💫🌊

The entire affair began as a result of your curiosity — yours and Grace's combined — and would eventually evolve into a form of indulgence that you grant upon Grace whenever he's feeling particularly despondent or was simply in need of a little more love and attention from you than usual. Not that you ever deprived Grace of either — you're just as besotted with him as he was with you — but he did somewhat spoil you a little more than you did in return. Grace couldn't help it. Having someone carefully lower his defenses with so much care, patience, and consideration like you did greatly soothed and discouraged his ingrained reflex to keep them up.

You could read Grace like an open book by now, after the first time that you'd tried fucking him with a strap-on. Grace loved it, long story short. There was nothing needed to be further verbalized when it came to Grace's... proclivities to be cosseted from there on out. His hunger would often be stoked by the exhaustion that his job as a teacher brought unto him. During a particularly busy week, you could expect Grace to start pawing at you, ambushing you as soon as you step out of the shower; begging you to hurry and get dressed (or not; it'd be counterintuitive anyway) so you could get him to undress and kissing at the droplets of fragrant water clinging to your skin — a wordless plea for you to make him feel good before you two succumbed to the calls of sleep.

Tonight was one of those nights. Here he was, trembling on all fours as the vibrator in his ass sent pleasant thrums throughout his body; he could barely keep himself up, but you could see how hard he was trying. Grace didn't want his cock to even graze the sheets below — you played favorites tonight, and chose to make him come thrice from jerking him off until he was imploring you to fuck him. "Not yet, baby," you told him, "I told you I'll be taking my time with you whenever you ask this from me." That got you a whine, but after flashing Grace a stern look, he was quick to obey your command.

Heat pooled between your thighs as you marveled at Grace and his capacity to endure. This was what a thankless, noble occupation could do to a man, you thought to yourself, and you fashioned a proud smile as you watched him keep his leaking cock from being stimulated by the crumpled sheets beneath him.

"[N-name], please," Grace pleaded again, "I... I want m-more..."

He craned his neck to look back at you, shifting his knees where they had sunken into the mattress. What a sight he always was — pink, wet, and shivering — you had half a mind to rush and give him what you knew he wanted, but you silenced your own eagerness. You beamed at him, though it's anything but innocent.

"More of what? Come on, use your words for me, Ry," you said. A somewhat sick sense of satisfaction spread throughout your chest as Grace whined at your teasing; he bowed his head, pinched his eyes shut and readjusted his arms. As if to appeal to your own burgeoning desire, he lowered his upper body by resting on his elbows, arching his back and lifting his ass up higher so you could see better how much his hole was practically sucking on the tail end of the vibrator, hoping for a more robust kind of stimulation.

"W-want to..." Grace began; he swallowed the lump in his throat, "want you to fuck me now, please..."

"Oh?" You chose to prolong the ache. You inched towards him and he instinctively moved to at least get a feel of your skin; this earned him a smirk. "I thought you couldn't come anymore?"

Grace frantically shook his head. "No, no, please... It's... This is... [Na-a-a-ame]..." He mewled, "I want you deep inside me again, please... Wanna come from your cock..."

His defeat spelled your triumph, and you promptly positioned yourself behind him, fastening the strap-on onto yourself. You bent down to give him a kiss, and Grace welcomed your tongue with a wanton moan; he'd been wanting to kiss you again since you had him wobbling on his limbs with the toy. He sighed as you carefully pulled it out, turning it off and tossing it aside.

Grace was given no time to mourn the loss as you slowly replaced the vibrator with the tip of the slickened, artificial shaft. He buried his face into the pillows, uttering an impassioned string of cries and whimpers as he accommodated you. You let out your own sigh as you bottomed out, sheathed up until the hilt and the skin of your thighs in contact with his.

There was no use silencing himself anymore as soon as you started to move. You didn't want to go slow anymore — Grace didn't need "slow" either, so you and him reveled in mutual pleasure as you set a hard, punishing pace that had his voice spilling from his mouth from its force.

"A-a-agh," Grace moaned brokenly, struggling to keep his glasses on as you fucked into him. He scrambled to get into a more comfortable position on the pillows. "Mmmf — f-fuck, yes... Don't s-stop, baby..."

Your own arousal gathered and followed a steady stream down your inner thigh as you pummeled Grace into the bed, hips snapping in a rhythm that had him whining, the sound muffled by the pillows, which, you ceased to permit tonight. You wanted to hear Grace sing for you like that, and you wanted him to hear himself, too. You put out a hand, that was previously gripping his hip to keep him in place, and grabbed hold of a fistful of his mussed up blonde hair.

Grace yelped when you yanked his head back; tingles soaring up and down his spine at the sweet-painful sensation of his hair being pulled. Now you could hear him more clearly. You continued fucking him, panting as you angled yourself so you'd finally prod at that one spot you knew he was absolutely weak against. Every nerve ending in his body trilled in ecstasy as soon as the head of your cock nudged at his prostate.

"A-ah, aaah! S-so good, ah, o-oh," Grace was feverish by now; he wasn't even fully aware of what was streaming out of his mouth. "I'll cum again, baby... Agh! I'm... I —"

He keened when you looped your arm around his waist and reached between his thighs to pump his cock once again, precum unabashedly trickling from the reddened tip and soaking your hand as you stroked him from the base to the head, squeezing your fist sporadically around the shaft as you maintained your relentless thrusts.

Grace's body was overrun with pure, blissful static as he teetered over the edge. "B-baby, I'm coming... I'll come, I'll come, I'll come —"

He seized up as he fell off the edge of pleasure's cliff — using your hand to milk himself as his release spurted out of his cock in fitful, hot, thick ropes of translucent white. You held him up when he threatened to plant face first on the bed, catching him just in time before his arms and legs gave out and make him land on his own puddle of tears, sweat, and cum. A portion of his consciousness flickered back to life, though only barely, as he followed your whispered command to roll onto the other unsoiled side of the bed.

Pulling out of him slowly, Grace sighed as he lay on his back, chest rising and falling from honeyed lassitude coating his nervous system.

You decided to change the sheets later. Grace was already beckoning at you with limp arms, signaling you to come and cuddle with him to restore some of the warmth left in his system. Ridding yourself of the strap-on, you sank down next to him, curling up in his loose embrace and immediately molding your body into his.

A lazy, drowsy smile bloomed on his lips as Grace recognized your presence. You tilted your head up and rewarded him with a kiss, before gasping when you felt his hand snake down and between your intertwined bodies to appreciate with his fingers the slick that had suffused between your folds while you were loving on him just a few moments ago. His index teased at your clit with loose shapes, gliding with relative ease, while the other traced the tight seam of your entrance.

What you find out is that it takes next to nothing to make the man melt, really. The thing that starts it is so easy - you're nice to him, understanding in a way that many of these people aren't. When you met, you made a light joke to help him settle in and feel a little more welcome. You can still remember the way his shoulders relaxed. He looked like you'd just reminded him he can breathe.

Over the next few months, you get closer. He appreciates that you don't seem unapproachable like the others. You can laugh together, chat like you're not both workers for a secret government project, but just friends. It doesn't take long for shared laughter and chatter to turn into shared touches - little bumps against shoulders, sitting closer enough to be pressed to each other's sides, reaching out just to feel each other. The tide starts turning somewhere around the day you find Grace on a couch, papers strewn over the table next to him, clipboard in his lap, pen between his teeth.

" How close friends are we? " You ask. He startles a little, looking like a deer in the headlights as he responds: " Uh . . . what? "

" Am I allowed to flop into your incredibly inviting lap or do I have to wait for that? " You clarify, and he goes blush pink, looking down at his lap, stuttering. You also blush, because about halfway through saying that sentence, you realized how it sounds.

" I mean - cuddles. " You're so fucked.

" Yeah, yeah, " Grace says - I know what you mean. Laughing a little, he looks up at you with an expression that makes you wonder if he did know that's what you meant.

" Yeah, " He says in a different tone, shrugging, waving his hand invitingly. Yeah, you can. Maybe I want you to.

It's shockingly easy after such a long day to crawl into his lap like a cat into a cardboard box. He's warm and soft and his sweater is even softer. You curl around him, pressing your face into his side.

" Cuddlebug, " He says, absently, in awe, like he's made a delightful discovery. You're not sure he meant to say that out loud. You feel a hand settle in your hair. He scritches your scalp. You push a little closer.

Yeah. That's where it starts.

---

Do you bother to ask Stratt if romantic entanglements are allowed in this line of work? Absolutely not. Besides, she probably already knows. What isn't she aware of?

The point is, Ryland is sweet and gentle and intelligent and he makes you smile. What's even better is, you know you make him just as happy. He can't seem to stop smiling when you're there. In rare moments where he does, it's usually only because his face has gone all soft with affection for you, like he can't believe that he's here right now.

So yeah, you fall in love. And it's like falling into feathers. Ryland cares about you and you care about him. Your adoration starts in sneaking each other coffee and snacks throughout the work day, stolen moments of affection in quick kisses and tiny touches, and cuddles if you can manage it, when the day is through. At least if the world is going to end, you'll have each other.

Things were doomed to get more heated eventually, in hindsight. For every few days of cuddling, sharing a bed at night, there's one where you wake up tangled in him from head to toe and seriously debate testing what he would do if you started kissing his throat, or grinding up against him, or what would happen if your hands wandered. He feels it too - there was that one morning where you both woke up hard and pressed against each other. It had been awkward as you'd both clambered out of bed to get ready for the day, both not mentioning the two elephants in the room. The tension had lingered well into the afternoon.

One day, it breaks.

Ryland doesn't know how to shut up and to your delight, that trait does carry into the bedroom. Noises don't stop leaving this man, who whines and moans and whimpers like you're the best thing he's ever touched. He tries not to swear, usually ending up saying some silly kid-friendly alternatives (fudge, cracker, shoot, and so on) which always makes you laugh. Sometimes, that resolve doesn't last, and you get him past the point of caring. The first time you got him to swear an empathic fuck may have been the proudest moment of your existence to date.

Usually, you're in charge, at least a little bit. You have done anything too exciting yet: all the love you've made so far is sweet, but you like the way he squirms and begs you when you're the one paying him attention, and from the way he looks at you like you are the sun itself, you know he likes it too.

You've never done anything too exciting. Until . . .

---

" Hey, you wanna see something? "

You're in a meeting. A couple dozen people all gathered around a room watching a powerpoint as Stratt, well . . . points at it. Pretty standard stuff. But then Ryland appears next to you quite suddenly, quite close, bumping into your side with a hushed voice that tells you he's showing you a secret.

You assume it will be something cool tucked away in the palm of his hand, maybe something he was examining in the lab, maybe a silly little tchotchke he'd found and thought of you. He likes to do stuff like that to remind you he thinks of you. Likes having you be a part of his day, even when you're not there. You look down, instinctively.

His fingers are slipped beneath his jeans, pulling at the hemline just enough that you can see what's underneath - pink lace panties, kissing his tanned skin in the perfect contrast.

Your heart just about leaps out of your chest. Your stomach does something wildly acrobatic. Usually, he wears simple or silly boxers, which you adore. You've never seen anything like this. You're not even sure he had those before. Did he get those just for you?

You look up at him, reeling. You realize, belatedly, that he's flushed pink with embarrassment - but his eyes are dark and eager. He psyched himself up for this, you realize, and caught you in a moment when you'd least expect it, maybe to make it more fun, maybe to make it a little easier for him to be brave enough to do it. He looks relieved when he sees the look in your eyes, his shoulders melting in that manner that always tugs at your heartstrings, reminding you that you make him feel safe. He smiles.

