paroxysm

e-fi-eo-ne ' s masterlist

[ PACIFIC RIM ]

> party on you (part of you knew) | Chuck Hansen x fem! doctor! reader

|| 02/13 || work on progress

[ PROJECT HAIL MARY ]

> good morning | past Ryland Grace x gen! reader

|| 01/?? || work on progress

> <rock-block> | established Ryland Grace x AFAB reader

|| 01/02 || wc. 6.5k

> two of us (makes a team, even if we don't know it yet) | Ryland Grace & Jack Abbott! Original Male Character

|| ??/?? || work on progress

| | MULTIFANDOM

[ Resident Evil ] + [ Love and Deepspace ]

> what shenshen knew (and didn't understand yet) | Ada Wong/Leon Kennedy & Zayne (Li Shen)

do NOT ask me what I am doing in the subereddit that is none of your business

Spatzi - A German term of endearment meaning “little sparrow”.

Warmhaus - In-world lingo; literal English translation is “warm house.” A German equivalent to a heated shelter specifically designed against sub-zero temperatures.

Sozialamt - German term for a Social Welfare Office.

Himmel und Hölle - Hopscotch.

Wissen macht Ah! - an educational German television program specifically for children.

A/N: I'm having so much fun world building a Post-PHM world…

WC: 6.4k | crossposted on AO3 | back to chapter list

SEPTEMBER 2029 | 8:00 PM

I like looking at the stars.

I am looking at them right now, actually. I am lying down next to my favorite person in the whole entire world, my Mama. Her very pretty, long orange hair is all over my bed. We were looking at the stars blinking far, far away, and Mama was humming her song. She hums the same one every night. I do not mind, because her voice is the prettiest voice there is. I think it would be even prettier if she really sang it instead of just humming, but I never say that, because humming is just as good too.

I point my finger up, smiling, at the window in my ceiling where we can see the stars. "What's that one, Mama?" I already knew it was Orion. I knew lots of space stuff. I only asked so she'd keep talking, because I wanted to ask her something else, and I didn't know how to start yet.

"That's Orion," Mama says in English, all soft like a lullaby. "Rigel is the constellation's brightest star…"

"...Mama?" I say quietly, turning my face to look at her. She turns hers too, so we are looking at each other.

"Yes, Spatzi?"

"Warum sprichst du Englisch mit mir, wenn wir die Sterne anschauen?"

Why do you speak English with me when we look at the stars?

Mama's eyebrows went up, like she was thinking really hard. We just looked at each other for a little bit, not saying anything, under the stars.

Then she finally talked, slow, like when she has to explain something very important. "...English is the universal language, Jay. Knowing it would help you a lot when you're all grown up."

I nodded, because Mama's answer made a lot of sense. My mama's very smart. I think she has a Doctorate, which sounds a lot like Doctor, but isn't. She told me once it means she's an expert in her field, and being an expert means knowing a whole lot about one thing. Maybe that's why she learned English too.

I was thinking about English because I'd seen something on Mama's YouTube—the sun was dying, well not really dying, but dimming. Really, really fast. I knew it too, because my friends at school talk about it all the time, yelling about how we're all going to die from the cold. I'm scared, because I don't want that to happen. Not to anyone.

"Mama, they say the sun is sick…and lots of other stars too. I want…to, was ist…Mama?"

I knew the word. It was in my brain somewhere, I just couldn't get it to come out of my mouth.

"It's help," Mama says, and she makes the "p" sound pop at the end.

"...I want to help. So the stars won't die. Wie die Rakete, Hail Mary! Oder finde eine andere Lösung, falls du nicht nach Hause zurückkehrt."

Like the rocket, the Hail Mary! Or find another solution in case she doesn't return home.

I said it happy, because I really meant it. Mama brushed my hair with her hand, the curly part that never lays flat even with the gel stuff.

"I thought you wanted to be a doctor?"

"Can't I be both, Mama?" Mama smiles at my answer, slightly.

"Hm. I suppose you can. I've never heard anyone say you can't be both." She pauses. "God willing."

"Do you pray to God every day, Mama?"

"Every day, Jay."

I notice, even though I'm not really trying to notice things like this, that her humming had gone quite a while ago. It stopped somewhere between me talking about Orion and the Hail Mary, without me ever hearing it stop.

…It doesn't start again.

"...I forget to pray, sometimes," My voice goes small as I tell Mama the truth. I think she hears it either way. "Is that why God stays silent? Because I don't talk to Him as much as I should?"

Mama's hand stops in my hair.

It doesn't move for a long time. It was long enough that I count three blinks of the Rigel star past my window, blinking like it couldn't decide if it wanted to be there, watching us. I think I did something very wrong. Mama's gone so still, and her face isn't making any of the faces I know—not the eyebrows-up-thinking face, not the secret-smile face, not even the tired face she gets after long calls in her office room downstairs. It's a new face I don't understand.

When her hand starts moving again, it's slower than before.

"Jay." She says my name first, with her serious voice again when she wants me to really listen. "It is not your fault. Whatever God does, whatever He doesn't do—it has nothing to do with how much you pray, or how good you are, or anything you could have done differently. Do you understand me?"

I nodded, even though I didn't, not really. I just knew Mama needed me to nod.

She went quiet again after that, looking up at the stars instead of at me, like she was the one with a question now, and didn't know who to ask it to.

"...Glaubst du, wir können das lösen, Mama?" I ask instead, carefully, because I didn't like her quiet, and maybe… I wanted to give her something easier to answer.

Do you think we can solve this, Mom?

She kept her hand in my hair, the same slow brushing that always makes my eyes feel heavy, and she didn't stop until I was done asking my question.

"...Mama doesn't know either, Jay." A small breath, like it cost her something to say. "But one thing is for sure. The brightest minds there are, here on Earth, are working on it. Maybe, maybe one day—you will too." She answered truthfully.

I just gave Mama a smile. I don't exactly know why. I just did. We stayed like that, cuddling, just me and my Mama, side by side, warm in my bed.

My hands went to touch Mama's neck, fingers drawing on the skin that had a small patch of ink, a tattoo that is a letter of sorts. Mama lets me. The letter was V. Or was it a big letter A flipped upside down? I was very curious what the tattoo was for, and what it means, but I decided against asking. I can just ask her again tomorrow night.

I also…just like remembering things. I don't really think it's a big deal, I just like keeping facts in my head, like the constellations and the English words and the science lessons at school and the songs Mama hums. But Mama says I'm smart. Every time I say something she didn't think I'd know, her whole face changes and she smiles bigger than her normal smile. I like that smile a lot. So maybe I like remembering things even more because of that. It's a secret reason, but I don't mind telling it to the stars.

Then I got tired. My body wanted to sleep, even though I didn't want the night to end yet. Mama tucked me in one more time. She said goodnight really soft, almost a whisper.

When she walked to my door, with her foot already at the edge of it, I said it back.

"Goodnight, Mama."

She smiled at me again, and then the door clicked shut.

SEPTEMBER 2029 | 07:00 AM

Mama says summers used to be different.

I don't really remember how she describes them.

The next day is a very cold morning, even without the snow. I think seasons have lost their real meaning, since even though it's supposed to be summertime, it is still very cold. Summer is supposed to be warm. There is no snow, but the breeze is freezing.

Mama woke me up the same way she always does, by pulling my blanket off my face. I do not like this way very much, because the light from the skylight comes in all bright and straight into my eyes before I am ready for it. But then she says "Guten Morgen, Spatzi." in her low morning voice after, which is lower and a little slower than her regular voice, and then it is okay.

I got dressed by myself. Mama taught me how to tie my shoes just a few weeks ago, before I turned six. I wore thick socks, the ones with the grey stripes, because those are the warmest. Two layers under my jacket, because Mama left a note on my chair the night before that said so. I don't always need the note. I just liked that she left it. She leaves drawings with it too sometimes. Pictures and drawings make me very happy. Today was Bluey…or someone that looks like Bluey.

We had eggs and bread for breakfast, which Mama made while I was still looking for my other shoe. I found it under my bed, which is where it always ends up, even though I never remember putting it there. Mama was already at the table when I came down, her coffee and her black iPad both in front of her. We had two iPads, and mama leaves the blue one at home. She always reads things in the mornings. I don't always know what, because the screen faces away from me, but she gets a small line between her eyebrows when it is work stuff and no line when it isn't, so I can usually tell.

