#efieone stuff

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

SYNOPSIS

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

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

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

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

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

My mornings on Erid begin slower compared to Earth.

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

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

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

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

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

But now?

…Now that I'm with you?

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

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

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

Motherfudger. I'm bricked.

Like a horny teenage boy with morning wood.

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

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

Just…great.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

Fantastic. Now neither of us is saying anything.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yup—screw science. This feels like magic.

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

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

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

...

Okay.

It's not enough, it's not enough—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Okay.

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

There. Macaroni in a pot.

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

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

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

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

The dam finally breaks.

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

Mission accomplished.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"...Really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah. Absolutely not. That is a statistical impossibility.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

So fuuuuudging clooose.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What else…?"

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

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

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

And yet.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You slow down.

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

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

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

"Babe…" I croak out. "W-what about—"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Love you too."

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

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

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

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

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

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

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK.

knock.

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

Oh c’mon Rocky.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Let's discuss!!

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