Like nothing happened, Ryland moves his hand, his jeans going back into place. He turns his attention back to the presentation. He's still flushed, and though he looks immensely proud of himself, he shifts on his heels, either eager or nervous or both.

Your jaw works as you follow his gaze back to the presentation. He should be nervous. He is so in for it now. You are gonna make that boy cry.

---

You manage to pull Ryland out of the meeting pretty shortly after it's concluded. When he coyly asks if you're sure you don't want to check in with Stratt, you growl at him, pulling him away. He swallows. Suddenly, he's very complacent.

You don't make it to his room before you're pressing against the wall in the hallway, kissing him soundly.

" Ry, you better have planned for me to ruin you, " You mumble breathily as your kisses travel from his lips to his throat. He bares it beautifully, silently encouraging you. His flush disappears beneath his shirt.

" Oh, " He says, just as breathless. He's clinging to your waist, then pulling at your shirt, his hands not having decided where to settle yet. " Oh, yeah, okay. "

" We don't have to, " You say, not wanting to pressure him.

" Oh, no, no, " He says, his voice high and needy. " We have to. We have to do that right now. There is no alternative at all. "

You manage to stumble into the bedroom before anyone can find you making out in the hallway. Not that anyone would be surprised.

" In front of Stratt, you madman, " You mumble into his throat, pulling his cardigan off his shoulders. You press him into a dresser and nip at his throat with your teeth. He makes a soft noise, tugging at your shirt. You pull away just long enough to him tug it off of you.

" I don't know what came over me. I was gonna . . . show you later tonight, but I couldn't stop thinking about it. Driving me crazy. " He laughs softly as you pull his shirt over his head in turn. You hum, pleased as you press against each other, the first touch of skin to skin. He's always so warm. He kisses you, his tongue tracing over your lips. You push your tongue between his and he moans, a ragged breath leaving him. When you trail down, lips over his collarbone and heading down to his chest, his breath trembles.

Your hands slip beneath his thighs, lifting him up onto the dresser. A little huff leaves him as he is set upon it - he's gotten used to that, by now, but the first time you lifted him like that, he scrambled for purchase, a number of shocked exclamations leaving him. You guess as a six-foot man, he's probably not very used to being tossed around. A moment later, your tongue finds one of his nipples, teasing the little bud there as Ryland sucks in a shaky breath. His hand slips into your hair. A little whine leaves him as you wrap your lips around it and suck gently.

" That's good, " He says, his voice high and tight. You feel him press his face into your hair, breathing hot and heavy against your scalp. You squeeze his hips and pull him a little closer. You linger here, letting him enjoy the feeling of your tongue and lips teasing his nipples, first one and then the other, and in turn, you get to enjoy the noises he makes, soft gasps and a pretty little whimper when you use just a bit of teeth.

" Can I fuck you tonight? " You ask eventually, lips pressed to his solar plexus, nuzzling the little bit of golden hair there.

" God, please, " He breathes. You hum, pleased.

" Can I fuck you with those panties pulled down to your thighs? Ass up and whining into the mattress? "

The noise he makes is strangled. You look up at him from where you've kissed your way down to his belly, your gaze dark. He looks at you, star-struck, and nods rapidly.

" Use your words, Ryland, " You whisper, teasing. He huffs, a little smile gracing his lips even as he rolls his eyes.

" Yes, please. " He breathes sweetly. He licks his lips as he looks down at you. " That. "

You press another sweet kiss to his stomach, smiling against him. When you lift him up into your arms, his legs wrap around you - "Oh, here we go, " he says, and you chuckle as you deposit him on the bed, crawling in over him. He laughs too, and he's grinning when you look up at him. God, he's beautiful, all golden and happy like that. You'd do anything to keep him smiling.

" I love you so much, baby, " You whisper, and his whole face softens, melts into something vulnerable and honored.

" I love you, " He says, just as softly, reaching out to rub his thumb over your cheek. You press into the palm of his hand and he speaks quietly, pleadingly. " Come up here and kiss me. "

You do as you are told. You kiss him soundly, stealing his hand from your cheeks and tangling your fingers with his. You take that hand and pin it above his head. You feel him lose a little of his breath against your lips as you do. Without you asking, his other hand comes up to join the first. You move your hand to pin both.

" Eager, huh? "

" I'm so not joking, I need you to - to fuck me now. Hard. " You can see his desperation in the way he swallows, in the way he pushes past the instincts he's learned after years of working with kids just to be crass at you. I need you to fuck me. I mean, he asked nicely. And your dick agrees with him so bad. You look at him with a dark gaze and his voice goes softer, sweeter, somehow. " Please? "

" Good boy, " You praise, soft, and you earn another one of those sweet little breaths of relief, like he was holding his breath he was trying so hard. After a moment's thought, you know exactly how you wanna do this.

" Turn over. "

---

He's whimpering, whining, squirming and shuddering beneath you. It's got to be the most beautiful thing you've ever seen or heard, the high-pitched noises that leaves him unbidden. His ragged breaths are pressed against the sheets as he twitches and shifts beneath you, unable to control himself. A pillow tucked under his hips keeps him accessible to you and comfortable for him, though the way he's squirming threatens that he might make his back start aching tomorrow, which is why one of your hands is pre-occupied rubbing his back in firm, soothing movements, partially to massage his muscles and partially to keep him still. The other is still tangled in Ryland's hand where he clutches at you tightly, refusing to let go.

Oh, yeah. You only have your tongue in him, so far.

" Oh - oh, god, yeah, " He's whining, his eyebrows drawn up in ecstasy, the softest look on his face. God, he must look so pretty right now, squirming beneath you with pretty blush pink panties pulled down just below his ass. If only you could see him better and keep licking him with your tongue, but alas. You'll get a great view in a minute, anyway, once you actually get this show on the road.

" Good boy, Ry, " You whisper, pressing a kiss to his ass cheek. Out of the corner of your eye, you see him turn his face to hide in the mattress. His hand squeezes yours a little tighter. You smile. You lick over his hole, spreading him apart to dive in. He whines like he's wounded, his hips moving to grind against your tongue. You let him. You like to spoil him, generally speaking. He's so well-behaved, how couldn't you?

" Oh - oh, please. Please, baby, I need more. More, please - " He breaks off into a beautiful little whimper as you curl your tongue just so, dragging over his rim. Your hand moves from rubbing his back to squeezing his ass and he makes another desperate little noise. " ________, please, please - "

You offer him a little mercy, panting from him to catch your breath. That same hand comes down to circle his rim and he pants in relief.

" Yeah, yeah, thank you. Thank you, " He swallows, thickly, you hear it in his breath. You tease him for just a moment, tracing your fingers around his hole and not quite pressing in. To his credit, he doesn't complain - and, now able to peer over his shoulder and see his face, you can see that he's biting his lip to keep himself from begging. His eyes are shut. He's pretty.

With a regretful squeeze, you finally pull your hand out of his, reaching out to grab the bottle of lube you'd acquired. He whines in an entirely different tone that makes your heart squeeze, a noise that wordlessly says 'where'd you go?'. You drip some lube down onto his ass, getting your fingers properly wet before you do anything else. The bottle is tossed aside for later. You take his hand in yours again.

" Relax, sweetheart. " With a happy sigh, he does as he's told, melting into the bed. You're pleased that he's learned to trust you so much that he can do it on command.

One of your fingers slips inside. He moans unashamedly, hips pressing up towards your touch. You soothe him - shh, sh - as you begin to gently fuck him open, the way added signficantly by how long you had spent fucking him with your tongue beforehand.

" You're so pretty, baby, " You whisper praise as he squirms and whines. Your tongue is no longer preoccupied, you can compliment him just as much as he deserves. " Doing so good for me. Taking me so well. I'm gonna fuck you so good for this. Make you come in these pretty panties for me. "

He moans and pants beneath you.

" Christmas - baby, why are you so good at that? " He manages, and you chuckle softly (mostly just because of 'christmas').

You take your sweet time making this sweet man fall apart, because he deserves it. He drinks it in eagerly, no longer nervous about making sure you feel good too after you've reassured him more than once that you'll tell him if you want something. No, today he's very happy to just lie there and take the attention, absolutely blissful as you open him up with first one finger, then two, then three.

“ Oh - I’m gonna - I’m so close, “ Ryland warns, panting. You kiss the spot between his shoulderblades as you crook your fingers just so. He jolts, a sound like a sob leaving him.

“ Think you can come twice? “ You ask, whispered soft against his skin. He shudders.

“ Maybe, yeah. “ He chokes a little as you rock your fingers in and out of him once more, whining. His voice is high and tense when he says: “ You should try it. “

Well. If he says so.

You sneak a hand around his waist just to hold him close, keeping him from squirming away as you drive him to the edge with your fingers. He pants, whining, barely holding on.

“ Do you want me to touch you? “

“ Yeah, yeah, yes, god yes - “

“ Say please. “

You feel him tense in your grasp, his hips twitching.

“ Oh . . . please? “

And it's just so soft and sweet and needy, how could you possibly resist?

He moans as you take his length in your hand, stroking him in pace with the movement of your fingers. It only takes a few strokes before his moans crescendo (oh- oh- oh!). You feel him tense. His lips part with his cheek pressed to the mattress. He shudders.

He comes, spilling over your hand with a low moan. You work him through it, dragging your fingers over that sweet spot inside of him, stroking him slowly until he whines and pushes away from you. Only then do you remove your hands.

“ God. You're so fucking hot, Grace, “ you compliment pressing kisses around his ear. Breathless, he answers - “ Language. “ You slap him lightly on the ass. He whines.

“ Gorgeous. “ You pet him gently, running your hands over his chest and back and peppering his skin with kisses as he catches his breath. It doesn't take him long at all to start wiggling against you.

“ I still want you to fuck me. Please? “ He moves his hips back, finding the angle to grind his ass over your still-clothed cock. You grunt, a sudden spike of heat going straight down as his bare ass drags over your crotch.

“ Oh, god, that feels good, “ Ryland mutters, almost to himself. He peeks over his shoulder at you, and you - you can't help but pull him in by his hips, encouraging those little movements. You're hard as a rock, and having him pressed against you feels fantastic. “ Please, baby? You said . . . “ He swallows. “ You said hard. Can I have it hard, please? “

You mouth kisses along his throat as you grind against him. Quite pleased with how beautifully polite he's being, you decide to reward him with a mark on his throat. You'll be so happy to watch everyone teasing him about it tomorrow. He moans softly as you work the bruise into his skin, whispering a shaky - yeah - as he tilts his jaw just so to give you room to work.

“ You tell me if it's too much, okay, honey? “

“ Yes. Yes, sir. “ He freezes. “- ______. . . . oh, fiddlesticks - “

“ Sir? “ You repeat, pleasantly, in the middle of his rambling. He groans, but you can see him flush a little pinker.

“ I’ve been reading some . . . stuff, okay? Where do you think I got the idea for the panties? “

You laugh, softly, leaning in to nuzzle his hair. He smiles at you over his shoulder. You can feel his heart beating against your chest. Both of you are hit with a wave of adoration for each other. You don't have to be him to know he's feeling it.

“ I love you, " he says softly.

“ I love you, " you hum. “ And you're showing me what you read. "

“ No. " He says, empathically. Mmhmm, you hum. “ Uh-uh. No way. My secrets. " You chuckle.

“Fine. Maybe I’ll fuck you hard enough that you’ll wanna tell me anyway."