Today, there was a small line.

I sat down and reached for my new thermos. It's a silver one with the clip on top that I didn't have before and I tried to open it. The clip was tricky. I pressed it the wrong way first, and then another wrong way, and then I turned it upside down to look at the bottom, where there was a little diagram, but I cannot understand it.

"Mama, can you open this, please?"

She looked up from her tablet. Not at the thermos, but at me. "You can figure it out, Spatzi. You can read and look for the instructions." She says.

I hopped out of my seat to look for the thermos box my new thermos came from. My birthday happened just a few days ago, and Mama gave it to me as a gift. It must still be around somewhere. Soon, I found it on the second cabinet near the garbage bin drawer. I returned to the table with it, and looked at the diagram again, really looked, the way how Mama means when she says to look and read. There was a small arrow I had missed the first time. I pressed the clip in the direction the arrow was pointing and then turned it, and the thermos finally opened with a click and a little puff of steam from the hot chocolate inside.

I didn't say anything. But Mama's mouth did the small thing it does when she already knew something was going to happen, and then it did.

Seeing Mama’s happy face makes me happy.

I drank my chocolate. I ate my bread. The small line between Mama's eyebrows went away in the middle of breakfast, which I think meant her work stuff got better, or she stopped reading the work stuff. Either one.

SEPTEMBER 2029 | 08:00 AM

Mama likes to drive me to school even though our house is only a fifteen-minute walk from the gate. I know it's fifteen minutes because I counted once, on an afternoon I walked home with Erina. Erina Krause is my neighbour, my friend, and also my classmate, which is very convenient. Convenient means when something is useful and easy at the same time. Mama always uses that word. Erina and I do not talk very much on our walks, but we walk at the same speed, which I think might be more important than talking anyway.

But in the mornings, Mama always drives me. She has never said why. I have decided this is one of those things that does not need a reason said out loud, because I think I understand it without one. The morning cold is different from the afternoon cold. It is harder to explain except that it is much, much colder, and it gets in through places the afternoon cold doesn't bother with. Collar, cuffs, the top of my ears. In the mornings, it is very serious about getting in and giving me goosebumps.

My school bag sat in my lap because the back seat was full of cardboard boxes and Mama's folders, the big ones with the coloured tabs. The car heater smelled like old dust for the first minute, and then for a while it just smelled warm, which is one of the best smells in the whole world when it is cold outside.

We pass by the Warmhaus on the corner near the Sozialamt. It is a big building, wide and low to the ground, with thick grey walls and two sets of doors, one inside the other, so the cold cannot follow you inside. There are always people going in and out through the Warmhaus doors. I have never once driven or walked past it and saw it empty or dark. It has very bright orange lights outside, which I think means it is open, like a store sign, except the Warmhaus is never not open. Mama said once that they are important. More important every year. I think about that sometimes, the more important every year part, but I don't know exactly what to do with it, so I just keep it in my head and look at the orange lights when we drive past.

The school gate came up on the left. Mama slowed down and pulled to the side and put the car into park, always around the same time, in the same spot.

"Jay?"

I was already reaching for the door handle. I turned back.

"Stay warm, Spatzi." I feel her hands rustle my hair slightly. Messing it up a little bit.

She said it the way everyone says it now. It's a new way you say stay safe, or take care, except now the thing everyone is staying safe from is the cold, so that's how the words changed.

But when Mama says it, it sounds different from how other people say it. It sounds like she thought about every word before she said it.

"Stay warm, Mama," I said back, grinning.

I got out of the car. I feel the cold all at once, against my face and ears, even with my two layers and my thick socks with the grey stripes. I went straight through the gate without looking back, because I knew Mama was still there.

She always stays until I am through the gate.

SEPTEMBER 2029 | 01:00 PM

The hallway is very long when you have someone on your back.

I know this because Erina is not very heavy, not really, but my arms are starting to feel the…pain, and tired—where they want to shake and it feels like burning a little. I think my face is probably red just like Erina’s. I know it's probably red because I can feel it, sort of hot and tight on my cheeks, and I am hoping it just looks like it's from the outside cold, even though we have been inside for a while now. I already feel better knowing our classroom is on the first floor.

I am not struggling. I just want to make that clear, even though I am the only one who can hear me say it.

"Hey, why do you always help me?"

Erina's voice is small and still wet from crying. I can feel it in my shoulders where her chin is resting. I thought about the question for a second.

"You're my neighbour. You are very convenient."

It took a little while for Erina to talk again. "...What?"

I am a little proud I remembered the word right. "Convenient means...easy. And useful.”

"What's easy and useful about me?"

I thought about it honestly. I replied with something that I thought would make her laugh. "...You trip a lot.”

"Meanie."

It doesn't.

"Mama says I can't walk home by myself. And you live next door. So." I did not know how else to say it. It was just the truth. Erina trips a lot and she lives next door and I am not allowed to walk home alone, so—it all works out. That is what convenient is.

"Okay," Erina says.

We did not say anything else after that. I could feel her sniffling a little against the back of my shoulder. My arms were still not shaking, because I said they weren't, so they weren't. I focused on walking and on counting the classroom doors we passed, and on not counting how far we still had to go.

I know Miss Köhler stays in the classroom during play time. I noticed it a long time ago, one time when I said I wanted to stay inside and read instead of playtime, and kept it in my head in case it was useful someday. I guess today is someday.

"Miss Köhler?" I called when we got to the door. "Erina tripped."

Her chair scraped back fast. She was on her laptop. "Oh my...can you stand, Erina?"

"Yes, teacher." Erina slid off my back and stood up, which I was glad about, because my arms felt much better and so light like they wanted to float, which just means they were never struggling in the first place. I was right. "My knees hurts a lot though..."

"Okay, let me see.”

"I'll get the bandage box, teacher." I already knew where it was. Second shelf of the supply cabinet on my right, next to the cabinet where the coloured papers and other school supplies were. Miss Köhler showed us at the start of school, in case of emergencies, and I thought it was important to keep in my head.

"Thank you, Jacob."

I went to get it. Behind me, I heard Miss Köhler's voice go softer, the careful kind of soft that grownups use when they are trying to make you calm down faster. She is using it right now with Erina. "How did this happen, Erina?"

"...W-we were playing Himmel und Hölle with Hedy," Erina said. Her voice still had the shaky part in it, leftover crying. "I tripped on the line on the floor."

I came back and set the bandage box on the desk. Miss Köhler looked at both of Erina's knees. They were scraped and bleeding, not a lot, but enough to look bad. I had looked at them outside when it first happened and felt a squeeze in my stomach. I think that is what worried feels like, or maybe that is just what it feels like to see blood. I am not sure which one. I did not say anything about it either way. I just said come on, get on, we need Miss Köhler, and I bent down, and Erina got on my back.

"Well." Miss Köhler sat back a little. "I don't think either of you will be able to walk home, then. I'll have your parents come pick you up."

"What about Jacob?" Erina asked. "We walk home together."

"I'll call his parents too. This will hurt a bit, Erina."

"He doesn't have a daddy."

The room went quiet.

I have heard it said out loud before. A few times. It is true, so I do not understand why it makes the room feel different every time someone says it. Miss Köhler looked at me, and her face was doing the thing—not a mean face, she never does that, nor a laughing face. It was a face that was trying very hard to be careful, something that was sorry about something I did not ask anyone to be sorry about.

I did not like that face.

I don't know how to explain exactly why. I just did not.

"It's true," I said, because she was still looking at me. I hoped she would look away. "But it's okay."

Her mouth opened a little, and then she looked back down at Erina's knees, and her voice came out lighter and different. "You carried her all the way here?"

"It was faster."

"...Very good." She then turned back to Erina. "Can you get me the extra cotton wool too, Jacob? It's on the last cabinet on your left. While I call your mamas."

I don't really know what Mama does exactly, but she is a very busy Government person. She won't be able to pick me up at four.

"Mama's at work. She won't be home until 4."

"Is there anyone else I can call?"

I shook my head no.

