professor c

Pencil and thumb for scale. This was so unbelievably fiddly. The lighting on the face was bad enough but the jacket oh my lord why is it so shiny.

Drive (2011) truly took me out. A completely devastating take on the cycle of violence and exploitation. This shot has been haunting me for days. It’s the moment before the elevator doors close between Irene and Driver after he stomps the gangster to death. It’s the doors closing on Driver’s chance to escape the cycle of violence before it too late for him.

He reminds me of a street dog who just mauled a man to death for Irene and is asking her not to abandon him in the cold again. But he’s too feral to be a house dog anymore. Of course she has to leave but it breaks my heart that he ends up alone again.

But being on the Hail Mary has gotten a little static. Especially now, when you're a couple months in to the three year journey to Erid and have nothing to do. Your mission has been completed. Ryland and Rocky saved their stars. You course corrected Mary to high-tail it out of Her return to Earth and toward Erid instead.

All you have is time and each other, now.

Entertaining each other isn't hard, but you can only do the same thing in the same bunk so many times before you start itching for a change in the routine.

Plus, it's not easy to talk about doing something new in the "bedroom." When your extraterrestrial guest has the most incredible hearing of any living creature you've ever met, it's borderline impossible to get two minutes into the conversation before it gets shut down.

"What about roleplay? You ever tried it?"

"Ryland Grace!"

"What? It's fun!"

"No, I haven't tried it. Have you ever done anything in public?"

"You had the audacity to freak out over roleplay, but asking if I've had sex in public is totally fine?"

"Just answer the question!"

"No, I haven't done anything in public! Well…in college, I had this girlfriend, and we'd sneak into a section of the library no one ever went to so that we could—"

"Grace and mate discussing mating rituals, question?"

"Nope! No, we're not! When did you even get here?!"

"Ry, it's not like we actually were having—"

"We aren't doing or talking about anything!"

"Grace is bad liar."

Grace, indeed, is bad liar.

He got so flustered that you thought he'd never return to normal—which is weird, because Ryland's usually an open book with him. But, for some reason, he could hardly look at Rocky for the rest of the day after that one. From that point on, discussions surrounding anything intimate were restricted to whenever Rocky fell into one of his food comas. Doesn't happen often, but you know you've got a solid few hours to yourselves at the very least.

Right now, you're in hour two of one of those food comas. Time's ticking.

You're perched on one of the lab tables that hasn't been used in forever now that the mission's over, your legs gently swinging back and forth while boredom takes you hostage. Ryland's sitting on a stool at the table next to yours, eyes practically glued to a microscope where he's examining the star-saving Taumoeba he bred.

Sometimes he just likes to look at it. You understand why. It's a mix of pride and anxiety. Checking in on it and yet admiring it at the same time. You like to let him do it as much as he needs to, but…it does get a little boring when you're not busy elsewhere.

Mary's dependable despite all She's been through. She doesn't really need to be piloted all that much.

You sigh.

"Uh oh," Ryland pipes up, practically speaking into the Taumoeba when he does. "I know that sound."

"You don't know that sound."

"I do know that sound." Ryland briefly pulls back from the microscope. Just long enough to raise an eyebrow and look up at you. The overhead light casts a glare on the lens of his glasses. You could pout; all you wanted was to see those pretty baby blues.

"I've been around you for months in the closest quarters imaginable. You think I don't know all your sounds?"

You roll your eyes, but there's a smile teasing the corners of your mouth. It's impossible to get annoyed with him. It's even harder to feign that annoyance. You gesture toward him with one hand—a tiny challenge. He straightens. Challenge accepted, apparently.

"Fine, genius. Go ahead and tell me what that sound was."

He just stares at you. Crosses his arms. You try not to think about his biceps or his forearms when he does it. Without a single shred of hesitation, he very confidently says, "It's boredom. You're bored."

Shit.

You lean back on the lab table, careful to not knock anything over as you press your palms into the cold aluminum surface of it. It's first nature for you to want to act like he's wrong. He'd get all squeaky, and then he'd get pissy when you'd laugh at him for getting all squeaky. That's always fun to do, but…only when Rocky's helping you do it.

"Well," you trail off, staring into the glare where his eyes are hidden and trying to come up with some smart assed remark that'll give you the upper hand.

Then you let your head fall backward and you push out a groan.

"Okay. You got me."

Ryland's laugh echoes off the lab walls. He reaches over to grab and squeeze your knee that's closest to him, then returns to looking into the microscope.

"Should've said something, hun. What do you wanna do? We've got all the time in the world."

You lift your head back up. While you're thinking of a response, Ryland starts to slowly rub his thumb back and forth over your leg. Your eyes drift down to his hand, down to his thumb, down to the soft sweeping notion he's doing. It's as if it's nothing to him, and yet everything to you.

The warmth of his palm is bleeding through your sweatpants. Bleeding through that glove he's got on. Why he put gloves on to look at a sample in a microscope, you aren't sure, but…there's a fire being stoked in your belly while you're looking at the soft blue color of it.

Maybe it's time for a little bit of that exploration you'd been thinking about.

"Rocky's out for a few more hours. Probably."

His grip tightens on your knee and you have to bite back a laugh. Sometimes he reacts like a dog does when you've just said its favorite word.