“Now how exactly are you planning on doing that?“ He says, laughing a little. “You're going to put your dick in me so hard that I -"

He's getting a little too cocky. You slap him again, hard on the round of his arse. He jerks in surprise, moaning out an: “Oh - shhhhhuuhh . . .” that melts into nothing as he presses his face into the pillows beneath him. You chuckle at his fervent determination not to get into the habit of swearing. You nuzzle at his hair. He whines and presses back into you.

“ Behave, " you remind him. He nods.

“ Yeah. Yes. Sorry, " he says, rapidly.

“Sorry, what?" The air is tense for a sharp moment, not in an unpleasant way. You feel Ryland release a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry, sir." Oh god, that sounds so good. You really like hearing that. You squeeze his hips, affectionate and possessive and he presses back against you a little harder. Ryland - your clever, beautiful, creative Ryland - finding that this experiment is going well only runs further with it. There's eagerness in his voice as he goes on: “ Please, sir, I want it. Need you in me. I’m begging you, please. "

“I’m not gonna make you beg me, baby," you say, fondly. The clinking of metal is the only reason Ryland can tell you're unbuckling your belt, and he groans. “You're so pretty like this. Wearing these cute little panties for me.“

“Uh-huh. All for you,“ He says, sticking his ass out a little farther. You pet his ass and his thighs, rearranging his position just to make it a little more comfortable for him.

“Tell me if it's too much, okay?" You remind him.

“I will. Promise.“

And with that, you press yourself up against his back. Your cock slides over his hole and both of you inhale sharply. You don't tease for long, just slicking up your aching length in lube before you line yourself up and - slowly - press inward.

Ryland moans, fingers twisting in the sheets. You moan too, watching as your length disappears inside of him, inch by inch. He's plenty prepared, and it's a sweet and easy slide as you bottom out deep inside of him. You stay there for a second, panting as you let him adjust.

“Well?“ You ask, petting his hair. “What do you say, Ry?“

He groans, rocking back against you. You don't let him go far, holding him in place by the waist.

“Thank you. Thank you, sir. Oh my god." He seems wrecked already, pressing his overheated cheeks to the sheets beneath him. You press a kiss to the nape of his neck.

“Good boy."

Without warning, you pull nearly all the way out and thrust back in, hard. The pace you start is sudden, fast and deep, though not brutal.

Ryland sort of shrieks.

“OH! Oh, my - Oh, f- ohhh -“ You don't give him nearly enough time to get a word out, and rapidly, his rambling melts into desperate little moans. He clutches desperately at the sheets as you hold him close, both of you panting heavily as you finally - finally, make love to each other properly.

As you fuck, you pull the cute little panties up a bit, not letting them slide down his thighs. Ryland whines.

“Feel so good, baby,“ You praise, breath heaving. You're already holding back, wanting to make him feel good since he wanted this so badly. You don't want it to be over so soon. “You're so good. Taking me so well.“

“Thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you," Ryland whines. He's just about this close to crying, you can tell, but not quite there yet. You pet his hair fondly, burying your face against the back of his neck. One of your hands sneaks up, your fingers slipping between Ryland’s where he clings to the mattress. The other, still around his waist, shifts just enough to take his cock in hand. Ryland whimpers, then groans as you begin to stroke him at the same pace. He's shaking a little bit, you realize. He's probably pretty overstimulated, at this point.

“You good, baby?“ You pant against his neck. He nods.

“You gonna come for me?“ He whines and nods harder.

“I can't - I can't -“

“You can. Do it for me, sweetheart. Let me feel you, Ry. Let me see you. Be a good boy for me. Be so, so good for me, Ryland.“ The more sweet praise leaves your lips, the more Ryland begins to shudder and fall apart. He's trembling, shaking in your arms, and you can feel it as he begins to twitch in your hand. You can feel the same tension building in your own stomach, heat gathering in your cock as you lose your rhythm just a little, chasing your own orgasm as much as you're chasing his.

“Oh, fuck,“ he whines. Over his shoulder, you catch a glimpse of the brightest blue eyes just barely shining with tears. “Oh, fuck - !“

He clenches around you so tightly that you see stars. You can't help but moan as he comes around you, spilling into your hand with a sob. You come not a moment later, gasps buried into his shoulders as you press into him as far as you can, coming deep inside.

For a few incredible moments, it's just bliss and warmth and perfection. He stops twitching in your head, and he slowly relaxes beneath you with a groan, nearly becoming liquid as he melts into the sheets. Your face stays buried between his shoulders and you squeeze his hand as you slowly pull out, only to tug him close to you with a hand around his waist.

Breathing heavy, you both take a moment to settle. It doesn't take long at all for Ryland to roll over in your arms - but he's suddenly halted by his legs tangled in the panties around his thighs.

“Oh, get off -“ He wiggles, pushing them down and attempting to kick them off of the bed. You are no help at all, rather a hindrance actually, as you pull him into your arms to pepper kisses into his hair.

“We sure did.“

“Ha, ha,“ He says, but he giggles right after. He manages to escape the lace trap and wiggles himself right into your arms, holding you closer than should be humanly possible.

“You're so pretty,“ He mumbles.

“So are you. You were so good for me, Ry."

“I’m so good. I’m always good,“ He says in that ironically self-aggrandizing manner of his. It makes you smile, and you just hum, silently agreeing with him.

“Yeah, you are. You feeling okay?“

“Incredible,“ He sighs happily as you begin to pet his hair. Somehow, he melts even more.

“Iluvyoo,“ He mumbles, muffled into your throat.

• Clark insists on making M/N breakfast every morning, even though his pancakes are always too fluffy.

• M/N sneaks Clark’s glasses off sometimes, saying he prefers seeing those ocean-blue eyes unobstructed.

• Clark loves watching M/N fall asleep on the couch after long hospital shifts and carries him to bed like it’s nothing.

• M/N teases Clark about being indestructible but still manages to cut his chin shaving sometimes.

• Clark likes helping M/N iron his white coats before work—it’s his way of “supporting medicine.”

• M/N is the only one who can get Clark to relax when he’s overworked—usually by pulling him into a bath.

• Clark makes fresh coffee exactly the way M/N likes it before his hospital shifts.

• M/N often finds Clark sitting in his office after work, waiting patiently just to walk him home.

• Clark insists on carrying all the grocery bags—even though M/N argues it’s unfair since he doesn’t even strain.

• Clark loves listening to M/N vent about medical cases, even if he doesn’t always understand the science.

• Clark’s kisses always start soft, but when he gets carried away, M/N ends up pinned against a wall.

• M/N runs his hands along Clark’s chest under his shirt, claiming he’s “checking his vitals.”

• Clark likes resting his head in M/N’s lap, glasses askew, while M/N strokes his hair.

• M/N is the only one Clark lets tug at his tie in public—it drives him insane in the best way.

• Clark adores forehead kisses from M/N—he melts every single time.

• They slow-dance in the kitchen after long days, music or no music.

• M/N keeps a photo of Clark on his desk, but it’s not of Superman—it’s of Clark asleep with bedhead.

• Clark memorizes M/N’s pulse rhythm, saying it calms him down when he’s anxious.

• M/N likes whispering “My hero” against Clark’s lips when they kiss.

• Clark secretly loves being called “big guy” in an affectionate tone by M/N.

• Clark has to restrain himself when M/N drags his nails down his back.

• M/N teases Clark about his super stamina—and Clark blushes hard when it’s proven true.

• Clark sometimes lands in M/N’s office late at night, still in the Superman suit, pulling him into a heated kiss against the desk.

• M/N has a thing for tugging on Clark’s belt.

• Clark whispers dirty things in M/N’s ear in that deep, rumbling voice that makes M/N shiver.

• M/N leaves hickeys along Clark’s throat—hidden perfectly by his tie at the Daily Planet.

• Clark loves lifting M/N with one hand during make-out sessions, pressing him against the wall.

• M/N teases Clark by saying he should do a “physical exam”—and Clark always ends up blushing first.

• Clark sometimes gets impatient and rips M/N’s shirt—M/N scolds him because he only owns so many.

• M/N kisses down Clark’s abs just to hear him groan and lose composure.

• Clark sometimes brings M/N dinner to the hospital late at night.

• M/N patches up Clark after battles, muttering that “this isn’t how I pictured date night.”

• Clark sits in the waiting area like a giant golden retriever, just to see M/N walk by in his scrubs.

• Nurses at the hospital whisper about how “hot” M/N’s boyfriend is.

• M/N once had to lie to a nurse about Clark’s blood pressure being “totally normal.”

• Clark distracts M/N during night shifts by sending cute texts with selfies.

• M/N accidentally left his stethoscope at Clark’s—Clark tried using it to listen to his own heartbeat.

• Clark once swept M/N away from the hospital rooftop mid-shift to steal a kiss above Metropolis.

• M/N jokes that Clark should actually apply for a job as an orderly—he’s strong enough.

• Clark waits until 3 AM just to drive M/N home from an exhausting ER shift.

• M/N teases Clark about his “farm boy charm” whenever he says something cheesy.

• M/N insists he’s the smarter one in the relationship—Clark agrees instantly with a grin.

• Clark sometimes pretends to “faint” just to make M/N roll his eyes.

• M/N jokingly diagnoses Clark with “chronic hotness.”

• Clark calls M/N his “Doctor Love” when they’re cuddling.

• M/N constantly tries to guess where Clark’s been during Superman missions—Clark is terrible at lying.

• Clark loves how feisty M/N gets when he teases him about medical jargon.

• M/N sometimes pokes Clark’s abs and mutters “completely unrealistic anatomy.”

• Clark challenges M/N to arm wrestling—and always lets him win at least once.

• Clark loves falling asleep to the sound of M/N’s heartbeat.

• M/N once found Clark crying quietly after a rescue—he held him all night.

• Clark writes love notes for M/N and hides them in his lab coat pockets.

• Clark dreams about living in Smallville with M/N one day.

• M/N is the first person Clark flies to when he needs comfort.

• Clark asks M/N to check his heartbeat—not because he needs it, but because he likes M/N’s hands on him.

• M/N once caught Clark watching him sleep with the softest smile.

• Clark carries photos of M/N tucked into his wallet.

• When M/N is sick, Clark refuses to leave his side, even if Superman is needed.

• Clark always makes M/N feel safe, even without the cape.

• Clark gets flustered when M/N kisses him in public, but he secretly loves it.

• M/N smooths Clark’s tie at the Daily Planet like a possessive boyfriend move.

• Clark buys flowers for M/N every week, no excuses.

• They sneak away during dates for kisses in dark alleyways.

• M/N loves adjusting Clark’s glasses before they walk into the Planet.

• Clark enjoys holding M/N’s hand firmly in public—it feels grounding.

• M/N once teased Clark in the middle of a crowded restaurant by whispering dirty things in his ear.

• Lois Lane teases M/N for being the only one who can actually make Clark blush.

• Clark insists on carrying M/N’s medical bag everywhere.

• M/N loves seeing Clark interact with kids in public—it makes him swoon.

• M/N pretends he’s afraid of flying sometimes, just to make Clark hold him tighter.

• Clark loves flying them above the clouds for alone time.

• M/N jokes about Superman being his personal Uber.

• Sometimes Clark lands on the hospital rooftop with dinner in hand.

• M/N once fell asleep mid-flight in Clark’s arms.

• Clark tries to teach M/N to float while kissing him.

• M/N once dared Clark to fly shirtless—Clark almost did it.