…and Miss Köhler did the face again. Not the careful-sorry face like earlier, a different one, but it makes me feel the same way either way. So I keep my eyes at the cabinet instead of at her.

"Okay. I'll ask Erina's mama if she can pick you both up instead."

"I'm sure mama won't mind," Erina said.

I looked down at my watch. 1:36 PM. I knew how to read the numbers now. I had been practicing a lot. 1:36 is between 1:00 and 2:00, which meant there was still time before pickup, which meant it was fine.

"Okay," I said.

The last cabinet on the left is a low one, where the doors have little magnets to keep them shut. I opened it and found the opened, half-full cotton wool on the second shelf, in a plastic bag. I pulled some out.

And then I counted them, even though Miss Köhler did not ask me to count them.

One.

Two.

Three, four, five.

Six.

Six cotton balls. That should be enough. I put them in my pocket so my hands had something to squeeze and play with, and I walked back to give them to Miss Köhler. She did not use them.

SEPTEMBER 2029 | 02:00 PM

Miss Köhler gave me a smiley face stamp that says “wunderbar!” after she fixed Erina's knees. It is on the back of my left hand, a yellow circle with two black dots and a curved line. I looked at it for a long time. I am going to show Mama as soon as I see her. I am also going to tell her about what I learned in Science today—which was about water and ice and what happens when water gets cold enough—and I am going to tell her about Erina, and the bandage box, and the song we did at music time. I have a lot of things to tell Mama. I have been saving them up since first class.

Erina's mama took a little while to come. I sat on one of the free seats near the classroom door with Erina, who had two round bandages on her knees now, one on each, and I looked at the stamp on my hand while the hallway got loud. Dismissal Time is always loud. Everyone's parents come at almost the same time, and voices pile on top of each other until you cannot make out any one of them. I heard my name once in the middle of it, and Mama's name too, in the same sentence Miss Köhler was saying into her phone. I could not figure out the rest because of all the noise.

So I thought about the stamp instead. I just realised the smile was a little crooked.

Erina's mama arrived soon. She is very tall and looks a lot like Erina. They both have the same hair color and eye color. Adults say their babies look like them. Which is unfair, because…I know I don't really look a lot like my Mama, except for my eyes. That is what everybody tells me, so.

Maybe I look like my Papa then. I think that must be it, since I have to look like someone. I don't know what he looks like, so I can't really check. Mama doesn't talk about him very much. I have thought about asking before, but I am never sure if that is the right kind of question, so I just don't.

She picked up Erina first, who wrapped her arms around her mother's neck right away, and then she looked at me the way grownups do when they already know something about you. Not a bad look exactly. Just a knowing one. I do not really like being known by people I have not met yet.

I followed Erina and Mrs. Krause to the gate, and inside the blue car. Her car had a green tree-shaped air freshener hanging from the mirror, and it smelled very strong. I rolled my window down a small crack, carefully, because I did not want to be impolite about it but also because my head was starting to feel kind of dizzy and I did not want it to get worse. Erina and her mama talked in the front seat. I watched the street going past through the window, in the grey of it and the bare branches, and I thought about what Miss Köhler said, that ice is just water that got cold enough, and I thought that was a strange way for something to work. You are one thing, and then you get cold enough, and then you are a different thing.

We pulled up to our street. I made sure that I said thank you before I got out. Clearly, the way Mama says to, not swallowed. Erina's mama told me to stay warm and I said it back, and then I shut the door and walked to our gate.

I have my own key. Mama gave it to me at the start of the school year, which I think means she decided I was old enough, which I think is true. The key has a yellow rubber cover so I can find it fast. I found it fast. I opened the door.

Our house at this time of the day was always quiet. It would be weirder if it wasn't. I left my bag at the corner of my room, the spot I always leave it, and then I took off everything—my jacket, jumper, school trousers, the socks with the grey stripes—and put it all in the laundry basket until I was just in my shorts and my day t-shirt. The cold got in without my layers, so I left my room and turned on the heater in the living room with the remote. After that, I went straight to Mama's room.

Mama's room is also her office. I think it has been both of those things for a long time, but I think the office part has been getting bigger lately and the bedroom part has been getting smaller. The bed is still there and it is a nice bed, but there are books stacked on the floor beside it and more papers on the little table by the window and two monitors on her desk now instead of one, with a lot of cords behind them that I am not allowed to touch. Her chair is the big one with the wheels. Sometimes, if she has a very long call the night before, I come in in the morning and she is still in the chair instead of in the bed. I never say anything about it. I don't think she would want me to.

I got the iPad from the nightstand. It has a blue case with drawings of stars. It is the shared one, so it has my things and some of Mama's things on it. It opened when I held it up to my face, because of the camera that knows who you are.

I went to WhatsApp. Mama's contact picture is a photo of me, which I found out once and thought was a strange choice, but then I thought about it more and I think I understand it. I held the microphone button down.

"Hallo Mama, ich bin gerade nach Hause gekommen. Ich habe viele Geschichten aus der Schule zu erzählen. Ich werde SpongeBob Schwammkopf schauen."

“Hi Mom, I just got home. I have lots of stories from school to tell you. I'm going to watch SpongeBob SquarePants.”

I said it all the way through in one go and then let go of the button. It was sent with the little sound. I also sent the sunglasses emoji because I like sending that one.

I type sometimes too. Short things—like OK, or one word, or on my way. But for long things, I like the voice messages better because it is faster than typing and I can say more things at once, and Mama always responds to them. She either sends a voice message back or she types, and I can tell she actually listened because she says things about the specific stuff I said. Like, she will hear me say I am going to watch SpongeBob and then she will say eat a snack first, or she will say don't hold the tablet too close to your face, or she will send just the thumbs up, which means she is busy but she heard me.

She always responds.

I put the iPad on my lap and looked for SpongeBob.

Mama's YouTube on the iPad has a lot of very different things on it. There are cartoons—SpongeBob and Bluey and Wissen macht Ah!, which is the German one that explains how things work and I think Mama put it there on purpose, but I do not mind because it is actually very interesting. And then further down, if you keep scrolling past the cartoons, there are long videos with graphs and numbers, a mister in a black suit talking fast about something called the economy, and the very long video essays with the red lines under them. And astronomy videos. I watch a lot of them. They're videos where someone explains something about a star or a planet for a very long time and the pictures are beautiful and I do not understand all of the words—but I like watching them anyway. I watch the pictures and try to keep up.

I watched SpongeBob for a long time. Then some Bluey. Then a Wissen macht Ah! about worms, because it started playing after and it sounded interesting so I did not skip it.

I did not notice the time until I looked at the corner of the screen.

4:02 PM.

I know how to read that number now. I knew it meant four o'clock and two minutes, which meant Mama was supposed to be home already, or close to home.

So I went to WhatsApp.

The voice message I made earlier—the Hallo Mama one—was still there at the bottom. There were two small checks under it. I know what that means. It means it did send, but Mama hasn't seen the messages yet. She must be super busy at work today.

So instead, I scrolled up to find Mama's last message. It was the thumbs up from last week, when I told her I found her blue scarf. I scrolled back down.

Still nothing after it. No eat a snack. No don't hold the iPad too close to your face. No thumbs up.

I put the iPad down on the cushion next to me. The Wissen macht Ah! video was still going, someone explaining why earthworms are important to the environment, their voice small and far away from the other side of the room.

SEPTEMBER 2029 | 04:00 PM

My tummy made a noise, so I got up and went to the kitchen.

It is not a big one. Just a tiny-weeny grumble that means I have not eaten anything since lunch, which was a while ago now. I waited for a second, in case Mama's voice came from somewhere to tell me to eat a snack.

It did not.

The pantry has the snack shelf on the third-to-last one, which I can reach if I stand on my toes a little. I found the choco Leibniz biscuits—the ones in the yellow box with the blue letters—and I took them down. I got a glass of water too, filled from the tap the way Mama showed me, not all the way to the top, because that is how you spill. I carefully carried both back to the living room and put the glass on the coffee table on the coaster, and then I sat back down in my spot.

I ate two biscuits. They tasted the same as always.

On the screen, the Wissen macht Ah! had moved on to a different episode. I clicked back to WhatsApp.

The video from earlier had two gray checks now, which was no different from before. Mama's phone must have gotten it. She still just had not opened it yet.