When he pulls off of the microscope this time, there's a glint in his eye that you only see when you've finally got a pinch of privacy. Could be the glare from the light, of course, but you know it's there anyway. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then rubs the back of his neck with his other hand. After he gives your knee another squeeze, he attempts to speak again.

"What's on your mind?"

Your thoughts drift to his thumb still gently sweeping over your knee. Then to his free hand, and the glove tightly wrapped around it, as it pulls his glasses down so he can hang them on his jaw in that weird way he always does. A soft, wispy sigh slips from between your lips, and you gnaw on your bottom lip a little, then you let out a breathy, slightly nervous laugh.

"I," you pause. Then you clear your throat. Ryland—always obedient and attentive—simply waits. Sits silently while his eyes not-so-subtly attempt to devour you.

"You mentioned roleplay a couple days ago," you spit out. That fire in your belly is still roaring; somehow, though, it's traveled up to your cheeks as well. Borderline uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the ache between your legs when you see the little smirk playing on his lips.

"Yeah? I piqued your curiosity with that one, huh?"

"A little," you squeak out. He nods his head. Only takes a second for him to rise off of the stool he was perched on and slot himself between your legs instead. He runs his hands up your thighs before clutching your hips in a gentle, reverent grip. Your arms instinctively slide around his neck.

"I just," you begin, voice low and a little shy, "I haven't done it, and…"

You gasp when he tugs on your hips, pulling you closer to him and closer to the edge of the lab table. It cut your sentence off completely. Made you lose your train of thought. His newly tightened grip is intoxicating. He's closer, now, but not close enough for you to kiss him.

When he slips his hands beneath your shirt (his, a button up…why'd they send a button up to space?) and the latex-covered pads of his fingertips brush over your waist, you shiver. Why the feeling of that latex against your skin is giving you the filthiest thoughts, you're not sure.

Boredom's a crazy motivator.

"I had…an idea," you whisper. "It just came to me. Only if you're up for it."

"Always up to it with you," he whispers back.

The soft push of his forehead against yours just a few seconds later makes you smile. You get what you want because of that; as soon as you close in and press your lips against his, you finally feel whole. Your hands tangle in his messy hair at the nape of his neck, giving it a gentle, experimental tug that has him groaning into your mouth.

That little noise gives you a chance to slip your tongue into the kiss. A tilt of your head deepens it. Ryland leans into you a little more. Enough to press himself against you. It isn't long before he's cradling your body with one arm, slipping it around your waist while he presses his other hand into the lab table behind you. Keeps both of you steady.

He's good at that. Can hardly walk on his own two feet if he's doing something on his own, but when he's got you weak and pliable in front of him like this, he's invincible. It's actually quite admirable.

It's unfortunate that you have to breathe. Your need for oxygen makes you pull back. While you're panting and trying your best to catch your breath, Ryland's dipping his head down into your neck. His stubble tickles, prickly and a little overgrown—his usual look that you haven't gotten tired of once. Makes you squirm. The soft drag of his teeth against your skin before he nips at it yanks a moan out of you that you didn't even know you were hoarding.

"You're distracting me," you playfully scold him, laughing through a heaving breath and patting his chest. He smiles against your skin and pulls back to get a good look at you. Takes a little step back and removes his hands from your body; the equivalent of a death sentence for you.

It gets worse when, through his muttered apology, he goes to take his gloves off. You frantically reach forward to lay your hands over his when he slips his fingers beneath the elastic band tightened around one of his wrists.

"Wait, don't take those off!"

Ryland does as you say when he completely stops in his tracks. His brow knits together and he looks down at his hands. Confusion is always so adorably physical on him.

"Don't…take these off?"

"Don't take them off," you confirm. There's a beat. You stare at each other; him still lost, you still a little shy. But you've already made it weird by reacting like that, so…might as well go all the way.

Your hands slip away from his. He leaves them suspended in the air between you, still gloved. It's like he's too lost to move. Makes you giggle. Eases some of the tension. Your fingers find the buttons at the bottom of his shirt you're wearing, but they don't move. You don't wanna give him anything just yet.

You clear your throat and shrug your shoulders. Let out a very dramatic, very pathetic little sigh. Ryland hasn't lost that confusion he got well-acquainted with. Eyes widened, and cheeks flushed pink, and lips in the beginning stage of being kiss-swollen while his mouth hangs open just a bit.

"It's been so long since I've had any sort of physical exam," you purr. His eyes somehow get wider. His face somehow flushes deeper. You laugh at him.

"Maybe you could help me with that. Make sure everything's in tip-top shape. What do you think, Dr. Grace?"

He punches out a laugh of utter disbelief, but he smiles at you. A tiny shiver rushes down your spine. It's instinctual, honestly; happens every time he has his eyes on you.

"I absolutely can help you with that."

Your hands gently lunge toward his jaw so you can put his glasses on correctly. As you're settling them on his face and slowly pushing them up the bridge of his nose, you whisper, "Need to be able to see to get a good look at me, right?"

He laughs. Winks at you from behind his lenses. Now that he's standing above you, you can see his eyes clear as day. No more overhead light glare. Just a soft, steadily darkening pair of eyes that makes your heart race.

"Maybe you should be the doctor," he whispers back. Steals a quick kiss from you that sees you grinning at him. Then, he clears his throat and gestures toward the table you're sitting on.

"Can you sit back, ma'am? Y'know, so I can get that good look at you?"