• Clark carries M/N bridal-style across Metropolis skyscrapers, laughing when he protests.

• M/N always kisses Clark’s cheek as soon as they land.

• Clark sometimes flies M/N to Smallville just for pie.

• Clark loves seeing M/N walk around their apartment in just scrubs bottoms.

• M/N likes watching Clark cook shirtless in the mornings.

• Clark sometimes gets handsy when helping M/N out of his white coat.

• M/N loves stealing Clark’s shirts because they smell like him.

• Clark pulls M/N onto his lap while they read together.

• M/N presses Clark against the kitchen counter when he wants to kiss him breathless.

• Clark groans when M/N teases him with kisses and then walks away.

• M/N keeps biting Clark’s lip during kisses, just to hear him lose control.

• Clark pins M/N’s wrists above his head when he’s being cheeky.

• M/N swears Clark’s moans could literally shake the walls.

• Clark dreams of introducing M/N to Ma Kent in Smallville.

• M/N keeps imagining Clark in a white coat just for fun.

• Clark whispers about wanting a family someday with M/N.

• M/N keeps teasing that Superman should get his check-up once a year.

• Clark buys them matching mugs: “Doctor” and “Hero.”

• M/N secretly wants to wear Clark’s cape in bed.

• Clark admits M/N is the reason he feels truly human.

• M/N kisses Clark’s scar-free skin, whispering how grateful he is he always comes back alive.

• Clark never doubts that M/N is the one person who keeps him grounded.

the bedframe had been protesting for a while now, groaning every time you pushed forward, but it was nothing compared to the way clark was breaking apart underneath you. he was lying face-down when it started—sprawled out like some huge, helpless thing, his chest pressed to the mattress and his hips tilted up for you. he was so warm it felt like you were melting into him, every thrust slow and deliberate, every drag of your cock through his tight hole making him cry out. “please…” his voice cracked, muffled against the pillow. “please, i can’t—”

you bent down until your mouth was right next to his ear, your chest to his slick back, your weight keeping him pinned flat. “can’t what, sweetheart?” you asked, sweet as honey, even as your hips ground in, forcing him to feel every inch.

“i can’t think,” he whispered, almost sobbed, as you rolled your hips again. “you’re- mmh—so- so mean.”

“that’s all?” you murmured, kissing his damp temple. “i thought the man of steel could handle a little slow fuck.”

“i—i can’t,” he whimpered, and then bit the pillow to muffle a sob when your next thrust landed deep, slow enough that he could feel every pulse of you inside him.

“oh, clark,” you cooed, moving your hand down to hold his waist steady as his muscles trembled. “listen to yourself. you’re shaking like a leaf. and all i’ve done is put you on your belly and fuck you nice ‘n slow.”

“you’re so-oh mean,” he gasped, pushing back against you instinctively, desperate for more.

“am i?” you pulled out all the way, just to watch him squirm. his body clenched around nothing, back arching as if to chase you. “you know what’s mean, baby? mean would be leaving you empty.”

“don’t, no—” he pleaded instantly, voice breaking. “don’t—don’t do that. i need- it.”

“oh, you need it, huh?” you sank back into him in one long, deep stroke, until you were buried all the way to the hilt. he cried out loud, hands clawing at the sheets, thighs trembling underneath you. “look at that,” you murmured against his ear. “big, strong clark kent, and all he can do is beg me not to stop fucking him.” he was sobbing now, but the sound was so wet and needy it went straight to your cock.

“don’t stop,” he begged, louder this time, words shaky and strained. “please, please, i’ll be good, i swear.. i just—”

“you’re already good,” you said, punctuating the words with another slow thrust that made him arch like a bow. “good and ruined. you feel how tight you are, clark? holding on to me like you’d die if i left?”

“i- nghh—can’t—” his voice dissolved into a long, broken moan.

“shhh,” you whispered, rocking into him with a slow, devastating rhythm. “you don’t have to think. just let me do it. that’s what you want, isn’t it? to lie here and let me use you until you forget your own name?”

clark’s answer was incoherent—just a desperate, choked sound that ended in a sob. you kissed the side of his neck, soft and patient. “that’s a yes, isn’t it? you like being my good boy.” he nodded frantically into the pillow, unable to form words.

“say it for me, baby,” you coaxed, thrusting deep enough that he gasped again. “say you like it.”

“i like it,” he whimpered, voice wrecked. “i like it, i like it so much—”

you smiled against his skin and wrapped a hand around his cock, grinding into him while stroking him in time. his hips bucked wildly, torn between thrusting back on your cock and forward into your fist. you held him still, controlling every movement.

“shh. let me. let me do it, clark.”

“please,” he whispered, raw and pleading, and you felt him tremble from head to toe. “don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop—” he came undone fast, his hips jerking helplessly, his release spilling hot between his stomach and the bed as a sob tore out of him. he clutched at the sheets like a lifeline, shaking, cumming so hard he saw white behind his eyes.

but you didn’t stop. you kept moving, slow but relentless, letting him feel every single stroke even as he trembled under you, too sensitive to bear it. “sensitive now, hm?” you murmured sweetly, dragging your teeth over his shoulder. “you can take it. you’re superman. you can take anything i give you.”

clark whined, trying to twist away from the overwhelming pleasure, but you just pinned him down harder. “shhh. we’re not done,” you said, pulling out just far enough to flip him onto his back. his chest was flushed and heaving, eyes glassy, lips red from biting them.

“look at you,” you whisperer, cupping his face as you lined up again. “tears all over your pretty face. gorgeous.” clark’s hand caught your wrist, but he didn’t push you away. instead he nodded, shamefaced, and that was all the permission you needed.

you hooked his knees over your arms and slid back into him, slow but deep, and the sound he made was sinful—high and needy, his head rolling back on the pillow as he clung to you.

“that’s it,” you whispered, beginning to move again, faster this time, but still with that same devastating control. “let me see you, baby.”

"Huh— I think this is actually how they reproduce, rather than dropping seedlings," Ryland hums, shooting a glance over to you before he looks down at his notepad, jotting a few of his observations down.

This species of plant isn't one he's ever seen before on Erid; thus, when the little pebbles started singing about it, he'd gotten curious as any science nerd would— you two are the only humans to ever be on Erid, let alone live here! It's an amazing thing, and he enjoyed it quite a bit.

Even the Me-burgers were heaven compared to coma-sludge, or worse, starvation. It took a little getting used to, yes, but it was great.

"So it only looks like seeds," You pipe up, leaning back on your knees and resting your gloved hands over your thighs, "Quite fascinating. Maybe there was an evolutionary purpose to it?"

"I'm not sure," He admits. "Adrian did say it offered some… unique, functions to an Eridian system— it could be that they used it to achieve a bodily high?"

Tilting his head, he leans forward and runs the tip of his pencil over the underside of one of the leaves, watching the connected branch curl up and, seemingly, die immediately. He winces. "…Oops."

A second later, the branch turns almost a radiant pink, and falls down to rest finally on the rocks in the biodome.

It's strange— he's unsure how a plant so sensitive to touch survived this long on the surface — even moreso how it still lives in human conditions — where even the harsh winds of Erid made it difficult for it to thrive. Sure, yes, it was mostly found in deeper systems where movement wasn't as common as the surface, but the question still stands.

Erid biology was amazing.

"So much so to change its propagating system to be less farmable?" You question, and when he glances over, your nose is scrunched in confusion, "Maybe Rocky left some information out."

Shrugging, he moves to kneel alongside you, letting his gaze flit back over to the offending plant. Some of the petals around the bud of the flower have wilted, changing from pitch-black to a pretty, dead pink; proving how little time you both had before it'd completely wilt.

"Only one way to find out," He muses, feeling a grin slip onto his lips as he digs his gloves out of his pocket and gets them on, "I mean— Distant observation can only get you so far, and it hasn't killed us yet or proved to have a scale of toxicity to humans."

Handing his pen and notepad to you — and blatantly ignoring your faint, disapproving grunt — he shifts closer to the flowering plant, leaning down a little to glance over the underside of the leaves and the flower, before he straightens up.

He continues. "Is this a bad idea? Maybe. But we could also learn from it, so there is a light at the end of the tunnel!"

"Ryland…"

Your voice is low, and not exactly approving— but he shoulders on anyway, straightening his spine and wincing at the ache, spreading his knees to give him a wider sense of balance. Only a few bad things could happen, either way; One, he gets a face-full of poisonous spores and ends up kicking the bucket, and Two: the plant fights back and he gets ill for a few days, but is otherwise OK.

Two sounds optional, but he has some hope for nothing bad to happen.

Are those famous last words?

Maybe.

Is he going to continue anyway, for science?

Yes.

"I've got this, It'll be fine— we did survive space," He nudges his glasses back up with the back of his wrist as he peers over the flower, "Let's not forget that part. Space? Scary, but great. Alien plants? Awesome!"

Is he getting slightly nervous and talking to calm himself down? Also maybe.

Upon hearing your noncommittal grunt, he exhales slowly through his nose, carefully reaching over to the core of the life before him— he knocks into another branch with his elbow on accident, and it dies immediately. A little disheartening, but that's pretty normal for his life, so he continues.

Gently, he wraps his hand around the bud of the flower, softly prying the petals open—

He jerks back as spores shoot upward and all over his face, coughing up a fit as he waves his hand in front of his face. His other digs into the rocks below him, keeping him off of his back.

He starts talking before you have the chance; just to save himself from your impending I told you so. Even when he deserves it.

"Well—" He coughs, pulling his spore-ridden glasses from his face, "That was totally, one-hundred percent, completely expected! I did that entirely on purpose. You know. For science. Gotta test it somehow, right?"

Laughing awkwardly, he avoids looking over at you as he sits up, shaking his head to be-rid himself of the shock. In spite of his obvious embarrassment, he feels your hand curl around his shoulder, then the warmth of your body next to his— for some odd reason, it feels a lot more present than before.

Like, fever-adjacent warmth.

Was he getting sick already?

Your voice cuts through a haze in his brain he wasn't even aware was there— Yeah, he's totally getting sick.

Darn it.

"You alright? Ingest any? Get any in your eyes, your mouth?"

Blinking rapidly, he shakes his head again, humming a low mm-mm as your face comes into view, your eyebrows furrowed in concern. Your hands warm his already hot face as you brush some of the colored spores off, and all of a sudden, saliva puddles in his mouth at your touch.

You'd removed your gloves? When and why did you do that?

Sure, sue him, his mouth would water a little any time you did something remotely attractive— but not this much.

"That's…. weird," He mutters, swallowing, "I think I'm getting sick."

The rocks shift beneath your knees as you adjust, and he can't help but watch your expression, to stare at your face. The little scar that marks the flesh from below your jaw to beside the corner of your mouth, the way you huff and tilt your head when you're confused, the way your jaw clenches and your mouth curls back when you're angry…

Your mouth is moving. Are you talking to him?

Who is he kidding. You don't talk to yourself like he does.

"Ryland— Your pupils are blown to high hell," Your grip shifts down to his jaw, tightening as you turn his head however you please, "You're confident you didn't swallow any?"

…Wait a minute.

Oh, no.

"I— I think we were wrong," He gasps, quickly shoving you away the instant his brain makes the connection; not because the touch or your proximity hurt — quite the friggin' opposite, actually, because he already feels like he's dying now that you're not touching him — "It's contact triggered, not ingestion; I— uh, I already feel hot. Super hot. Not-Good hot."