That was fine.

It was probably traffic. Traffic happens after work, I know this because I have been in traffic with Mama before—the car moves very slowly and she taps her finger on the steering wheel and does not say much. When traffic is very bad it can take a long time. That was probably what was happening right now.

I clicked back to YouTube and watched another episode of SpongeBob.

SEPTEMBER 2029 | 06:00 PM

The next thing I knew, the sun went away.

Not slowly, in the way I remember a year or two ago. Just gone, the light leaving the room all at once, in one go, how it has been doing for the past few days. The sky probably went grey, and then dark grey and then the dark that is not night but not day too. I could see the Warmhaus lights’ small glow through the window, the orange ones on the outside that were always on. They were very bright now, brighter than everything else on the street.

The living room has turned very dark.

So I got up and turned on the light, even though Mama says to be careful with electricity. I thought about it first. But the dark was starting to feel…scary, and I am not very good at being alone in a big dark room. I think Mama will understand if I explain it properly. I will say the dark was very dark, and I think she will understand that.

My toes were cold. Even with the heater going, which I could hear clicking when it is working hard. I thought about Miss Köhler’s Science lesson, about water getting cold enough that it stops being water. I thought about my toes. Could that happen to my toes too? I thought they were starting to feel a little like that. Not all the way…just the beginning of it.

I looked at the back of my left hand. The smiley face stamp was still there, but it had faded a bit since this afternoon. The yellow circle and the curved line, getting harder to see, even with the lights on.

I sat back down.

I had been counting things without meaning to. I don't know why, but maybe it has something to do with my heart beating super fast. The biscuits left in the bag—four. The coaster squares on the coffee table—six. The ceiling lights have ten in it, two that I turned on, and I already counted earlier when I was lying back on the cushions with nothing else to do. I feel…

I picked up the iPad.

The screen is so bright it hurts my eyes. There are still two gray checkmarks next to all my messages.

Then I tried to call her 5 times, and Mama… she still doesn't answer.

Why?

SEPTEMBER 2029 | 08:00 PM

I stayed in the quiet for a long while after that. The iPad screen turned itself off. I did not pick it back up right away. I just sat with the light from the ceiling and listened to the heater go bzzz, and to the orange glow of the Warmhaus coming through the window, and to my stomach, which was making the louder I'm-empty-noises now, not the small grumble kind. It was loud enough that I could hear it in the quiet.

I picked the iPad back up again. The battery said 22 percent. The time beside it said 08:33.

Eight o'clock is bedtime. I know this. Mama says: brush your teeth, get your water, lights out by eight. I have known this rule for a very long time. But Mama was not here to say it, and I did not know how to do bedtime by myself, in a house this quiet, for this long. I did not know what to do with the house being quiet this long. I did not know that is something that could happen.

I’m… scared.

I did not want to be a bother. I know what that means—it is when you make something harder for someone who is already working very hard. I do not like being a bother. I try not to be. But my stomach was very annoying and loud now, and it hurts, and it was bedtime, and the battery was going down, and Mama was nowhere. I don't know where.

Is this an emergency?

Mama never told anything about being late coming home…b-but I think this must be one.

I scrolled through the contacts, and it wasn't that long until I found Tante's name. I quickly pressed call. The sound it made was slow and felt like forever.

BRIIING.

BRIIING.

BRIIING.

I held the iPad near my face and listened to it and tried to keep my breathing like normal, and I counted the rings—one, two, three—and then, there was a click!

Tante’s voice…!

"T-Tante?" I wanted to cry. But if I cried, Tante would find it difficult to understand me.

"...Mama ist noch nicht zu Hause. Ich habe Hunger." I said.

I feel so cold.

i am sick to my stomach i'll never stop thinking about jack abbott as strattlands consequences from their secret third thing. it lives in my mind rent free

Jacob Stratt wasn't even born when the Hail Mary launched on its journey to Tau Ceti.

When he was six, his mother left one ordinary morning for work—and never returned.

When he was twelve, he saw her again. Only this time, with handcuffs around her wrists: branded a fugitive, standing trial for the murder of a man named Ryland Grace, and for crimes against humanity.

That was the last time he ever saw her.

When he was twenty-six, he watched the news as the beetles from humanity's final Hail Mary returned, carrying with them the hope of a solution. In less than a decade, die Sonne returned to her full luminescence.

Then, in 2074, shortly after the impossible return of the Hail Mary and its passengers, there is a knock at his door.

Dr. Jacob Stratt already has an inkling of who it might be.

(Or: What if Shawn Hatosy & Montana Jordan were StrattLand's lovechild?)

- - - crossposted on AO3 .

TAGS: Ryland Grace & Original Character(s), Past Eva Stratt/Ryland Grace, Dual POV, Original Character First Person POV, Ryland Grace First Person POV, Original Character-Centric, Ryland Grace-Centric, Eva Stratt Haunts the Narrative, Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Post-Project Hail Mary, Please don't feed my works into generative AI!, English isn't author’s first language, Author thinks Montana Jordan and Shawn Hatosy look alike, Author is also obsessed with Jack Abbot from The Pitt and their OC is basically just him renamed for plot purposes, Author Doesn't Know How Time Dilation works, So Let's All Pretend The Timeline Makes Sense, Author wrote this with Noah Kahan’s “Willing and Able” in mind, Let's talk about it, Jack Abbott! OC

- - -

calling . . . [ EVA STRATT ]

The number you have dialed is not available, please try again later.

calling . . . [ JACOB STRATT ]

. . . “We survived as a species because we learned how to, cooperate and—and communicate. So when we’re...in the middle of killing each other, it defies the very logic of our existence. Your brain starts to short-circuit. All you can do is focus on the medicine. The medicine is the only thing that saves the patient—and your sanity.”

calling . . . [ RYLAND GRACE ]

The number you have dialed is not available, please try again later.

- - -

END OF TRANSMISSION .

[ arc I . ]

one . two . three . four . five . six . seven . eight

[ arc II . ]

hey so that is her son your honor, im the one that conducted the mtdna test

I AMMMM LMAO I JUST CANT GET OVER THE CONCEPT OF STRATT'S VAT AS A BIG BROTHER SEASON AND EVERYBODY ELSE BEING A HOUSEGUEST 😭😭😭

Like imagine a twin-twist with Ryland and Colt, DuBois and Shapiro immidiately getting voted off bc of their showmance, Ilyuhkina is a certified comp beast (RYLAND TOO IFTHE COMP INVOLVES BEING AGILE OR RUNNING LOL I also think he could always be on the chopping block too as a pawn...)

Who do ya'll think would be the first houseguest to go home? To win the season?

Let's discuss!!

<rock-block.> | oneshot | pairing: ryland grace x AFAB reader.

SYNOPSIS

Fun fact: In 1983, Dr. Sally Ride became the first American female physicist and astronaut sent into space. NASA engineers famously packed almost 100 tampons for her flight—asking if that would be enough for a single, one-week mission.

Exactly forty years later, the Hail Mary is launched into deep space to solve the astrophage problem. Launched with it are three (meager) boxes of standard-pack condoms and a two-year supply of birth control pills. Unfortunately, the Project Hail Mary logistics team back on Earth heavily underestimated the sheer, touch-starved horniness of the ship's surviving mission specialists.

OR: You and Dr. Ryland Grace have completely depleted the ship's contraceptive supplies on the trajectory to Erid. Now, it’s a lazy morning on an alien planet, and you both must use your scientific problem-solving skills to handle a very sticky, and very urgent predicament. (To which you both fail. Miserably.)

Wordcount: 6.5k. || now crossposted on Ao3 || inspired from this post by @larsandthewritergirl

TAGS : MINORS DO NOT INTERACT❗❗, Ryland Grace x Reader, Established Relationship, AFAB | Assigned Female at Birth Reader-Insert, Domestic, Ryland Grace Is Not Graceful, Soft Dom Ryland Grace, Switch Ryland Grace, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, author couldn't decide between crack or smut, crack taken seriously, (?) Morning Sex, You know the kink (if you squint), Squirting and Vaginal Ejaculation, Penetrative Sex, Dacryphilia, (i think???), Accidental Creampie, Suggested Inappropriate Use of Cling Wrap, if you read the title—yes, rock-block, why isn't that a tag of its own, POV Ryland Grace, POV First Person, Ryland Grace Has ADHD, the D in PhD is “DOWN BAD”, the reader insert has no definitive features aside being described as “a muscly, beautiful drill sergeant” and wears a nightdress, wrap it before you tap it, no seriously though, AUTHOR DOES NOT PROMOTE USING CLING WRAP AS A CONDOM SUBSTITUTE AS IT IS NOT AN EFFECTIVE BARRIER METHOD NOR IT IS STERILE PLEASE DON'T ACTUALLY DO THIS AT HOME, thank you.