You slowly lean back for him. The steel table is cold beneath your palms when you press them into the empty space behind you. Grounds you and cools you off just a bit.

Ryland's eyes trail over you now that you're a little stretched out. You see them linger on the familiar places he always does. Over your thighs and hips, over your sides, over the gentle curve of your breasts and up your neck.

The area over your collarbones is the only sliver of your skin he can see right now; everything else is covered by his shirt you're wearing and the pair of sweatpants you haven't ditched yet. That tiny bit of skin's basically an oasis in some sort of desert.

You huff before you look him in the eyes. He meets them soon after, face flooded pink but his gaze still…hungry.

"Do you look at all of your patients like this, Dr. Grace?" you tease. He rests his left hand on your hip.

"I assure you," he begins, voice deep and raspy and definitely full of need, "this is all part of the exam. You're in good hands."

"I like when my doctor is good with his hands," you purr. Was that too on the nose for this little game you're playing? Sure. But it's what makes this fun. It gets him to huff out a laugh through his nose and give your hip a little squeeze.

You gnaw on your bottom lip to keep yourself from laughing, too, but only for a moment. Ryland's too busy bringing one hand up to your face and cradling your jaw. As soon as his thumb brushes over your chin, you release your lip from your teeth. His eyes land on your mouth and stay there for a beat longer than they should.

The soft scent of latex gently creeps up to your nose as he holds your face still. That scent gets a little stronger, lingering and pushing into your skin when his thumb runs over your bottom lip.

Why is that doing something for you? Why does it have you making a mess in your panties? What the hell will this awaken in you? Why did it only take two months to get here?

Questions to address later.

"First thing we need to do," he rumbles while still eyeing your lips, "is a temperature check."

His thumb remains on your lip. It isn't long before he slowly, softly pushes it a little forward. Aiming for the inside of your mouth, clearly.

"I'm so sorry, but our themometer is broken, so," he pauses. Lets out a fake apologetic scoff. Then he shrugs and looks you in the eyes to continue hedging with, "I'll have to use my hand instead."

Said it with his whole chest. Completely devoid of jest. Seems like he's really hitting his stride here. How many times has he done this with someone else?

You add that one to the bank of questions to be answered later. You need to up your game if he's bringing this much to the table.

"Do you need me to open wide, Dr. Grace?"

Although your words are muffled from his grip on your jaw and his thumb playing at your lips, you get them out clearly. Clearly enough to make him flush a soft pink that bleeds over the bridge of his nose and threatens to reach his ears.

He doesn't stumble, though. If you guys hadn't been shot up into space against your will, he might have been able to pursue a career in acting. You know, after the whole "Sun's dying" thing got fixed.

Instead, Ryland straightens.

"Mhm," he hums his answer. "Now, open wide."

So you do as he says and you drop your mouth open. Real wide. Until you can't open it any more. Time for that temperature check.

Ryland shoots you a sly little grin. Nods his head and blesses you with a whispered, "Very good."

The raw, deep rasp in his voice when he bestows that praise on you is enough to shoot a jolt of need straight to your pussy. Enough to make you squirm, to make your body physically ache for him. It's his most effective form of temptation. Has you wanting to ditch this fun little game and just let him fuck you.

But he's so enamored with this that you let it continue. You swallow your impatience, you still your writhing hips, and you let it go on.

His thumb gently pushes beyond your lips, brushing at the tip of your tongue. That heat blooming in your lower half deepens. Simmers a little more. Makes you think you might be sitting on an oven instead of a freezing cold lab table.

"Close," he instructs seconds later. Seems like you're not the only impatient one here. You've never followed directions faster in your entire life. Your lips encircle his thumb almost immediately. The skin-tight latex surrounding his hand takes away the joy of his thumbprint pressing against your tongue. Should be considered a crime.

"Perfect."

Ryland presses his thumb a little deeper into your mouth. You gently suck on the thick digit while looking directly into his eyes through your lashes. He's always been a sucker for the way you look at him while you're trying to tease him.

It breaks his concentration; an incredibly brief flash of need when he pinches his eyebrows together and he punches out a shaky sigh. His knees might have buckled, actually—but he plays it off like he's just shuffling to get closer to you. Like it actually was his intention to tighten his hold on your hip and pull you near the edge of this table.

When you push a little further and circle your tongue around his thumb, he actually shuts his eyes. Hangs his head for a second before he mutters, "Yeah, like that."

You indulge him. Suck a little harder. Tease with your tongue a little more. Give his thumb just enough attention to make him shudder in front of you. He reopens his eyes and reluctantly forces them back up and on you. It's not long before he's pulling his thumb out of your mouth. The quick action forces a lewd little pop to ring out into the tight space around you. Whether it's because he was about to come in his pants or not is beyond you.

Solid chance that it was, though.

"Did that feel good?"

Your cheeky question makes him chuckle. His face turns even more pink.

"My temperature, I mean," you clarify. "Did it feel good?"

"Yes," he answers through a smile that mangles the general casualness he was trying to upkeep. His hand slides down to your neck. His thumb, still damp with your saliva, braces against your jaw. You lean into his touch. How could you not?

"It was just right," he coos while he positions his fingers around the side of your neck, palm softly pressed against your throat. His thumb hovers on your quickened pulse on one side of your neck, just beneath your jaw, while his index and middle fingers dig into the pulse on the other side in the same spot.

