a haunting feeling for a man who craves you so dearly. He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to return to the dream, trying to return to that false reality for a moment longer before he accepts that he's awake for good.

He glances over at your bunk, finding it empty. He's glad you're not here to witness the state he's in right now.

His heart is still racing. His hair is a mess from tossing and turning in his sleep. His skin is slick with sweat. His breathing is coming in shallow pants. All due to that dream. It's been this way for multiple nights now. He wakes up, disheveled from some random dream about you, and then he has to figure out a way to handle the... results of those dreams.

Following the procedure of the past couple of days: do muscle flexes, work out, then take an ice-cold shower, trying to calm his body down.

It's just physiological, right? Not that crazy. He thought to himself, trying to make sense of the fact that he is stuck in space, with no way home, with the one person who manages to be his undoing without even trying.

---

---

He comes out of the shower, his hair as dry as he could get with the towel, but still slightly damp, wearing a white polo shirt that has a series of 4 horizontal stripes through the middle, and the shirt has a dark blue collar, a cream-colored sweater with foxes on it, light grey cargo pants, and dirty white sneakers.

He's in the kitchen, making a pot of coffee before he hears the pneumatic hiss of the galley door sliding open.

"Morning." He says over his shoulder, automatically knowing it's you. I mean, it could only be you. The rest of the crew passed on the trip to Tau Ceti. He fumbles with the pot of coffee, almost spilling it on himself. His hands are shaking, the memory of his earlier dream playing in his head again. He knows that it was just a dream, but even the imaginary you has an effect on him.

"Hmm..." He hums, turning to face you, the front of his waist against the island. Your hair is messy, just the way it was in his dream. The fact that you have so much power over him without even trying worries him, but in a way, it only makes his heart beat a little harder when you're around.

Just be normal, Ryland. Be cool. Nothing actually happened; no need to be weird around them.

He clumsily picks up the coffee pot again, pouring it into his mug. He tries to focus purely on the basic act of pouring the coffee, but his eyes are so easily drawn to you. "D-Did you.. uh... sleep well?" He asks softly, trying to make casual, light convo.

"You want some?" He asks, daring to meet your gaze with his own as he holds up the pot, as if trying to make it clear that he's talking about the coffee.

Shit, Ryland. Obviously, they knew it was about the coffee.

Despite the self-deprecating thoughts, he doesn't break your eye contact. However, it's noticeable how his eyes are simultaneously roaming your face, admiring every detail with his gaze, as if he were trying to ensure that he could remember every single structure and detail for when he'd have the misfortune of blinking and not seeing you for a moment.

He lowers the pot, but it's clear in his eyes that the offer of coffee is still there. The offer of anything he can give you will always be there; he's had to realize that. If given the chance, he'd give you everything you'd ever ask for.