My mornings on Erid begin slower compared to Earth.

I don't have to deal with paperwork anymore, since everything in my classroom is now digitalised and lessons have to be delivered vocally using my keyboard. And my children—well, the pebbles, as I like to call the new kids I'm teaching now—are a handful. Big thanks to my buddy Rocky and the help of his fellow, kind, Eridani people, who went ahead and built an entire human-friendly ecosystem just for you and me.

You mentioned in passing once that our setup is basically adjacent to a zoo enclosure, and I still haven't fully digested that piece of information. Because thinking about it… you're almost absolutely right. We are essentially exhibits.

But back to the kids. I'm still learning Eridian (or is it Eridianese?), so the classes I run at the edge of the dome are currently just a pilot program. That means half my day is an exhausting battle against bizarre mistranslations, and the other half is spent trying to actually deliver a lesson. Not that pebbles are any different from human middle-schoolers; they are just as curious, if not way more unfiltered with their questions and comments. It must be a universal child thing, regardless of how many legs you have.

I like kids a lot—we already established that. But seeing them every day makes it weirdly impossible to stop thinking about having a family of my own.

Which is crazy, because back on Earth? When I was single? When I was working every day, surrounded by human kids? The thought never even crossed my mind. I was perfectly content being the coolest science teacher there was.

But now?

…Now that I'm with you?

I know, I know. But let's be logical, Ryland Grace—you're in an alien house, on an alien planet, 16 light-years away from Earth. It's a terrible idea to get your coworker-turned-girlfriend knocked up on alien soil.

I shake my head furiously to fight against the barrage of thoughts materializing in my mind—some of them perfectly wholesome, but the rest quickly turning definitely, dangerously unholy. It's 6:20 E.T. (Eridian Time, a day on Erid is 8 hours shorter for a full rotation compared to Earth) and I do not need this right now.

I let out a deep sigh and close my eyes, waiting for the vivid mental images to slowly subside. But when I open them again, dread creeps straight up to my throat. The familiar, persistent heat in my crotch isn't leaving. I don't even need to look down to know it's already tenting my pants.

Motherfudger. I'm bricked.

Like a horny teenage boy with morning wood.

I'm a man in my thirties. Turning forty next month, I might add! I should have significantly more control over my own bodily functions. But no. Well, fundamentally, erections are involun—you know what? I’d rather not lecture myself on human anatomy right now and actually work on the problem at hand.

Okay. What to do? Obviously, the smartest move is to get out of bed and deal with it myself in the bathroom. Except you're right beside me, the absolute root cause of the issue, with your limbs completely tangled in mine. You're sleeping so peacefully that it feels like a crime to even attempt to move and risk waking you.

Just…great.

I still need to escape. How? I have no effing clue. My only strategy is to hope for the best, hold my breath, and carefully untangle your arms and legs from my torso and thighs.

My heartbeat remains elevated the entire time, my throat completely drying up. Okay, why am I nervous? Why on Earth—or Erid—should I be nervous? You've seen me at my absolute worst. You catching me with an erection isn't a novel concept either, so why am I—

A soft, drowsy shift in the mattress cuts my thought process short. The weight of your arm slides over my ribs, your fingers lightly catching the hem of my shirt. “...hon?”

Much to no one's surprise, of course—you woke up. For the love of God, please don't look down. Please let the early Eridian morning be too dark for immediate visual scanning.

“Y-yeah?” Way to go, Ryland. Squeaking like a rusted hinge. There's totally nothing wrong with you.

“...you okay? You're tense.” Your voice came out in a low, raspy murmur, muffled slightly by the pillow. Actually, screw you, ma'am. How on Erid do you sound so good so early in the morning? Meanwhile, I sound like a dying duck replying.

I find myself clearing my throat as you ask me that, then searching for your face in the dark. Not for any practical reason. I just like looking at you first thing in the morning. What? You're a sight for sore eyes. You could have me staring at you for an entire Eridian day and I wouldn't even get tired.

I focus entirely on the messy tangle of your hair and the slow blink of your eyes, anything to keep from looking like a guilty criminal.

“Mhm, just… got a dry throat," I lie, the words scraping past my teeth. "You go back to sleep, babe.”

“M’kay. I should move so you can—...” Your eyes, still half-lidded, eyebrows furrowing slightly as I simply watch you move groggily, freeing your arms from around me. The bed instantly feels emptier. Which is ridiculous, because you moved maybe eight inches away. I mentally lament the sudden drop in temperature, already missing the heavy, comforting warmth of your touch. But as you fully roll over to give me space, your thigh drags slowly, across the front of my boxers—brushing right against my fully aroused schwantz.

The contact instantly short-circuits every coherent thought I had left. I freeze, holding my breath so hard my ribs ache. You freeze, too. The groggy confusion vanishes from your face, replaced by a sudden, very clear realization as your eyebrows raise. “...are you har—”

“Yes,” I quickly blurt, cutting you off before you could even finish the syllable. No point in denying physiology when the evidence was just brushing against your leg.

...

Fantastic. Now neither of us is saying anything.

The temperature regulating system thrums silently somewhere inside the walls while I lay here with you, wishing I could teleport into another room. I'm a mood killer—when nothing is even happening yet! I feel a hot blush creeping up my neck. I probably look like a total tomato right now.

“I know it's way too early in the morning," I stammer, my hands coming up in a frantic, useless defensive gesture, "so I'll just—I can go to the bathroom, it's fine, I'll deal with it—”

“You know you can just always ask me,” you interrupt, a sleepy, incredibly distracting smirk tugging at the corner of your lips as you slide back into my personal space, your comforting weight returning to my side.

“...you were sleeping," I mumble, my logical defense mechanisms crumbling by the second. "Didn't want to disturb you….”

“Well, you should've been more careful." You reach out, your hand resting flat against my chest, feeling the frantic thumping of my heart. "I'm awake now.”

That does it. Some distant, responsible corner of my brain tries to remind me that it's barely past six in the morning and we should probably just go back to sleep. That same corner gets immediately voted off the island. My self-control goes straight out the window. I lean in, completely closing the gap between our lips.

My hands lift off the mattress, sliding them up the sides of your neck to cradle your head, using the leverage to press deeper into the kiss. I don't pull away. I know I can hold my breath longer than you, despite the fact that you always—without fail, attempt to outlast me. I think it's an adorable competitive streak, really, but I have a job to do here. Plus, the physiological payback is just too good. I get to watch the blood rush to your cheeks—making you look utterly radiant when you're flushed.

“You think too much,” you pant, your warm breath puffing against my tingling lips still stained of you. I can't help but chuckle at that. Trust you to accurately summarize my entire psychological profile in exactly four words.

“Your fault,” I reply, the words a low breathy murmur against your mouth.

You’re still on top of me, partially straddling my half of my body as we stare into each other's eyes. The faint, softer amber glow of the artificial sun projected by the dome is just starting to filter inside our home, lighting up your face and making you look breathtaking. You're already beautiful on a normal day, don't get me wrong…but there's just something about you this morning that made my self-control completely go bust.

Wordlessly, I let one of my hands drop to the curve of your hips, the other sliding up your back as I try to guide us both up into a sitting position. It’s a bit of a clumsy struggle because of Erid's increased gravity—a humbling fact I will take to my grave, thank you very much.

Once my back is braced comfortably against the headboard, I slide my hand up the back of your neck, my fingers tangling into your hair to tilt your face up and meet mine. I turn my head slowly, lips grazing just past yours until my mouth finds the shell of your ear.

“I want to make you feel good,” I whisper, and I mean it. It’s an absolute directive that my entire being is begging to fulfill.