You hum and try to ignore the thrumming between your legs when he gives your neck a single, firm little squeeze. When his fingers dig a little deeper into the soft give of your pulse points, when you can feel your own heartbeat hammering against your jaw from how hard he's grabbing you. It's not enough to take your breath away, but it's just enough to make you weak. To force a head rush when he releases his grip but leaves his hand there.

Your teeth find your bottom lip. You gnaw on it so hard that the taste of copper spreads over your tongue, metallic and abrasive as opposed to his softness. You look up at him through your lashes again—in that exact way that kills him every time—and your voice is breathy when you find it. Struggling from the gentle firmness of his grip and the fog of your own lust.

"What's this for, Dr. Grace?"

He gives your throat another squeeze. You shut your eyes and whine softly, head tilting back just a bit. There's something so intoxicating about the rough dig of his fingers into that sensitive, soft skin beneath your jaw. Did your hips buck up toward his? Probably. Not like you have time to focus on it, though; he's too busy giving you another fucking head rush when he relaxes his grip.

"For checking your heartrate."

When your eyes flutter open again, you find him smirking at you. He follows it up with another squeeze on your neck. One of your hands beelines for his where it rests at your hip. The way you borderline stab your nails into his wrist is almost as instinctual as the whimper that leaves your mouth when he relaxes his grip again and inundates you with a euphoric rush you're coming to adore. Your hold on him grounds you, but not for long.

"Seems to get quicker when I do this," he mutters, then he gives your neck another fucking squeeze. A little harder this time. Lasts a little longer, cuts off your blood flow just enough to make you deliciously woozy. Has your pussy fluttering and clenching around nothing. You'd be surprised if your arousal wasn't seeping through your sweats at this point.

You sink your nails deeper into his skin. He doesn't even flinch. Just laughs, soft and sweet despite how he's putting you through the ringer.

"What's that about? Are you nervous?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm—I'm just a little nervous. That's all," you stutter out. Total lie. Wasn't even convincing in the slightest. You run your tongue over your bottom lip and try to ignore the remnants of your own blood lingering there.

"No need for that," he reassures you, all saccharine and sickeningly comforting.

"You're in good hands, remember?"

Punctuates that one with another squeeze of your throat. That means another head rush a few seconds later when he releases it. You moan this time. Close your eyes tightly and tilt your head back a little. It was impossible to keep any part of that reaction in.

"Good hands," you eventually choke out. Whiny. Impatient. Breathy and embarrassingly pathetic. A parroting of only a fraction of his own question. Like you're giving him an excuse to call it quits and tear into you like you desperately want him to.

But Ryland doesn't break. Seems like he's actually capable of teasing you when he doesn't have his thumb in your mouth. It'd be admirable if you weren't so needy. All he does is hum to himself. Your bliss depletes when that soft, silky latex of his glove glides down your throat and toward your shirt.

"Got a strong, steady pulse aside from those nerves. Feels healthy to me," he mumbles. Does a good job at ignoring the frustrated groan that you punch out. You could have came from the "heartrate check" alone if he had done it a few more times.

Then, he drops his voice. It's a whisper, now. Confident, but so hardly-there that you consider leaning in when he tells you, "Let's keep going."

His fingers tease at the top button you've got fastened on his shirt. He taps it once, twice, three times. Gentle, and maybe a little teasing, but that's just your judgment from the hint of a smirk painted on his lips.

"I'm gonna need you to open your shirt, ma'am."

He clears his throat and shoots you a half-grin.

"So we can continue with your physical examination, that is."

It's right after that sentence that his hands leave you completely. No more teasing the buttons on your shirt. No more palm pressed against and fingers curling around your hip. He even takes a step back—distances himself from you until you can't feel his hips against the inside of your knees. Can't feel the warmth of his body flooding into yours even through all your layers. All you can do is deflate.

Months of close contact without even a second of personal space, and you're at your most miserable when you finally get a little bit of it.

The desperation to get it back is what pushes you to lift your fingers up to the buttons of your shirt. While you find each button and fumble with it, Ryland keeps his gaze glued on you. On your trembling fingers, on the heave of your chest, on the way you've got nothing but lust clouding your half-lidded eyes.

"Need some help?" he asks, soft and genuine, when he sees you slipping and fumbling over the third button on your shirt. You nod. Immediately. Quickly enough to have you feeling a hot, embarrassed flush in your cheeks. But it's only for a moment—he overshadows it by closing in on you again.

His massive hands are nothing but delicate as they close in on your shirt buttons. Slow and steady. Precision that gets your shirt completely unbuttoned within a matter of a few seconds. Why is that turning you on even more?

"There you go. Lean back and relax for me," he murmurs while in the process of undoing that final button. Instead of shrugging your shirt off, he simply pushes it open. The loose fabric billows around your waist. Brushes over your collarbones and your ribs. Hangs onto your shoulders as if it's only a brief look away from falling off of them.

By the time you press your hands back into the steel table, you're much more exposed. You'd conveniently forgotten to put on a bra this morning. Well…if it was morning when you woke up. Time doesn't exist here.

You chest is bare. Breasts on full display now that this shirt of his you've got on is open wide for his viewing pleasure. He looked directly at them, because even in the midst of his dedication to this roleplay, he's still a man.