You stumble to regain your balance, falling backward onto your rear into the rocks below next to the abandoned pen and notepad. Guilt pools in his stomach as he observes as it happens, but heat instantly suffocates it at the faint show of your teeths points from behind your lips, and the way your shoulders move as you push yourself back up.

He watches the unreadable expression leave your face in favor of something more restrained— he knows this one, though. You always look like this when you're focused, or you let your past training take the reins for a minute.

Now that he's staring, he finally notices the spores that are on you.

Shoot.

"Any other symptoms? Headaches, nausea, uh, loss of feeling or motor-function?"

You continue rattling off important questions, but he's not really listening. He should be, but it feels like he can't— his eyes stay glued to your mouth, then flick away only to land on your hands as you quickly get out of your spore-infested jacket.

You've got such nice hands. Very sturdy. Very masculine. Very reliable. Very—

Suddenly, his brain kicks back into gear; he's supposed to be doing the same thing.

"No, negative, not at all— I, um, I just feel kind of toasty, and…"

Well, he'll be honest — with himself, anyway — and think that he did not want to say that last part. Instead, he focuses on setting his glasses aside and getting himself out of his cardigan, of which has the most spores clinging to the yarn.

"And?" You continue, tossing your jacket over the offending plant to avoid any more spores escaping, "And what? Ryland— We know fuck-all about this plant, we don't have time to waste; hell, we could grow another goddamn limb and be utterly clueless to prevent it— so, I'd really like to know what the hell you're feeling before I feel it too!"

He swallows.

If he was a braver man willing to test your patience, he would've said something like, language, Captain! but, he knows he's not. And, well, he'd rather enjoy keeping his fingers. You threatened to cut them off the last time he royally pissed you off.

…But there really is no way to lighten up the word aroused, is there?

He opens his mouth once, then twice, only to close it shut right after. It doesn't help you're less than four feet away, gorgeous as all heck, breathing just as heavy as he is.

He's sweating.

"I— ugh, I'm— Sexually influenced! I'm feeling Sexually… influenced. Heavily. Horribly." He winces.

O… Kay. That was arguably worse.

He can't bring himself to look at you; your silence was enough, and it only makes your out-of-sync breaths seem louder. It doesn't help his brain, which, if you were curious, felt like sludge that could leak out of his brain if he thinks too hard.

The symptoms must've finally kicked in for you, because your silence continues, where he knows you would've questioned his wording were you…. uninfluenced.

At the sound of your throat clearing, his gaze flits over to you, and instantly, it's obvious you're feeling the same things he is.

Which, truly, helps his brain avoid functioning altogether.

"Shit," You finally announce, panting through your mouth— sweat slicks the front of your hair as you run your hand down your face, and his thoughts catch on the movement of your Adams apple as you swallow.

"It's kind of awful, right?" He breathes, laughing awkwardly; his voice cracks mid-way, not unlike how it often did when he was going through puberty. Embarrassing. "It's, uh, really bad for you too, huh?"

He wiggles in his spot, trying to get comfortable enough to calm down a little— but all it does is make his jeans grind against a rather sensitive spot he'd hoped to avoid. Quickly, he stills, trying to avoid a repeat offense as he runs his tongue over his bottom lip.

"Yeah," You mutter, nodding slowly, "We should…"

You pause mid-way, your voice trailing off like you'd either gotten distracted or completely lost what idea you had of what you were going to say; and, yeah, he wholeheartedly agrees. He was only trying to keep a brave face, but he felt so strongly he could cry— he wanted so badly it was painful.

"—You, you go inside. Strip before you enter and leave your clothes… outside, by the door. I'll, uh, I'll handle them while you shower and cool off."

"What are you going to do?" The question tumbles out of his mouth automatically, but its concern is true. "We don't— We don't know how long this stuff lasts. We can't be separated forever,"

He's unsure if that last part is him, or the spores' effect talking. Truthfully— he can't bring himself to care a freaking lick (God, if he could lick You…). Swallowing, he continues, "At least not without some difficulties."

"Doesn't matter," You wave your hand in front of your face as you shake your head, as if to brush him off, "Just— just go. I need… to log the— the symptoms, and get rid of the goddamn plant."

He listens, feeling his mouth curl back in slight distaste of the idea. He didn't want to leave; he didn't even want to be this far away from you, let alone so much more he couldn't even see you. It didn't feel right— the idea stung, like physical pain.

"Wha— You can't— you can't touch it!" He blurts, ignoring the fact his voice is in a higher pitch than it usually is, "—Not, uh, without gloves. It's dangerous. And we don't have any fresh ones out here. You should come. Inside. You know… to get new ones? It's bad to reuse them. Very unprofessional."

Why is he saying this?

Okay, yeah, his brain is practically screaming at him to crawl over to you and just do something so he'll stop feeling tether-less, but he doesn't mean to say it. Or imply anything. It just… slips out, on accident. Completely. A complete accident. Yeah.

Yeah.

inhaling slowly through his mouth, he swallows again, crawling backward to put some distance between the two of you, preferably before anything shifts and you both end up in the gravel. Also preferably with you on top of him, with your hands on the back of his neck and—-

"Then I'll figure something out— Ryland, please, just go. We don't know what this stuff… does."

…Right. He probably should get all the spores off of him, huh? They don't seem to be helping. At all. Like, any.

"I'm going," He finally announces, forcing himself to stand even when it's the last thing he wants to do; his knees feel weak, and so does his brain. His mind feels fuzzy when it's not thinking about you or anything to do with… well, he knows what. "I'm going. I, um, promise I won't take too long. Like last time. And the time before that."

"Grace—"

"Okay, okay, I'll stop talking now."

Will he really?

Probably not.

Nonetheless, he puts one foot in front of the other, unable to ignore the heat that gathers in his stomach as he walks past you— your breathing is wrecked, and the sight of your clenched fists and slight shaking do nothing to help his want to stay; for some reason, his brain finds wild comfort (And interest) in the fact you feel a similar, if not the same, way as him.

As he walks, he sucks in an unsteady breath, roughly wiping the spores off of his glasses and onto the bottom hem of his shirt; the further he gets from you, the more it all hurts. The heat gains, and it feels like an invisible iron against his every being, only mounting to the headache now clawing behind his eyes.

I can totally take this, he thinks, using a shaky hand to slip his glasses back on, If he can, I can, right?

Who am I kidding. He's, like, three times stronger than I am.

He runs the front of his palms down his jeans as he steps up to the front door, trying to wipe some of the sweat off of them before he reaches up to undo the buttons of his shirt— this doesn't feel good, either, so he sticks close to the wall and prays no one looks this way.

Even now, with his body temperature wildly higher than It needs to be and under the influence of some strange spores, the humiliation doesn't go away. The pain doesn't, either, instead running the opposite direction and only continuing to mount.

Dropping his shirt, he jerkily undoes the clasp of his belt, roughly yanking it out of the denim loops and letting it join his shirt. He can't decide whether the lack of fabric grinding against his skin feels better or worse— he's so sensitive it feels like he's on fire.

He toes off his shoes, kicking them off to the side before he reaches down to the button of his jeans; unable to help it, he shoots a look over the scars of his left shoulder, letting his gaze naturally find you. You're handling the plant now, moving it over to the entrance of the Bio-dome so Rocky or Adrian can take it out when they come over next.

Even from this distance, thanks to his glasses, he can see the ragged rise and fall of your shoulders as you breathe.

He has to force himself to re-focus. Peeling his jeans off, he steps out of them, quickly opening the front door and stepping inside— as the door slams behind him, he winces, slowly letting go of the knob and moving forward, past the kitchen, the screen room that Rocky refused to not add, and finally into the bathroom.

Stepping over his dirty clothes from yesterday he forgot to pick up, he sinks down to rest on the side of the tub to catch his breath, reaching over to turn the cold water on, and…

Nothing.

"You've got to be kidding me— Seriously, shower? Now is the time you decide to break? When I need you most?"

Dropping his arm, he hangs his head and squeezes his eyes shut. The shower had a habit of refusing to work; something about a hose kinking somewhere within the fresh-water system and here, both you and Rocky had explained. More than once.

He groans, but with how broken and defeated it is, it's more like a ruined whine or a grumble.

Deciding for the next best thing on the how-to-stop-overheating list, he, rather quickly, makes his way back to the kitchen and pulls the fridge open. And laying inside, limply against a frozen thing of Me-burgers, is his Holy Grail.

The bag of ice.

Yanking it from the fridge, the closest the fridge door, reaching up and pushing the coolness of the ice against his too-hot face— then, he steps over to the kitchen island, moving the thing of ice to rest on the back of his neck as he drapes himself over the cold counter-top.

It's heaven.

Pushing his forehead into the counter, he stretches his arms out in front of him, forming desperate parallel lines of cold-seeking embarrassment. Sure, the shower was dramatic and temperamental, but it doesn't mean he's screwed. At least for now— his tummy is still searing hot with want, even in spite of what he tries to do to prevent his brain from controlling him any more than it is.

He tilts his head, panting against the surface of the counter as he presses his cheek into the cold; the bag of ice slips, and he has to reach back and fix it before it falls. Before laying his arm back down, he lifts his head just high enough to pull his glasses off, setting them aside and returning to his earlier positions.

He squeezes his eyes shut, trying to calm himself down.

It does nothing.

All he can think about is you.

If your groans sound different when you feel good, if he could make you feel good, how nice it'd be if you just come back and fuck him sensles—

His head pops up immediately at the sound of the doors hinges whining as they open; he makes eye-contact with you just as fast, and you both pause. You're stripped down to your underwear like he is, panting like you just ran a marathon, face dusted pink in a blush he's sure he matches on his own face.

"I thought you were supposed to be in the shower?" You blurt, your voice breaking weakly.

He blinks. "It decided to… quit working."

"Again?" You question, leaning back against the door and squeezing your eyes shut, just like he was moments before. "Shit."

"Yeah," He nods slowly, straightening out and sliding the back of ice over the counter, a free offer. "The, uh, the ice helps. Some."

As you step forward, drop the pen and notepad onto the counter and snag the ice, his gaze slips southward, to your stomach. You've a few scars there; a jagged, wide one from your front to the side, a few smaller ones in clusters, a medium sized one that cuts down below your underwear's waistband.

You're still muscular, though. Where he'd, admittedly, gained a few pounds back after regaining access to food upon the touchdown on Erid, you still held yourself pleasantly— that, or he hadn't noticed much of a change, if at all.

You were good-looking. Always had been, really, but after years together on Mary — and the VERY close proximity that came with — and seeing you handle stressful situations with a sexy amount of control… well, you might as well be a Greek God.

An Adonis, if you will.

"My eyes are up here, you know. I can practically see the thoughts in your head."

He raises his gaze instantly.

"S— Sorry," He fumbles, his mouth opening silently, but he finds no valuable excuse to defend himself with. "…Sorry."

"I'm kidding," You laugh, but it's breathless, and not all there, like you didn't truly find anything funny. He knew, feeling like this, he couldn't. He watches you pull the ice from your throat, then as you slide it back over to him, rest your forearms on the counter, and sink down to rest your forehead against the tops of your arms.

Your voice is slightly muffled when you continue. "…Haven't exactly been an angel myself."

"What's that mean?" He questions, swallowing the saliva pooling in his mouth at the free sight of your scar-littered, muscular back— he presses his lips together, leaning against the cold edge of the counter to try to feel like he's regained Some control of himself.

He hasn't.

You say nothing as you straighten back up, instead, you wordlessly make eye-contact with him; but you break it as you look down to his lips, back to his eyes, his lips again, then down his front and over to the burn scars over his forearm and upward on his left side.