I pull back. Your expression tells me you already know exactly what I'm planning.

“You're washing the sheets,” It's not a question, but a demand. How bossy but oh well—I’m pretty much used to it.

“Yesss, ma'am...” I reply, defeated, but I’m already moving. If I'm washing the sheets anyway, I might as well make it entirely worth the effort. I shift my weight, using a burst of gravity-defying arm strength to turn you around until your back is pressed flush against my chest, and have you sitting comfortably right between my thighs.

I let out a low groan at the sudden press of your tailbone against my erect schwantz. Your hands immediately grip my thighs for balance, your hips swaying gently to drag your heat right across me that it steals my breath. The friction is absolute torture, but I let you do it for a few agonizing moments because it makes me feel useful. To be used—by you.

But as I said, only for a bit. I would significantly rather please you than the other way around.

My hands, usually steady when holding a pipette or preparing a specimen slide, feel a little bit jittery as I slide them down the soft curves of your legs. Instead of pulling you off me, I reach under your knees, lifting your thighs to widen your stance and draping your legs over the outside of my own lap.

You look up at me, your eyes half lidded—thighs wide open, and my chest hitches.

I suddenly get this vivid, ridiculous memory of being back on Earth, standing in front of a freshly delivered crate containing a state-of-the-art, most definitely multi-thousand-dollar (I don't want to think about the numbers), scanning electron microscope, inside the nondescript facility Stratt basically dragged me into be the first ever person to look at astrophage. It's that exact same feeling of pure, breathless reverence. Like I’m looking at something incredibly precious that I’m almost afraid to touch, but desperately want to look closer at.

Jesus. Why am I thinking about high-end laboratory equipment right now?

“Ry...” Your voice drops an octave, patience long gone.

God, hearing my name like that—shattered, breathless, and entirely because of me—fries whatever remaining coherent thought I have left.

I let my hand wander down, lifting the hem of your nightshirt to expose yourself to me and press a hot caress on the inside of your thigh. Then, slowly travelling right above the soft curve of your sex. You're already damp.

For a split second I just marvel at the dopamine flooding my system—and what little blood remains in my brain makes its swift, predictable migration down south. Leaving me slightly lightheaded.

I know it's just hormones and neurotransmitters. But looking down at you, watching your nails press crescent indents into my thighs as my fingers slip under the soaked fabric of your underwear?

Yup—screw science. This feels like magic.

I feel you relax into me, your weight settling warm and welcome against my chest. I use my index and middle fingers to part you, both digits instantly coated in sticky heat. I do not let them dip inside yet, but rather let them circle—teasing around the opening, over and over, up and down, fast then slow—playing with the thousand nerve endings that already know my touch.

No rush. I remind myself of that. Firmly. So many times.

And holy—the delicious sounds you create pull the same ones straight out of me. I can't help the pathetic noises I'm making against your ear, chasing something I'm not letting myself have yet. The friction against your back isn't enough—it was never going to be enough, and I knew that going in. I knew. And yet here I am, hips stuttering like an idiot, trying to get somewhere I could never get to with this way.

...

Okay.

It's not enough, it's not enough—

I squeeze my eyes shut for a second. Thoughts—regroup!

Not even close—but I've made myself a personal rule: you first, always. The moment you get there, I'm right behind you. That's the deal. I've done this enough times to know patience pays off. I just have to be patient.

I drop my face to the crook of your neck, dragging my lips along the exposed warm skin there—when one of your hands suddenly tugs my hair. The next sound I make is not dignified, far from it. Somewhere between a moan and a growl, muffled against your throat where your left carotid is buried under layers of skin and flesh.

I stop—your neck… it's right there. I can smell you. It's less than an inch from my teeth. Fuuuuuuudge. You smell so good.

I want to bite down. I really, really, do want to bite down. The urge is almost embarrassingly visceral for a grown man. But I don't—not yet, anyway. Besides, I genuinely don't know if you'd want that, and the last thing I want is to startle you when my fingers are otherwise occupied.

I shoo it away. I'll ask you later. Probably in the most awkward way possible. That's a problem for post-orgasm me.

I resurface from that thought and immediately realize, with a small jolt of guilt, that my fingers have gone almost completely still. Ah, rookie mistake. Gotta fix that.

So I pick the pace back up—slowly at first, my soldier of a finger relearning the rhythm, and feel the exact moment your breath returns back into their mantra composed of gasps and moans.

Okay cool, I haven't lost you. When I press an experimental curl inward, there's no resistance at all. You take me in like it's easy. Like I belong there.

"...oh—" The word comes out more slurred than I intended, more exhale than speech. "You're doing so good, babe. So good f’me. I wanna—"

I whisper it to you shakily as encouragement. Sounding like I'm the one being taken apart.

I didn't finish the sentence either. I duck down instead, and when my mouth finds yours, your gasp punches straight through my ribcage. Your fingers, still threaded through my hair, tighten. Pulling me closer. Asking without asking.

And I'm more than glad to go deeper. The same thing happens to my finger still nestled deep inside of you. Your walls tighten around me, generously coated with your slick, before relaxing to release me again. The thrusting slowed then, and I tested the idea of a second finger, rimming the opening slowly before they both slide in with a wet, filthy sound that makes my schwantz twitch and leak in immediate solidarity.

Also, hear me out—I have a hypothesis. It's been brewing for a little while now, honestly. The way you're responding, the specific catch in your breath every time I curl just right, and the way your walls keep fluttering around me like a vice. I know what that means. Scientifically speaking, the Gräfenberg zone is notoriously difficult to stimulate consistently, and the likelihood of achieving—Shut up, BRAIN! SILENCE FROM YOU!

Okay.

If I do this right, then I'm done for. Two fingers, curled slightly upward, searching for the spot I've already found twice before and fully intend to find again. The moment I do, you let out this sharp, involuntary gasp and your hips jerk straight against my hand. A total knee-jerk reaction.

There. Macaroni in a pot.

Moving my left hand from where it was previously to keep your legs from closing, I flatten my palm down against your navel. Mostly to keep you in place, but partly to sandwich your g-spot—massively increasing my chances of making it rain. I also keep the pressure consistent, building in slow increments. Not rushing. Not yet. I know the difference between the sounds you make when you're climbing and the sounds you make when you're close, and right now you're climbing fast, your breathing gone completely ragged, your grip on my hair so tight that you might rip my scalp off that I’d join the male baldness club.

"That's it," I murmur against your temple, more to myself than to you. "Stay right there baby. Stay—"

Your thighs tremble from the oscillation. I feel it before I hear it—a deep, building tension in every muscle, your whole body pulling taut like something is about to give. My fingers don't stop until it looks like they're vibrating on their own accord. My wrist aches slightly and I absolutely do not care.

"Come on," I encourage. "I've got you. I've got you—"

The dam finally breaks.

"Yessssss, there it is—!" It comes out embarrassingly triumphant. I can't help it.

Mission accomplished.

The sight before me is a waterfall. There is genuinely no other word for it. A warm, unmistakable rush against my palm, soaking through my fingers, through the sheets, and running down my wrist—and I feel this absolutely unhinged surge of pride rocket straight up my spine. I’m just watching it happen with the dumbstruckness of a man witnessing a natural phenomenon he's read about but never quite believed until now.

I take a moment to just breathe. Your weight is still warm and turning boneless against me, your chest rising and falling shakily from the high. Perfect. That's exactly what I was going for. I press another kiss to your temple, then your cheek, checking the water damage with quiet satisfaction (and mildly grieving the state of our mattress) before my brain inevitably switches back to overthinking mode.

The sheets are…a situation. I peel them back with the detachment of a man who has handled far messier biological samples, bundling them around you before padding over to grab some towels for you. Still semi-erect, which is…mildly inconvenient. I probably have less than 20 minutes to get ready for school.

"Where are you going?" you call out, voice still breathless.

"Gonna bring you this towel, then I gotta get ready for class," I answered, stepping back into the bedroom. I look at your face.

You stared at me like I just told you the earth was flat. "Babe, it's Saturday."