Why not torture him a little?

"Is this where you want to start, Dr. Grace?" you purr. The hitched breath in his throat is audible when you gently arch your back and lift your chest in his direction. He tries to play it off with a fake cough but falters when he looks up at you. His pupils are so blown out that you should probably be concerned for him.

"Want me to take some deep breaths for you?"

Your teasing question makes Ryland hum. His hands have already returned to your hips. His thumbs, still enveloped in latex, are buttery soft when they gently trace back and forth over the skin just above your waistband. Almost as soft as the hold he's got on you. The gentle dig of his fingers into your body remind you of home. Maybe he is your home now.

"Go ahead," he commands. Nods when you do just as he says. One big, deep inhale—enough to make your lungs burn—followed by a full exhale.

"Very good. Just like that. Give me another one."

He trails one hand up your stomach, over your abdomen, toward your ribs. His touch merges with his praise. Leaves a path of goosebumps in its wake and a shiver shooting down your spine.

You manage to pull in another breath. Breathing is an automatic process for the brain, but when Ryland Grace is pawing at you this well, this hypnotically, it kicks that automatic process into manual. So when you draw it in, it's shaky. Hesitant, in a way. Unfocused.

All you can think about is the way he's inching closer and closer to your chest and how he's looking at you like he would devour you if you so much as thought about giving him permission to do so.

After that pathetic attempt at a breath, Ryland clicks his tongue at you. Very quiet. A little disappointed. Maybe even an attempt at humiliating you because he knows you like it. There's something mischievous in his eyes. Something a little playful behind all the lust.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Curls his fingers around a section of your ribs and gives you a gentle squeeze. Finds his voice a few seconds later, and gifts it to you in a low, rich rumble.

"I'm afraid that wasn't sufficient enough. I need you to take a big, deep breath, ma'am."

You whine. You squirm. You let your head fall back for some brief, momentary relief from his still-hungered gaze. It's the only set of actions you could muster, especially with his hand sliding up and toward the valley of your breasts.

His large palm splays out over your sternum, steady and grounding despite how miserable you feel right now. He's great at bullshitting this. There's no way that this is actually how breathing is supposed to be measured.

Not that you care.

"C'mon. Just give me one more," he firmly instructs. Gives you a gentle tap on your sternum and lowers his velvety tone to a whisper.

"You're my best patient. If you wanna keep that title, I suggest you take a deep breath."

That gentle, cooed compliment really gets you going. Does its job, although it's a bit difficult to get there. After you push out the remaining whisper of a breath you had in your chest, you inhale. It's still a little shaky, but it's full-bodied; enough to make him smile at you and pat your chest.

"Perfect."

He continues with the "exam" in a way that's actually familiar to you. Because, instead of doing it like an actual medical doctor, he's doing it like himself: As a scientist. His hands glide up to and over your chest, his fingers tease, pinch, and tug on your nipples, and he gropes your breasts. His expert hands slide down your abdomen while his tongue sings soft praises to you for obeying the good doctor's orders.

He's not examining you like a doctor, though. He's exploring you like a scientist—and you're a fool for it. Staring up at him through lidded eyes, sucking in stilted breaths, releasing soft little whines and whimpers and moans spurred on from being poked and prodded.

So much for a physical exam. This borders on a lab test. And being the test subject of the brilliant, world-saving Dr. Ryland Grace? That's even better than being his patient at this makeshift doctor's office.

But he knocks you back down into your roleplay as his fingers tease over the waistband of your sweatpants.

"Can you take these off? Pelvic exam's the final step before we wrap up here."

"How about you do it for me?" you plead through feigned innocence. "You're just so good with your hands. Much better than I am."

He laughs. Then he blushes. And when he starts to untie that knot at the front of your sweats, he sends you a grin that'd make you swoon if you weren't so desperate to have him all over you.

"I'd love to help you with that, ma'am," he purrs while he slips his fingertips into your pants and slowly pulls them down your thighs. Only takes a second or two for you to kick them off and let them fall onto the floor in a heap. Takes even less time than that for him to pull your panties down.

"Lay back," Ryland tells you. A gruff little command. Definitely not as professional as a doctor would be. He's gotta be hurting as much as you are if he's starting to break like this, as subtle as it was.

But you do as he says. The lab lights cascading all over your body as soon as you lie down are extremely bright. Almost fluorescent.

Here you are: Illuminated by the harshest light possible, all spread out on this cold steel table, a lab rat for him to test on. Fully exposed. It should be embarrassing. It should make you want to cover up. To run and hide.

Instead, you spread your legs. And it makes Ryland turn a much darker shade of red than he was earlier. He covers up his blush with a smile. His hands meet your calves. They slowly run up your legs and toward your thighs, smooth latex gliding against your skin and making you shiver. Part of you misses the feeling of his bare skin against yours.

Ryland's hands glide up and up and up, slow and teasing, before they rest at your hips. His thumbs gently press into the soft skin there, and his fingers tighten their grip on you, and his eyes do a little gliding of their own. Up and down your entire body, lingering on every inch of skin he can get them on.

His tongue runs over his bottom lip before he softly coos, "You're so pretty."

You gasp. Act offended. Try to hide your genuine adoration and glee for his compliment behind a fake, snippy attitude.

"Are you flirting with your patient, Dr. Grace?"