Heat blooms everywhere he can feel you look.

It should freak him out— he was under the influence of hormone-altering spores, he should be running away screaming and locking himself into the bedroom and keeping distance from you. So you could both rough this out on your own and pretend it didn't happen.

But… It's not.

Quite the opposite, really.

"What'd you do to the plant?" He questions breathlessly, pulling the ice away from his face and leaning over the counter to hand it to you— he's not sure what gets him more; the touch of your hand brushing his as you take it, or the cold lick of the counters edge right above his crotch.

He wants to grab you, to yank you over to this side and kiss you so hard it hurts, but he refrains.

It's a feat within itself, really.

"Put it by the door," You mutter, raising the ice to press against your cheek, "With a note for Rocky."

He nods, chewing on his bottom lip as he drops his hand, pressing the heel of it against the edge of the counter. His fingers curl, gripping it tight in an attempt to clear his head from the thoughts running rampant— What it'd be like for you to fuck him here in the kitchen, in the living room, in the bathroom, in the shower…

"And— And the clothes?"

"In a spare storage tub... 'Cept for your belt, and mine. They're still by the door."

He nods again.

Sure, it's wildly risky to just be conversing like it's a casual Thursday when you're both… like this, but the pain is gone— almost completely, aside from the ever-present inferno of his body temperature. He doubts that's going to go away today, but as long as it doesn't hurt, he'll try not to think about it.

He doesn't think you want to be in any more pain, either.

It really stings. Moreso than the ache in his gut, or the throbbing between his legs.

He glances up when he catches you move in his peripheral, accepting the bag of now-slightly-melted ice and watching you move around the island, over to the fridge.

God, your back is insane.

"How long do you think this'll last?" He murmurs, pressing the ice against his tummy— he twitches, sensitive. More than usual; it feels like every part of him has heightened receptors to touch, even his own.

Hm. He tacks it into his brain to record as a symptom, later.

You shrug, prying the fridge open and pulling two waters out from inside of it, "I'd have a better shot at getting back to Earth than figuring that out, G."

"Well…" He laughs awkwardly, licking his lips, "At least we're in it together, right? I doubt this whole… 'having odd reactions to an alien plant species that totally wasn't my fault' thing would be as fun if we weren't? I mean, that's a bright side?"

You shake your head, nudging the fridge door closed with your knee before you turn, handing him a cold water bottle as you push yours against your neck. "I don't think I ever want to have 'fun,' again in my life. I've had enough for one lifetime."

"Whaaat? You don't want to get sick on an unexplored planet in another life? That's awful, [Name]. A complete insult to me and my alien affections!" He accepts the water with a small nod of a thank-you, inhaling slowly at your proximity— it's the closest you've been since he shoved you off of him earlier, and he can't help but notice it.

But he's being sarcastic, of course. If he isn't, he doesn't think he could bring himself to look away from you.

Not that he can anyway.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Ryland— I'd love to get stranded with you every lifetime, I was just kidding!"

Now it's your turn to be sarcastic; and he can't say it turns him off any. Actually, the mock sympathy only makes his heart beat a little faster— the way your mouth curves down into a pitying, fake frown, how your eyebrows draw together and your head tilts…

And the way you say his name?

Stick a fork in 'im. He's done. He's over his head.

Yeah, he can't get it out of his brain.

His lips part as he swallows, feeling the volcano roar in his stomach; he continues staring, influenced and suddenly shameless with need, staring so intently he watches your expression changes the second it happens.

You go from mocking, to curious, to unreadable.

He watches every single one of them have their turn.

He gets two seconds to gasp until you're crossing the kitchen and cutting it off with a kiss.

The warmth blooms upward from his stomach to his chest as you groan into his mouth, and he fumbles to set the ice down as he kisses back— it's clumsy, hot, and quick; it's a physical need rather than a want. He can barely hear the sound of the bag of ice slipping off the counter and onto the floor over the rush of blood in his ears, but he doesn't care.

You continue moving even as you're connected, forcing him to walk backward as he kisses you until a shudder wracks his spine at the cold edge of the counter bumps into his lower back, but whatever chill there was is instantly staved off the moment your hands find his waist, fingertips digging into his skin.

Kissing has never felt so fucking good.

It's like a full-body satisfaction— whatever warmth or pain he had before is synthesized into pleasure, then doubling that into euphoria.

He returns the passion as you tilt your head, making his head tilt back a little until he pushes back, feeling your chest rise and fall in an out-of-sync rhythm against his own; though it's instantly forgotten as his body shivers, his chest tightening pleasantly as you grind against him.

Whining into your mouth, he chases you as you lean your head back, barely registering as you pull his glasses off of his face and set them aside.

God, you feel good.

"This— This is," He pants, swallowing harshly, "Really, really unhygienic."

Your arms box him in as you pull them from his waist, settling them on either side of him on the counter as you pull back, slide a leg between his own, and come closer. An open-mouthed, choked gasp is yanked from his throat at the friction, and whatever care he has disappears.

It's not like you answer, anyway— you just duck your head down and kiss him again, nudging your knee further between his own to, apparently, give him more pleasure as you move your arms to coil around his middle.

And to heck if it doesn't work.

His hand slides up as he hooks an arm around the back of your neck, keeping you in place; if you moved away now, he'd cry. Literally. His other drops to grip along your hip, his fingers brushing a scar there— it must be sensitive, too, because you hum into his mouth and push him further into the counter.

It doesn't hurt; you'd moved your arm down, so your forearm pressed into the counter instead of his back. It didn't snake any lower, but it makes you lean down a little more; and when he grinds his hips again, it feels like heaven.

Actual heaven.

"Don't— Don't move," He gasps, panting into your mouth as his hand tightens around your hip, "Right there, please, don't move,"

He's never felt so sensitive in his life.

You seem to realize that, too, because you prey on it; as he ruts against your leg and yourself, your arm tightens around his lower back, pulling him even closer. You moan into his mouth as he kisses you back with fervor, and it only eggs him on— he arches his spine just slightly, making you chase him and lean over him more.

This feels even better. You do— whether it's the spores or you making him feel so good — like he hasn't ever before, with anyone else — he doesn't know, but he doesn't care about it much now.

"mmng— I—"

He can barely talk in-between kisses; sometimes they're deeper, sometimes they're more superficial but within rapid fashion— he doesn't care. They all work him toward that edge, tighten the coil in his tummy he's chasing—

"Don't stop—"

The moment you pull away to catch your breath and mouth at his neck, the coil snaps.

A broken whine is yanked from his throat as he ruts his hips, squeezing his eyes shut and leaning forward to nudge his nose into your shoulder. His hold on you tightens as he breathes in short, heavy inhales, continuing and tailed by ruined groans and whimpers, his thighs tightening around yours when you move.

You're panting against his neck, whatever noises you're making being muffled by the fact you've got your teeth in him— the sting feels better than he'd ever thought he'd be into, so he lets it happen, slowly relaxing in sync with you as he comes down from his high, but he still lets his hips roll experimentally.

You moan.

"Did y—?"

"…Uh-huh."

That's hot.

You're still breathing heavy by the time you retreat into his neck, not allowing either of you to come down completely or catch your breaths until your pushing your mouths together again, and he can faintly sense the feeling of your nose bumping into his as you tilt your head.

"Wanna go again?" You murmur, pressing a little kiss to the side of his mouth.

He nods, only to clear his throat. "Y— Yeah. The, uh, the bedroom this time, though? Please."

Is he going to last the entire night?

Maybe not. He's not the most… sexually active guy in the world, but God could you make him be.

Is he also sure you'll stop one-hundred percent the moment he's done?

Completely.

You didn’t know who he was or what he studied, nor did you care to find out.

In general, you were pleasant with everyone you crossed paths with and your first time meeting Ryland Grace wouldn’t have been any different from seeing any other random grad student if he hadn’t immediately pissed you off. To his credit, he didn’t even know he had done something to irk you and it hadn’t been his intention to be a thorn in your side- not at the beginning at least.

If you hadn’t already been having the worst day of your life (woke up late, missed the bus and had a denied scholarship application sitting in your email, to name a few of the events that morning), maybe the two of you could’ve hit it off and been fast friends. He was probably nice enough and besides occasionally being a smartass, he had a good head on his shoulders. Smart, confident and easy on the eyes- all things that pointed to a person you could get along with.

So how had he immediately put himself on your shit list?

Well, he was sitting in your spot.

No, the little nook in the University’s library did not have your name on it, nor did it actually belong to you.

But you’d been sitting there, in the same sunny little spot of the library that you’d come to call the closest thing to heaven you’d experienced during your doctorate studies, every day since you began your research. After extensive lab work, you’d disappear into the almost always empty corner of the library to type up your findings for hours at a time. 

No one had ever been in your nook before. Until Ryland Grace decided he wanted to sit there too.

You’d already had a day from hell so stumbling up to your spot midafternoon only to find that someone else had already claimed it with all of his stuff immediately infuriated you.

He seemed to be around your age, most likely working on his masters or PhD like you were. A spread of papers, books and packets were strewn over the desk surface, no apparent rhyme or reason to their organization. The guy was tapping away at a laptop where a huge spreadsheet of data was displayed, completely ignorant of your presence until you cleared your throat.

Any other day, you would’ve grumbled about it but found a different area to plant yourself for the night. But not that day. You were too irritated and too tired to let this dirtbag take away the last scrap of peace you would get until the sun set.

The blonde haired intruder jumped at your pointed grumble, pulling a pair of wired earbuds out of his ears and looking you up and down from his seat. You most definitely looked like a hundred miles of bad road but you couldn’t have cared less.

“You’re in my spot.”

The quirked brow he gave you had you seeing red.

“Pardon?”

“You’re in. My spot.”

He seemed at a loss for words, looking past you where you knew a slew of other perfectly empty desks sat. “Uh… can’t you go sit somewhere else?”

You ground your teeth together. “No.”

Gesturing to all of his stuff on the table, he shrugged in a half-assed apology. “Sorry, I’m pretty comfortable here and I’m kinda busy, so…”

The stare off the two of you had for several seconds was charged with tension. He wouldn’t back down and you didn’t want to either, but he had the advantage. He had already claimed your nook and if you went and complained to one of the library staff several floors down, they would look at you like you were crazy. Every spot in the library was first come first serve, you had no special claim to this specific spot.

So you moved. To a table very close to the one he occupied. And spent the better part of your evening glaring daggers at him. 

He’d look up occasionally, meet your gaze and go back to his studies, like he wasn’t bothered at all. It sure bothered you that he was so nonchalant about everything. You could only watch with a sneer as the sun slowly set, bathing your perfect little nook in warm, golden sunlight and in turn making the messy jerk look ethereal while you were stuck in the library’s shadowy interior.

You’d been the one to leave first. It was late, you were exhausted and you had a 10 minute walk home in the dark. The stranger didn’t seem to be ready to leave at all, dutifully typing on his laptop and occasionally shuffling through the mess on the table for a notebook or sheet of paper marred with scribbles.

He’d looked up when you stood, giving you a smug grin that nearly had you flying into the booth to wring his neck. Unfortunately, there were laws against that so you just settled for a middle finger and left.

You thought that would be the end of it.

A one off encounter that you’d fume about for weeks and a man who you’d never see again. The university was big and hopefully you’d made your point that the spot was yours so he’d find somewhere new to study.

When you walked up to your spot the following day in much higher spirits, your good day shattered when you saw the familiar fluffy haired head over the back of the booth. He’d come again. And deliberately sat in your spot.