I stop dead in my tracks, towel in hand. It's not Friday? I mentally scramble to recount the days. Let's see…Eridian calendar, eight-hour rotation differential, subtract the sleep cycles... I do the math twice, my brain aggressively grinding its gears until the answer sets in. Ohh…This is exactly why I need to ask Rocky to adjust the dome's automated lighting schedule and just give us a standard, human twenty-four-hour cycle. (Note to self: also ask him if he can program the climate controls to simulate a foggy morning from time to time. I miss Karl, the fog. And my military guy Carl, too...)

"...Really?"

"Uh-huh," Your voice carries that particular brand of fond exasperation you reserve specifically for me. "Now come back here. What makes you think I'd let you leave like that?"

Which is—fair. Genuinely fair. I look down at myself, who's still pretty much primed and ready for round two, then back at you. You’re watching me from the mattress with the expression of someone who has been very patient and is now formally done being patient.

Right. Yes. Okay, me too, if we're being honest. The sheets can officially wait.

But a sudden, glaring oversight hits me. If we're doing this—if we're actually doing this right now, we have a distinct lack of necessary materials in the immediate vicinity. I'm not some reckless scientist who is going to enter an isolation room without the proper PPE.

…Fine. I did once stick my entire nose directly over a canister of untested alien matter instead of properly wafting for fumes. And yes, I did technically bypass basic decontamination by almost marching onto a foreign ship's bridge without an EVA suit because I got impatient—but you were there to stop me either way!

This is different. This is a localized, high-stakes biological encounter, and in our current situation, a polymer barrier is a non-negotiable variable.

"Hold that thought," I blurt out. "Don’t move. Be right back."

I toss the towel to you, strip my drenched shirt off in one fluid motion, dump it onto the laundry pile I passed by, and sprint out into the living room-kitchen in just my boxers. I blast past Armando—who is re-installed in the said room, his arm where its one-eyed-claw is attached to following smoothly and tracking my erratic movement across the space, with what I can only describe as profound judgment.

"Don't—don’t look at me like that, Armando," I glare at the robot, not slowing down for a second as I round the corner into the kitchen.

My target is the kitchen junk drawer. The universal human repository for loose batteries, rubber bands, my Eridian translation notes, and if my memory serves me right—our backup stash of protection.

I yank the drawer open, the metal tracks screeching in protest. But as my hand dives into the chaos and fingers an empty condom box, my brain completely derails, again. You know, finding an empty box shouldn't normally trigger another vivid memory sequence, but suddenly I'm mentally transported back to a specific stretch of our voyage.

Look, the entire timeline of how we even ended up on this planet is a stressful thing to unpack. But it's hard not to think about the trip when I'm staring into an empty box of Trojan Magnums. Especially that one nightmare leg of the journey where we were both constantly, insatiably horny as a direct physiological side effect of the brutal new exercise regimen you implemented after Mary’s centrifuge turned on us—temporarily malfunctioned—and we were stuck around the planet's orbit for weeks, just waiting for our eventual impact with the planet.

Logically, I knew the sudden spike in our libido was just biology. Consistent microgravity resistance training, to keep ourselves from wasting away, which caused a chain reaction of massive surge in endorphins and testosterone. But knowing the science didn't make it any less distracting.

That was also around the time I painfully realized that between the two of us, I wasn't the one who was'all muscles'. You were. I mean, I’d like to think the dormitory pod's muscle exercise simulators were doing some heavy lifting for my physique, but you constantly scolding me for my horrific form during our improvised workouts completely shattered my ego. You’re a drill sergeant. My beautiful, incredibly strong drill sergeant who single-handedly saved me from severe muscle atrophy—and then completely wore me out afterward.

I shake my head furiously, snapping back to the present. No condoms. Zero. What to do?

My poor boxer shorts (whose waistband had long been stretched loose from how long I had been using them) had now fallen halfway down my legs, clinging threadbare around my thighs for dear life, and I am standing half-erect in the middle of our kitchen. I pull them back up.

There has to be something we can use here. There has to be.

...

My eyes land on the roll of brandless cling wrap sitting innocently atop the countertop.

It's food-grade, a deeply desperate, highly irresponsible voice whispers in my head. Designed specifically to prevent cross-contamination.

I let out a heavy sigh, pinch the bridge of my nose, and march back into the bedroom with the roll firmly in hand and a proposal for an ad-hoc solution. I probably look like a lunatic. I definitely feel like one.

“So, bad news," I start, holding the plastic tube out like a peace offering. "We ran out of our stash of—you know, protection. But... hear me out... we can...use the Saran wrap?”

You stare at me, or to which I think at the object in my hand. The silence stretches for three full, agonizing seconds. “...What?”

“The plastic cling wrap," I clarify, gesturing vaguely toward the hall. "From the kitchen drawer.”

Your face contorts to that of utter bewilderment. Yep. I regret this already.

“...babe, you know you can just... pull out, right?”

My brain grinds to a screeching halt. I run the numbers on my own terrible track record with impulse control. Pull out? Me? The guy whose executive functioning completely evaporates the second a high-dopamine situation presents itself? The guy who forgot to keep moving his fingers because he was too busy thinking about biting your neck?

Yeah. Absolutely not. That is a statistical impossibility.

"...I can't," I mumble, heat creeping back into my face. "It's difficult without protection."

"...No," I squeak, looking anywhere but at you. "It's difficult to remember to pull out."

"Oh." You blink, processing that. I can sense your hesitation. "Okay. Huh."

"Look, scientifically speaking, it's a non-porous polyvinyl chloride barrier!" I blurt out, retreating desperately into textbook definitions to defend my honor. "Tensile strength-wise, the micron thickness should hold if I'm careful and account for the friction—"

"I know what cling wrap is," you interrupt flatly.

The realization that I just mansplained cling wrap to you, my significant other—a fellow scholar with a doctoral degree hits me like a freight train. My face scrunches involuntarily. Before I can even open my mouth to apologize, you're already up, crossing the distance between us and wrapping your fingers around the cardboard roll—stealing it clean out of my grip. Your arms loop around my neck, pulling our faces inches apart, and that tension snaps right back into the air like a rubber band.

"You know what? Fine. Sure." Your eyes still don't leave mine. "But you gotta tell me what's been bothering you. I know you're thinking about a lot of things."

One of your hands cups my cheek, and I lean into it before I can stop myself—like a touch-starved dog finally getting attention. My eyes fall shut as your thumb traces slow, soothing circles against my skin.

"Babe, I swear, it's nothing—I'm fine."

Your hand disappears. Before I can mourn its absence, your arms hook around my waist instead, hauling me back toward the bed. My spine hits the mattress and I let gravity do the rest. You follow me down, knees bracketing my hips, caging me in place. Your gaze finds mine again. Patient and unrelenting.

"Then earlier," you ask. "Why'd you stop, Ry?"

Guess there's really no way out of this one.

"...I was thinking about biting you."

The confession drags out of me like there's a lump in my throat fighting to keep it down. You drop your weight onto me without warning, and I hiss the second you start grinding down against me—eager and so cruel, my boxers long abandoned somewhere in the room. Nothing's left to stop your wetness from sliding right against my exposed schwantz, slicking it on contact.

So fuuuuudging clooose.

The remaining, rational part of my brain idly notes that this is an efficient lubricant—nature's own viscosity solution, zero R&D required. I hate that I know that. I hate that I thought it. Mostly I just hate that it's the only thing keeping me from blacking out on the spot.

I already know you're not going to let me have what I want. What I need. Not until you get your answers.

"Why didn't you?" You ask it mid-grind, and it takes a full second for my melting brain to process the question and assemble something resembling an answer. God, I want to be inside you. I feel like I might actually die from how badly I want to be inside you.

"...H-had! Had to ask...!"

You mhm’ed against my mouth, kissing me again before your lips find new territory—trailing slow, deliberate presses down the side of my neck. Then you pull back, sitting up just long enough to drag your nightshirt over your head. Now we're both naked.

Please. Just ask whatever you want to ask. I don't care anymore—just be done with it. I need you. I need you so so bad I can't think.

You wrap your hand around my schwantz, guiding it to your entrance, and sink down carefully. The only thought left in my head is to move—pure instinct.

So I do. I grip your hips, pulling you down to fully sheathe myself inside you. You let out a grunt, while my eyes roll on the back of my head. I can only imagine the look on your face is one of pure annoyance. Plus I don't have my glasses on, so the universe is sparing me the full visual, which is probably for the best.