"Making an objective observation, actually," he sasses back. It's almost hard to believe this guy could barely look at you the first time you slept together. What an honor it is to witness someone coming out of their shell.

"If I'm so pretty, can this exam be on the house?"

Ryland throws both of his eyebrows up.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

You scoff. A quip forms on your tongue, but dies almost immediately. You lose your ability to speak as soon as Ryland's hands slink away from your hips and toward your inner thighs. As his big, warm palms pin your legs down onto the table you're basically spread eagle on, he asks, "Can you keep your legs spread for me?"

You can't come up with the single, affirmative word. You just nod.

"I'm gonna trust you," he murmurs, thumbs getting to work by gently spreading your folds open. You keen. Your body jolts, and he's barely even touched you—but any sort of attention to your aching, needy pussy will do that to you.

"Especially since you've been doing so well for me," he adds. Although your head is swimming, clouded with nothing but wanton need that makes you want to lunge at him, you keep your word. Your hips squirm, but your legs stay open.

He smiles. His eyes flit up to yours when he glides one thumb through your folds. When you gasp and let out an actual moan, he laughs. Sweet and full of adoration for you.

"Easy. Sit still," he whispers. His other hand finds your stomach, big, warm palm splayed out over it so he can keep you still. You squeeze your eyes shut, and you toss your head back, and your jaw tenses so roughly that you're worried it might shatter.

But when Ryland's thumb finds your clit, the combination of the soft latex and his warmth makes it a little easier to relax. Finally, some fucking relief.

He starts rubbing slow, heavy circles on the sensitive bud. Enough to make your head loll to the side and your chest heave. Ryland's other fingers trace random shapes into your abdomen. It's soothing enough to keep you from squirming.

"Looks real good," he says while adding a little more pressure to the circles he's drawing on your clit. You moan again. It might be loud enough to wake up Rocky. You know that's not possible, but…there's a first time for everything.

"Reacting very well to stimulation."

"Fuck," you hiss, hips stuttering and one hand flying down to his wrist. Your nails dig into his exposed skin just above the elastic band of the glove on his hand. You want to stay in character; unfortunately for you, he's managed to wind you up so much with his poking and prodding that you're already about to come.

"Is something wrong, ma'am? Do you need a break?"

"I—No! I'm fine!" you squeak out, back arching, pussy fluttering around nothing and probably dripping onto the table beneath you already. He clicks his tongue against his teeth and, after getting you so close to your orgasm that you were seeing stars in your clouded vision, takes his thumb away.

"Why don't I try something else?"

Tears begin to pool in your eyes. You fall back down onto the table with a defeated, earth-shattering groan and let go of his arm. If you weren't so tired, you'd have fired off a string of insults his way. That's no way to get what you want, though. Ryland can be quite withholding when he's in the driver's seat.

He chuckles. Drums his fingers against your stomach for a moment, then gently mutters, "We're almost done. Take a deep breath for me."

With the last semblance of your mental awareness, you do it. The breath you suck in is deep. It burns your chest when you hold onto it. Luckily for you, though, it doesn't stick for long—Ryland pushes two of his gloved fingers into your pussy and your breath leaves you as a loud, guttural moan.

"Feels so good," he whispers to himself, as if he's the one struggling to keep it together.

There's no resistance. You're soaked from all the teasing and touching, so he slips in with ease. You cover your mouth with your own hand, teeth digging into your palm as you whimper into it and try to keep it together.

Truth be told, though, you didn't have a chance. Ryland's already thrusting them in and out of you, slow and deep and just how you like it. He's curling them up and hitting that soft, spongy spot that almost makes you black out each time he touches it.

"Dr. Grace!" you roughly pant, whimpering and hips roughly bucking up to meet his hand. He doesn't stop you. He probably wants to see you come more than you want to come.

"Is this part of the exam?"

He smirks up at you. Speeds up his fingers and presses his thumb against your clit again. Clears his throat and announces, "Of course it is. Just making sure everything's working how it's supposed to."

What a pervert. A beautiful, incredibly-skilled-with-his-hands pervert.

Something about that makes it impossible for you to keep it together. You throw your head back, your legs tremble, your lower half roughly and involuntarily twitches. The worst part is that you can't keep your mouth shut; you let go with a slew of almost unintelligible babbles and a set of moans so loud that you're worried your vocal cords will be torn to shreds.

When you come back down to Earth—or, rather, Mary—Ryland's got a shit eating grin on his face. It's a little crooked. Somehow, that makes it even more perfect. He clears his throat and straightens between your legs. Pulls his fingers out of you and presses both hands into the table, bracketing you in without a chance to escape.

Not that you'd want to.

"I think that test was inconclusive," he lies through his teeth. When you roll your eyes and lean up on your elbows because you want to shoot him a smart-assed response, you end up falling silent. His fingers are undoing the knot at the front of his own sweats, and he's taking you in like a starved man.

You giggle at him. At the way he's enamored with you despite you not doing anything. Then you simply ask, "What on Earth are we gonna do about that?"

He shrugs. Pushes his sweats down before he reaches forward, grabs your hips, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table you're still laid out on.

"I've got another test in mind."