You decided right then and there that Ryland Grace was the bane of your existence.

For two weeks the man hogged your little piece of heaven. Try as you might to come earlier and claim it yourself before he could, he was always there. Did he ever do anything besides study? Did he eat? Did he sleep? Surely he didn’t spend the night at the library, but you wouldn’t put it past him to hide when the library staff shut the place down and stay until morning. The jerk would probably do that to be petty.

You could’ve found another spot. Surely there was another booth a floor up that was the exact same layout and would get just as much sun. But you refused out of principle. You wouldn’t let this asshole get his way. He wanted to sit in your spot? Fine. If your glares weren’t enough to deter him, you’d turn to another method to smoke him out.

The shocked face the man gave you when you slid into the booth opposite of him one day was worth every drop of fury you’d endured for those couple of weeks. His look of distress when you shoved all of his things to his half of the desk, leaving your half clean, was priceless.

“Hey! Why??”

“You want to sit in my spot? Fine. We’ll share.”

You began unpacking your things while the blonde tried to straighten out his. “You messed up my system!”

Neatly setting your own books on the desk and opening your laptop, you laughed incredulously. “That was your system?”

His scowl was searing. “Yes. I don’t expect you, of all people, to understand my method of madness.”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

You’d parted ways very angry that day. 

The next day, you did the same thing: sat opposite of him and pushed his things to his side. And the next. And the next. And the next. He slowly started to learn to keep his things on his half of the desk to save himself the trouble of ‘reorganizing’. 

One time, you were surprised to find you’d beat Ryland to your nook and nearly jumped for joy. Finally! Your persistence must’ve paid off and he’d found somewhere else to plant himself. You were all smiles- up until a thick book was dropped onto the table, scaring you half to death, and that stupid messy mop of hair plopped into the booth with a smug grin. Said mop of hair then proceeded to give as good as he got; shoving your things from his side of the table back to your side.

Thus began your slightly hostile relationship with the man you eventually learned was molecular biology doctorate student, Ryland Grace (you read his name on one of the papers that snuck across the invisible line on the table).

For the most part, neither of you acknowledged each other during your joint study sessions- any conversation was clipped and tense. You didn’t try to learn anything about him and he made no effort to learn anything about you. In fact, you weren’t sure he even knew your name which was fine by you.

While you rarely conversed, there were small things you began learning about Ryland just by observation alone. 

Number one, while he was studying molecular biology, he seemed to have a specific interest in the stars; life in regards to space and the possibility of life outside of our planet. You knew as much because he had this annoying habit of grumbling while he worked- speaking out loud and working through his thoughts verbally.

He also had a smorgasbord of space and science related stickers on the back of his laptop you occasionally stared at when you were trying to think. NASA, planets, beakers, science puns and the occasional fox sticker stared at you every day. You weren’t sure why the foxes were thrown into the mix but you weren’t about to ask. 

Ryland couldn’t ever seem to sit still. He was always bouncing a leg or tapping a pen. The one time you got after him for it, he only did it more so you never brought it up again.

You also noticed something that Ryland didn’t seem to even know about himself. It took a couple of days to work up the willpower to actually ask about it.

“Do you have contacts?”

It was rare that you spoke to him, so Ryland looked up from the notebook he was writing in with a blink of surprise. “Huh?”

“Contacts. Y’know, the things in your eyes that help you see? Or glasses?”

“No?” He seemed truly flabbergasted.

You hummed and sat back in your seat. “Looks like you need them.”

“Wh-”

“You’re always squinting at your laptop so I was wondering if you have some but are so stubborn that you refuse to wear them. If you don’t, it might be worth getting your vision checked. I can’t imagine your eyes and brain appreciate the strain you put on them every day.”

Ryland didn’t speak to you the rest of the evening, which wasn’t too odd, but then didn’t show up in the library for a week. You wanted to say you loved the extra space, but you begrudgingly realized the table felt too big with him gone. You didn’t want to say you missed him, per se, but maybe somewhere adjacent.

When you saw Ryland after a week of absence- outside of the library for the first time- you had to do a double take. 

It was early in the morning- so early you could barely stand on your own two feet, which was why you were standing in the ever growing line at one of the cafes on campus for a cup of brain fuel.

You weren’t paying attention to who you stood behind in line, absentmindedly blinking at the slew of texts you received from a friend about a huge frat party happening that weekend that you weren’t planning on attending. A familiar notification sound jolted you out of your tired stupor.

Ryland had a unique chime that played any time he got a notification. It was the satellite phone jingle from the 3rd Jurassic Park movie. You suspected Ryland was a huge nerd about science fiction media but he’d probably rather die than admit that to you. In and of itself, the sound wasn’t that annoying but you’d heard it so often that it had seared itself into your brain and Pavloved you into feeling annoyed when you heard it.

Sure enough, a familiar set of shoulders stood in front of you, all covered by a cream sweater.

“Ryland?”

The science student turned on his heel. He seemed just as surprised to see you as you were him. It felt like seeing a wild animal, seeing Ryland outside of the library. You were surprised in turn, to find a new addition to the man’s outfit. Gold rimmed glasses sat on his nose. 

Ryland’s ears quickly became tipped in red.

“Oh. Hey.”

He seemed embarrassed, like he’d been caught red-handed. 

“Nice glasses.”

“Thanks…”

Your interactions were always awkward but this felt different. “Farsighted?”

“Yep.”

“Knew it. They fit you though, if that’s any consolation.”

“Thank you.”

Coffee suddenly didn’t sound appealing any more- not if you had to endure one more second of this horribly uncomfortable encounter. Your regular chats together weren’t always pleasant but they weren’t this odd. What changed? Was he angry that you’d been right and pointed out something he himself hadn’t noticed? Was he embarrassed that you’d proved him wrong? Was he that egotistical?

You stomped off without another word.

-

There was a hot, steaming cup of coffee with your name on it sitting in front of Ryland the next Monday. 

You hadn’t expected to see him at all in the library anymore, not after your last altercation, so you didn’t get a chance to turn and flee before he spotted you standing a couple of paces away, giving you a crooked smile.

You were too proud to run away now. You feared you’d look weak if you did. And Ryland Grace was the last person you wanted to look weak in front of.

So you pressed on, pointedly not looking at the scientist and pretending he didn’t exist. Ryland watched you the whole time, You could feel his stare and you wanted to slap yourself silly when you felt your cheeks heat up.

When you made no move to talk to him after you settled, Ryland nudged the coffee closer to you with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat. 

You pursed your lips and kept your eyes on your notes.

“I feel like we started off on the wrong foot.” His voice was cautious, like he was talking to a cornered animal. “I’m sorry for being an ass when we first met. I’d had a rough day and I know that’s no excuse but it’s the truth. I was feeling stubborn.”

This was the most he’d ever said to you in one go. You peeked a glance.

God did those glasses suit him. They made him look softer, somehow. Maybe they made his eyes bigger? Yeah that was probably it. Big eyes, like an alien. 

“Can we start over?”

He stuck a hand over his laptop and held it out to you. A handshake. His fingers were trembling. Did you make him nervous? Your confidence took a nice little boost from the thought alone.

You didn’t hate Ryland. Not really. As much as it pained you to admit, you enjoyed his company and had missed it while he was hiding from you. He just annoyed you sometimes with his snarky comments. But even those weren’t that bad. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt to give him a chance?

Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you carefully clasped a hand in his and gave him one firm shake. 

His ears bloomed red again and he held onto your hand a little longer than you thought he would.

“Yeah, ok cool! Didn’t think you… would actually accept my offer so this is awesome. Your coffee order, I think I got it right? I’ve been peaking at your coffee cups for a little while to read the labels. Is that creepy? I didn’t mean it in a creepy way, I just wanted to make sure I knew what you liked if I ever got you anything.”

This was a new side of Ryland- unsure, stammering and sweet? Maybe he’d always been this way and you just hadn’t seen it.

You didn’t know how to feel about it.

-

Being ‘friends’ with Ryland lasted about a week.

All too quickly did you regularly find yourself hidden in a far corner of the library between the endless shelves of academic literature, kissing each other senseless. Or making out in a quiet study room. Or whispering weak protests against his shoulder when he laid you back in your shared nook to suck a mark on your neck.

Turns out, Ryland didn’t hate you. Never did. Except maybe for a second the first time you got after him for sitting in your spot but other than that, he was just smitten (and terrified) of you which was why he kept coming back. He was still arrogant and a smart ass, usually when you asked him a question related to his field- like you were supposed to know what the boiling point of liquid helium was- but you found yourself enjoying his quips.

It was just another Wednesday when your relationship shifted.

You had Ryland pressed up against a line of shelves, cradling his head in your palms and soaking up the feeling of his glasses brushing over your cheeks while your lips slowly worked against his. 

The library was silent at this time of day, especially being in such a far off corner of it, so the only sounds you could hear were the creak of the shelves when Ryland pressed too far back into them, your mouths, and your breath. It was your favorite pastime when you were tired of writing essays.

When Ryland pressed his thumbs into your hip bones, you pulled away an inch to give him space. His glasses were smudged from your skin and barely hanging onto his nose. His stupid t-shirt (a navy blue top with a ringed planet graphic and the words “Jupiter? I hardly know her.” stamped below it) was rumpled and riding up on his navel, allowing you a glimpse of his happy trail.

“I start a new job on Monday.” He breathed, eyes jumping between yours.

You pulled back even more in surprise. Ryland kept his hands on your waist so you didn’t go too far.

“Really?”

“Mhm. It’s a part-time lab technician job. The pay isn’t great but it’ll help boost my resume once I get my doctorate and I need the extra income anyway.”

You beamed. “That’s great! Are you going to be able to juggle school and work, though? Will it be too much?”

Ryland’s eyes fluttered when you ran a thumb over his cheek. “I should be ok. But…” He hesitated. “I won’t have time to come here anymore.”

Oh.

Neither of you put a label on… whatever it was the two of you had together, so you never had a reason to meet up outside of your unspoken joint study hours. Ryland stopping his visits here meant you wouldn’t get to see him.

Your hands slid from his face to his shoulders as you tried to put on a nonchalant face. This was just a hookup- a little fling that probably never would’ve worked anyway. Ryland would continue his life and you would continue yours. It shouldn’t have hurt as much as it did to find out you would rarely, if ever, see the prospective scientist after Friday.

“I’ll miss my desk partner,” you smiled, hoping it wasn’t obvious how sad his words made you.

One side of Ryland’s mouth quirked up in a smile. “Yeah, me too.” He seemed awfully nonchalant about the whole thing. You kicked yourself for being so blinded by the handsome ass that weaseled his way into your life. Ryland fiddled with the hem of your shirt and straightened it out a bit, tilting his head to gesture down the aisle.

“So… should we go back to our spot and hash out our schedules, then?”

Now you are confused. “Our schedules?”

“Yes? To find times that work for both of us to meet up? Like… between labs and such. Or in the late evenings. Or weekends. Or you could stay the night at my place- uh, unless I read this thing wrong?” He let go of you to gesture between your bodies, beginning to fidget on his feet. “Did I read this wrong? If I did, forget everything I said because it was all just a funny joke-”

You flew onto your tiptoes and flung your arms around his neck, only slightly shoving him into the shelves behind him to claim his mouth. Ryland made a noise of approval and wound his arms around your torso to lift you into him. 