In retaliation, you plunge down hard, bouncing up and down into me without an ounce of mercy. The clapping of skin to skin in the room is so shamelessly loud that I’m grateful we don’t have any neighbors. Otherwise we would've been long evicted.

"What else…?"

"...W-when I woke up," I start, and immediately regret it, because the words are already stumbling against one another, "I was s-staring at you for a—ah—a while…"

You don't stop. I don't think I want you to.

"Oh god," I breathe out, eyes squeezing shut. The confession is right there, lodged behind my teeth, and every devilish roll of your hips is shaking it looser. I should not be doing this right now. I should absolutely not be doing this right now. There is a time and a place for emotional honesty and it is not mid-coitus, on an alien planet, with my brain this far gone. Everything is just so overwhelming—

And yet.

"...Was thinking of—" I stop. Swallow. Try again. "Havin' babies with you—ah—"

The words leave me before I can catch them, and immediately something in my chest cracks open, raw and exposed that has nothing to do with the physical. I feel my throat tighten. Stupid. This is stupid. Now is not the time.

"Y'don't—you don't have to answer," I rush out, already trying to backpedal, already trying to give you the out before you even need one. "I know it's—we can't. Not while we're— not here, not like this—"

I'm rambling. I know I'm rambling. I can't stop. "Oh god, you feel so good—"

It's true. It's also a deflection, and we both know it.

I try, weakly, to talk myself down. It's fine. It's fine. I have you, I have this strange beautiful planet, I have a classroom full of pebbles who are technically not even my species—and that's enough. That has to be enough. I shouldn't be greedy. People don't always get everything they want. I learned that a long time ago and I made peace with it then.

It's a lie. I know it's a lie the second the thought passes. I want more. I want all of it—your face resting against my chest every morning for the next forty years, to wake up with a kid that has your stubbornness and my love for science puns, every version of a future I'd talked myself out of believing I deserved.

I feel the first tear slip before I even register I'm crying. Mortifying. Absolutely mortifying, crying in the middle of sex—

You slow down.

Your hands find my face, thumbs brushing the warm wet tracks away with a gentleness that undoes me more than anything else has this morning. You haven't said anything yet. You just hold my face like it's something worth holding, your hips stilling, giving me room to just feel this instead of fighting it.

"Hey," you murmur, soft, no teasing left in your voice. "I'm right here."

It's only then that my hotwired brain, in its infinite and terrible timing, decides to remind me of a small, nearly forgotten detail.

"Babe…" I croak out. "W-what about—"

The cling wrap. The cling wrap is probably on the floor, thrown away the second your hands touched my face, and now my whole nervous system is rebooting around a math problem I genuinely do not have the higher brain function left to solve.

"Trust me on this one, okay?" Your voice is unwavering in a way mine absolutely is not. "Just tell me when."

I want to argue against withdrawal. I want to cite probability, precedent, my own well-documented inability to think clearly past a four out of ten arousal level, let alone whatever stratospheric number I'm at right now. But you're already moving again, and every ounce of my protest dissolves on contact.

So I do the only thing left to do. I trust you. More than I trust myself, which—given the man currently being taken apart underneath you—is not exactly a high bar, but it's what I have left to offer.

You jump with your hips in long, unhurried waves, like you have all the time in the world, like there's no universe where you'd rather be anywhere but exactly here. Every drag of you against me is its own small devastation. I can't tell anything around me anymore with how my tears have puddled my vision.

"...And seriously," you breathe, lips brushing my jaw, "who said I didn't want your kids? I want to spend my life with you."

I don't answer. I can't. The words just hang there in the small space between our mouths, and for a second the only sound in the room is both of us breathing like we just surfaced from something. Then it hits me—all of it, all at once, and the tears that were already falling come faster, no performance left in them, no shame either. I don't care what I look like right now. I don't think I've ever cared less about anything in my life.

"A-ah… I love you…" It comes out broken, barely words. I say it again fervently like the first time didn't count. "I love you…"

"Love you too."

You kiss me like punctuation, like the period at the end of a sentence we've both been writing for months. I kiss you back the same way, messy and a little desperate, hands sliding back into your hair, your back, anywhere I can reach.

After that there isn't much room left for words. Just the slow, building rhythm of you over me, the soft sounds you make against my mouth, my hips jolting up to meet every thrust of yours just how my body stopped waiting for permission from my brain a while ago. I'm vaguely aware I should be doing something useful with my hands besides gripping your waist for dear life. I'm aware of very little else. Just our shared heat, and you, and the drumbeat of good, good, good and oohs and ahs drowning out every other thought in my skull.

Soon, you come with a deep, guttural sound that I feel more than hear, your whole body going rigid above me before melting down against my chest, hips stilling, taking me in to the hilt and just—staying there. Keeping me snug and warm inside of you.

My hips then suddenly just jolted once, twice, before tensing, followed by the rush of euphoria. It takes embarrassingly long for me to realize what just happened. You didn't realize either.

It's only when you start moving again, slower but more intense, clearly intent on giving my own orgasm, that the delayed signal finally reached my dopamine high brain.

An ugly squeak, originating somewhere deep in my chest, nearly makes me drop the f-bomb."...b-babe, I'm so sorry, oh fuh—"

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

knock.

The apology dies halfway out of my mouth, drowned out by a frantic knocking against the front door, three intelligible musical notes, then another set of three urgent more, the universal Eridian equivalent of I know you're in there and I am not going away.

Oh c’mon Rocky.

You detach yourself from where you rode me as I scramble upright, mumbling something that might generously be called an apology, and you chuckle, breathless and a little delirious as I all but fall off the bed trying to find something, anything, to put on. My hands land on the first piece of fabric within reach: your sleep dress, the one you were still wearing not even twenty minutes ago, the one currently bearing the unmistakable evidence of exactly what we'd just been doing. I didn't give it much thought and slid it all over me as I made a run for the door. I should help you wash and shower later after I’ve entertained Rocky.

Thank evolution for giving Eridians non-conventional eyes and the lack of sense for smell. I would never answer the door in this state back on Earth.

“Yes! I'm coming out, Rocky! Just—couldn’t you have given me a second, pal?”

The door creaks as I pull it wide open. Oh, Adrian's here too.

The tart-colored rock stared straight ahead for several seconds, as if scanning my crotch. Maybe he was looking at something else in the hallway behind me?

So I twist my head around. Nada. Nothing new and interesting at sight. Seconds pass without a word.

Yep. My best friend's definitely looking at my crotch.

Before I can even attempt to formulate an explanation as to why you should never—ever—contact someone on their day off, most especially on a very early Saturday morning, the Eridian beats me to it, his front-facing carapace tilting slightly up to my eye level.

<Grace and Reader house dirty. why Grace have third leg for reproduction. have mating activity, question>

This is so humiliating that I can only blink. My eyes dart from Rocky's pentamorous form and land uselessly on the semi-artificial, Earth-imitated beach in front of me. I have been rendered speechless.

I unfortunately let the silence remain for too long, that before I can even open my mouth to stutter out a defense and completely abandon the last shred of my dignity, two of Rocky's limbs raising eagerly with an enthusiastic clicking noise. <Rocky watch Grace mate. for science.>

Behind me, I can hear the faint sound of your laughter echoing from inside our home, immediately followed by the loud, dull whack of rock against rock.

A/N. I am never doing this again…probably. Look, I never expected that this one fic would reach over 6000 words just to finish. I'm a slow writer, and I can only write 1000 words on a good week. Sad to say I kind of burnt myself out with this one😭. But oh well, dear hubris strikes again. I'm not even the type of person to write smut! 😭 (I think it's pretty obvious lmao) So yall better kneel to my bestie(come talk to them in ig @hexestellaris) and thank them(they also verbatim edited this in; "because im such an awesome person and who likes gambling") for motivating me through the entire thing to actually finish whatever this is...

Anyways, I am a service top Ryland Grace truther. And really sorry to disappoint, but I scrapped the concept of Ryland actually using the cling wrap for protection as it seems like bad practice. Seriously, please don't try that and practice safe sex. I was delirious with whimsy and silliness when I first started this, and it clearly shows on my earlier drafts and checklists💀