@clarkscolumn hot nerd alert INDEED!!!! need him bad i fear. thank u for reblogging u know i love u more than words can even express. so glad u enjoyed this one. thank u for ur support ur the best 4 eva and eva

@yearningforsolitude cas my love it's always here for you when you're ready!!! thank you for the reblog and for your kind words. your support and friendship means the world to me. i love you so very dearly. do not ever forget it.

@snoopysupe koolie? calling ME gorg? oh i could faint........i might faint.......im fainting. i love you to the moon and back. you're even more gorg. thank you for the reblog and the reg i am endlessly grateful for you and your support 🩵

You ask him to open a jar for you? He can do that.

You need a heavy bag carried in? He’s on it.

You want the furniture rearranged? He scolds you if you even try to lift one of your delicate fingers.

He likes being needed, feeling like he has a purpose. His strength comes in handy for that.

His strength comes in handy in other ways, too.

Like when he’s kneeling at the edge of your shared bed and you’re spread out in front of him. You’ve already came twice, just from his fingers and tongue alone. You’re using your elbows to pull yourself up the bed, away from him and his touch. You almost make it to the top, but he’s quick to wrap his hands around your ankles and drag you back down to him.

“Why’re you tryin’ to run away from me, baby?” He says the words through a laugh, his breath hitting your wet cunt and causing it to twitch.

“S’too much, Luke.” He hears you say, voice all shaky and breathless as you come down from your orgasm. You’re trying to close your legs, push your thighs together and block him from the sweetest thing he has ever tasted. He’s fairly offended by the action. He won’t allow it.

He almost feels bad for you.

Almost.

“It’s not too much.” He moves his hands from your ankles to your thighs, using his muscle to push them back open and pin them down against the bed. You’re no match for him and he knows that you know it. “Wanna taste one more before I fuck you. You can do that, right, baby?” He asks, pressing little kisses against the inside of your thigh to help coax you into agreement. He trails his kisses down to your cunt, but pauses as he waits for your answer.

“One more.” Your voice is quiet but sure, giving him the verbal confirmation he needed.

He places a teasing kiss against your clit, his lips curling up into a guilty grin as he watches you writhe from the small action. You won’t last long this time, he’s sure of that.

“Atta girl.”

He works you up again slowly, careful not to give you too much or too little. He pumps his fingers in and out of you with ease, aided by his saliva mixed with your previous releases. His mouth finds your clit again, sucking softly on the sensitive bud. He finds that delicate spot inside of you, the one that makes your back arch when he hits it. You’re quickly approaching your third release of the night.

He pulls his mouth away all at once, slows the movements of his fingers.

You groan, an annoyed sound that has him entirely too pleased with himself.

Then, you start bucking your hips, eager to get yourself to that release you were just minutes ago saying would be “too much.” He almost can’t believe his eyes when he watches you bring your own hand down to your core, inches from his face, and begin to try to rub circles against your clit. It takes him a moment, but he finally reacts.

His free hand moves from your thigh to your wrist, pulling your hand away from yourself and pinning it to your lower stomach. You sigh loudly, wriggling to get out of his grasp, but he holds you there steady.

“Too eager for your own good, baby. I’ll get you there, you just need to be patient.” He says the words like a promise, which is exactly what they are.

His strength is used during those times when you’ve grown tired in his lap, when your bouncing has turned into the slow rolling of your hips that he knows means you need a little help from him.

“Someone’s getting lazy.” His tone is accusatory, but there’s no real bite behind his words. Truthfully, he likes when you get like this. Your body and brain are all tired and soft, but you’re still aching for that sweet release that only he can give you. It makes it easier for him to fuck into you at a pace he knows will make the both of you cum quickly.

“You poor thing,” He playfully tuts at you, “You need my help?” He asks the question already knowing what the answer will be—he just wants to hear you say it.

“Mhm, please, Luke. Need your help.” You keep the slow roll of your hips going as you respond, your voice all soft and needy. He feels that familiar surge in his chest, the one that’s specific only to you when you ask for his assistance. He can’t hide the way his lips curl up into a slow half smile at your words.

He’s watching your face, your eyes are half-lidded with desire, but they catch his. You must notice his expression, because you give him your own coy smile in return. He can’t help himself, before he knows it he’s leaning in and pressing a swift kiss to your lips—so quick you don’t even have a chance to fully react to it. It only makes your smile grow larger once he has pulled away.

With your permission, he begins to finally aid you. His hands move from their resting place on your thighs up to your hips, and he uses his grip to help begin to bounce you on his cock, getting you back to a slow rhythm and building from there. It doesn’t take him very long before he has a quick pace going, raising you up and then letting you fall back down onto him. Luke has taken full control of your movements now. You don’t even have to do anything for him now, just sit there and make those pretty little sounds he loves so much and let him fuck you down onto his cock.

Your hands find their way behind his head, locking behind his neck and pulling at the hair that rests there, earning you a quiet groan from him. His eyes are glued to where the two of you are connected, watching as you greedily keep taking him in. He sees that creamy white ring of your arousal coating the base of his cock, getting caught in the dark hair that rests on his groin. His balls twitch at the mere sight of it, at the physical reaction your body is giving him that he’s making you feel good.

His messy girl, you are.

You’ve worked him up all day. Your hand on his thigh, fingers rubbing circles into his jeans. Your fingers in his hair, twirling and tugging at the dyed strands. He couldn’t even make it to the bedroom when the two of you got home.