Schedule swapping would have to wait a little longer and you offhandedly hoped that there were no security cameras this deep between the stacks of books because if someone was watching them, they wouldn’t enjoy what they were about to see.

at their insistence, he stayed put for a few moments, giving a nod in response to the medical team’s questions. his eyes met yours briefly.

for a moment, the world seemed to blur. everyone else fell out of focus, except for him. maybe it was the adrenaline, or maybe it was just your imagination—but you could’ve sworn you saw the barest curve of a smile on his face. a private acknowledgement, meant just for you.

“alright, great work everyone!” kristoff, the director, clapped his hands a few times, breaking the private trance. “don’t forget! we’re back here tomorrow at six, sharp! great work today, guys. great work.”

you nodded briefly at the director, already turned towards your trailer to avoid being pulled into another conversation. while you normally loved to speak, especially about your work and passion, there was something you were more interested in that evening.

you lingered behind, letting your steps slow without making it obvious. your eyes flicked back, and there he was again. wearing that same faint, almost smug smile, held just long enough for you to catch it. it was just a little more deliberate than last time, enough for you to be sure that it was directed to you. meant for you.

you responded with a subtle motion toward your trailer, careful and casual. his nod back was just as discreet, and the stupid little grin that crept onto your face felt completely justified.

by the time you got to your trailer, the chaos of the set felt distant, replaced by the quiet hum of the air conditioning and the sound of the door shutting behind you. you leaned back against it for a second, trying to let your blood settle.

the adrenaline from the stunt, even as a bystander, hadn’t left you completely. seeing the way he handled the car, twisting and turning as if it was an extension of himself… it left a feeling in your chest that you didn’t even bother trying to name. you’d spent the last few weeks trying not to name it.

you kicked off your shoes, almost walking past before doubling back to rearrange them a little bit neater. the smell of leather and coffee was strong in the trailer, a mix of all the costumes and cheap drink you’d consumed in the past weeks. when a short knock sounded on the door, you weren’t surprised.

you merely turned and found him slipping inside the trailer before anyone caught him. he still had some grease and fake soot on his face—remnants from the stunt he’d just completed. his short hair was sticking up in places, like he hadn’t bothered to smooth it down after removing his helmet.

“hey there, hotshot,” you smirked teasingly, leaning your hip sideways against the inside of the trailer. “i was wondering how long it’d take for you to get here.”

your grin widened when he didn’t even roll his eyes in response to the teasing. instead his smirk turned sharper, and your chest tightened at the sight.

“would’ve been quicker if i could teleport,” he said.

you laughed at that, head tipped back as you couldn’t hold it in anymore. you saw the crinkle in his own eyes before he stepped in towards you. your laughter died, but the smile remained on both of your faces as the distance between you closed in two steps.

“hey,” you whispered, unable to stand the silence.

your hand lifted, brushing lightly over the back of his neck. you watched almost in awe as he leaned into it, lashes fluttering shut for a moment. he didn’t use words, but you could understand him anyways. your noses nearly touched, breaths mingling as your lips drew nearer.

you closed the gap, mouth moving over his slowly at first. getting reacquainted after an entire day apart. your other hand lifted to graze his hip, and you pulled him closer. his hips knocked into yours and he let out a sound so sweet that you had to pry apart his lips to drink it up. the hand on his hip drifted to the small of his back, before dipping lower and resting on the curve of his ass.

the corners of his lips tipped up enough just for you to feel it into the kiss. you grinned back, nipping his lower lip before letting your lips trail down. you settled your lips against a spot below his neck where a fading hickey still remained. 

“makeup department give you any trouble?” you murmured against his skin.

“not as much as medical,” he responded quietly after a moment.

you smiled and bit the spot again, before soothing the sting with a swipe of your tongue.

he let out a low hiss, his fingers tangling into your hair as you began to suck the spot. after a few moments, he began to get impatient, if the way he repeatedly tugged on your hair was any indication.

“eager,” you teased with a chuckle, pressing a kiss to his pulse point.

“we’re on a time constraint,” he responded, sharply tugging at your hair once again. “i’d rather not have the janitors walk in on us again.”

“that was one time,” you defended yourself while smiling stupidly. “and they never recognized you. besides, i thought i apologized for that already. multiple times.”

“you did,” he said. “but i’ll still bring it up.”

your eyes crinkled with your grin, but you let him back you up onto the couch in your trailer. the leather creaked below you as you sat down, getting comfortable. you pulled your shirt off and threw it aside, arms spread over the back of the couch as you looked up at him.

he was standing still above you, brows slightly furrowed as if he was contemplating something.

“what?” you laughed. “getting cold feet after four weeks of this?”

he shook his head simply, taking off his own shirt as well before settling onto your lap, his knees on either side of your thighs. you raised a brow, about to ask him if you should take your pants off first, when he rocked his hips suddenly.

the moan you let out was echoed by him, a sudden sound in the quiet of the trailer.

“fuck,” you murmured, bringing both hands around to settle onto his hips. you tilted your head back, letting him come down to mark the column of your throat.

“let’s do it like this,” he said against your skin.

your response was lost as he rubbed his clothed erection against your own, this time more deliberately.

“y-yeah,” you managed to ground out. “like this is perfectly fine.”

your hands on his hips guided his slow rocking, while your own hips twitched upwards to chase more of that friction and meet him in the middle. your mouths were pressed together again in a kiss, but it was little more than an exchange of moans and heavy breaths. he ground his hips faster, and you could feel his cock twitch despite the layers between you.

you wanted to say something, anything, but your brain had short circuited so that nothing was clear except for him and the way he moved against you. the way he fit, like a missing puzzle piece.

one of your hands slid down from his hips to the globe of his ass, and squeezed.

“fuck,” he responded breathily into your own mouth.

you felt him reposition himself slightly, reangle just so. in a way that the friction was nearly unbearable as he continued his motions. the shape of his cock was already familiar to you, but the way it pressed against your own like this had to be a form of heaven.

“i’m—fuck, i could cum like this,” he murmured, lips wet as he spoke against yours.

“then do it,” you responded, the breath suddenly knocked out of your lungs. just the thought of bringing him over the edge like this was enough to make your cock twitch in your pants.

he bit your jaw, and then picked up the pace once more. you rocked your hips up each time, meeting him in the middle of each movement. the layers of fabric between the two of you, and the way you could still feel the outline of his cock made you desperate for relief. you rubbed against him quicker, whispering a mixture of honey-slick encouragement. you didn’t even think they made sense, the words leaving your mouth, but you were too far gone to even care.

you felt him drop his head against the crook of your neck, just barely covering up the sound of his broken moan as his movements slowed down. it took a few moments for your lust-addled brain to catch up, but then you felt the wetness of his pants against your own. heat rolled low in your stomach, and it didn’t take long for you to follow him over the edge.

you panted quietly, one hand rubbing his lower back while the other brushed the short hair along his nape. when he finally lifted his head, his forehead was drenched in sweat, and he was flushed a pretty pink. he looked wrecked, considering you guys hadn’t even taken all of your clothes off. you were sure that you didn’t look any better.

you couldn’t help but brush back some of the sweaty strands against his forehead. “remind me to do this again soon.”

this time he rolled his eyes, a quiet laugh escaping him. “if you don’t get dressed and get out of here before the janitors come by, there won’t be anything happening soon.”

you watched with a fond smile as he got up, collecting a shirt off the ground and prepared to make his way back to his car. you stayed close behind him the entire way.

john is already a mess by the time you pull back, separate your lips from his with a wet smack. he struggles for a second to open his eyes, but when they do, your breath catches in your throat. glassy, dazed, unfocused - drunk on you and your taste from a simple, passionate kiss alone.

to have his beautiful blue eyes staring wide up at you from where he's sitting on his haunches, knees digging into the carpeted floor of the motel room you share, is nothing short of sinful. a moan slips from you at the view, and you can't help but beckon him in once more.

he moves his cheek into your hand, obedient like an attack dog trained to serve your every command.

and his reward?

tasting you again.

a rough "fuck" falls from his lips when they meet yours once more, already wet and swollen from the intensity of the last one. your tongues tangle, move together in a filthy dance for dominance that john doesn't even get close to winning, and he all out whimpers when you hook the tip of yours behind his teeth so you can pull him even closer than he already is.

"taste so good," you murmur into the kiss, let your fingertips follow an invisible path up from his clothed chest until they carefully, ever so softly wrap around the base of his throat. john's breath catches immediately. there's no real pressure behind your grip, but the simple gesture makes his mind reel at the possessiveness of it, at the control you have over him with barely any of your strength or effort.

the angle of you, sitting on the edge of the bed, and him leaning up into your touch and searching out the heat of your body-

you groan at the image, press your mouth to his again, again and again and again until you're both breathless and gasping for air and still not stopping. still not pulling back. calloused hands clamber over your thighs, wide spread around his broad shoulders, until they find their hold right where your waist creases, wrinkles softly as you sit above him.

god, he wishes he could touch you more freely, but his own thoughts can barely form anything coherent that's more than just "please" and "again". and the only sounds that make it past his lips when you graze your teeth over his bottom lip are the weakest, whiniest of moans and gasps. he's pathetic, and he loves it.

a needy whimper falls from him when you separate, but he honestly couldn't care about any embarassment anymore, way past the point of that. so when you use your free hand to brush his hair back, already messy from running your fingers through it, not as neat as it was during your mission anymore - far from it, even - and keep his head steady so you can bully your tongue past his spit-ridden lips again, he begs. pleads for you with little, pleasure-drunk noises that break in the back of his throat.

"yeah?" you mutter into the kiss, double your efforts when he tries to nod against your hold. at another whine, you shush him. "don't worry, baby, i got you."

you had noticed the movements of his hips, trying to get any sense of friction to his achingly hard dick, confined still in his suit pants as the situation escalated before either of you could get any clothes off. having john this weak, this desperate for you, kneeling for you, whining for you, makes your heart beat faster than any mission ever could've done.

"baby-" you interrupt him with another kiss, just as searing as the last, add some pressure to your hold on his throat until his breath stutters. the wet spot on his briefs, hidden from sight, spreads just a little bit more. it would be uncomfortable - if john could muster any ounce of strength to care about it right that moment. he can't.

especially not when you allow his tongue into your mouth. when your teeth graze the wet muscle. when you close your lips around it. when you hollow your cheeks slightly and suck.

the groan that escapes him, raspy and wild and a little frantic, is downright feral, travels through your body and makes your stomach clench. but what makes you moan right back is the way his fingers dig into your thighs, sure to bruise, unable to control his enhanced strength when-

oh, oh fuck. john's legs tremble, his body tenses up before melting into a puddle right at your feet. small, barely audible moans keep passing his lips involuntarily, his hips stutter, and you let your gaze wander down to his lap before ripping itself back up to his fucked out, absolutely ethereal expression.

he came. in his pants, like a fucking highschooler - just unashamed, uncaring, because shit, that felt too good to make him have any sense of embarassment about it.

when his eyes open, they're droopy, dazed, almost glossy with the pleasure still coursing through his body and letting it twitch in the aftershocks. his tongue still peeks from behind his parted lips, a bead of your saliva threatening to drip down his chin before he swallows it with a heavy bob of his throat.

"was i- hah, was i good?" his voice is just as wrecked as he looks. you nod, run your thumb over his adams apple.

"yeah, y'were a good boy." a dull thud sounds when you drop to your knees right in front of him, back pressed against the bedframe, trapped between the wood and the solid planes of john's body. with one hand on his jaw, you pull him close again, speak against his lips when he gladly complies.

"again."

author's note: i need him so bad

stay safe and healthy <3