The view in front of him is something he’d kill for. He has you bent over the kitchen table, the skirt of your dress bunched up around your hips. His jeans and boxers have been pushed down just far enough for him to free his aching cock. He makes quick work of your underwear, pulling them off your hips and down to your thighs. One deep push and he’s fully seated inside of you, exactly where he has craved to be all day.

Your hips are wiggling just a little bit too much for his liking, so he places one hand on your lower back and pushes you down further into the table to help steady you, prevent your movements.

“Gonna make a mess of you.” He groans, beginning the steady, cruel rhythm of his thrusts. He’s not giving you any reprieve, not tonight. He’s going to fuck you until he spills deep inside of you. “You want that, don’t you, baby?”

“Yes, Luke. I want that, want you.” He hears you cry, watching the way your fingers dig into the wooden table beneath your palms.

One notably deep thrust has you gasping—and the table scooting a few inches across the floor from the force. He doesn’t falter, adjusting his footing and crowding behind you somehow even closer. He alters the positions of his hands, moving one up to hold the back of your neck and resting one on your hip, fingers gripping the skin. The new position helps him pull you back towards him to meet the snap of his hips.

He can feel the way your thighs are starting to twitch against his, how your moans have turned into broken cries. Your cheek is smushed against the table, but from the side of your face that he can see, he notes how your eyes have turned wet.

“You about to cum for me?” He gets out between deep breaths, voice all knowing and smug. You try to nod your head, not able to spit out any actual words—only broken little sounds. He knows you are from the tiny little tells of your body. “Yeah, you are. Let me feel you, baby.” He urges, keeping up his pace to get you there.

A loud cry is his first indication that you’re cumming, followed by that familiar squeeze your warm walls gives his throbbing cock. That right there is enough to send him spiraling. He’s leaning over you now, his chest pressing you down into the table even further as he seats himself fully inside of you again and lets himself finally cum.

He presses kisses against your head, then your sweaty cheek, rocking his hips until the two of you have both come down from that blissful high. The two of you are a panting, sticky mess by the end of it—both in desperate need of a cool shower, where round two will most definitely occur.

But being on the Hail Mary has gotten a little static. Especially now, when you're a couple months in to the three year journey to Erid and have nothing to do. Your mission has been completed. Ryland and Rocky saved their stars. You course corrected Mary to high-tail it out of Her return to Earth and toward Erid instead.

All you have is time and each other, now.

Entertaining each other isn't hard, but you can only do the same thing in the same bunk so many times before you start itching for a change in the routine.

Plus, it's not easy to talk about doing something new in the "bedroom." When your extraterrestrial guest has the most incredible hearing of any living creature you've ever met, it's borderline impossible to get two minutes into the conversation before it gets shut down.

"What about roleplay? You ever tried it?"

"Ryland Grace!"

"What? It's fun!"

"No, I haven't tried it. Have you ever done anything in public?"

"You had the audacity to freak out over roleplay, but asking if I've had sex in public is totally fine?"

"Just answer the question!"

"No, I haven't done anything in public! Well…in college, I had this girlfriend, and we'd sneak into a section of the library no one ever went to so that we could—"

"Grace and mate discussing mating rituals, question?"

"Nope! No, we're not! When did you even get here?!"

"Ry, it's not like we actually were having—"

"We aren't doing or talking about anything!"

"Grace is bad liar."

Grace, indeed, is bad liar.

He got so flustered that you thought he'd never return to normal—which is weird, because Ryland's usually an open book with him. But, for some reason, he could hardly look at Rocky for the rest of the day after that one. From that point on, discussions surrounding anything intimate were restricted to whenever Rocky fell into one of his food comas. Doesn't happen often, but you know you've got a solid few hours to yourselves at the very least.

Right now, you're in hour two of one of those food comas. Time's ticking.

You're perched on one of the lab tables that hasn't been used in forever now that the mission's over, your legs gently swinging back and forth while boredom takes you hostage. Ryland's sitting on a stool at the table next to yours, eyes practically glued to a microscope where he's examining the star-saving Taumoeba he bred.

Sometimes he just likes to look at it. You understand why. It's a mix of pride and anxiety. Checking in on it and yet admiring it at the same time. You like to let him do it as much as he needs to, but…it does get a little boring when you're not busy elsewhere.

Mary's dependable despite all She's been through. She doesn't really need to be piloted all that much.

You sigh.

"Uh oh," Ryland pipes up, practically speaking into the Taumoeba when he does. "I know that sound."

"You don't know that sound."

"I do know that sound." Ryland briefly pulls back from the microscope. Just long enough to raise an eyebrow and look up at you. The overhead light casts a glare on the lens of his glasses. You could pout; all you wanted was to see those pretty baby blues.

"I've been around you for months in the closest quarters imaginable. You think I don't know all your sounds?"

You roll your eyes, but there's a smile teasing the corners of your mouth. It's impossible to get annoyed with him. It's even harder to feign that annoyance. You gesture toward him with one hand—a tiny challenge. He straightens. Challenge accepted, apparently.

"Fine, genius. Go ahead and tell me what that sound was."

He just stares at you. Crosses his arms. You try not to think about his biceps or his forearms when he does it. Without a single shred of hesitation, he very confidently says, "It's boredom. You're bored."

Shit.

You lean back on the lab table, careful to not knock anything over as you press your palms into the cold aluminum surface of it. It's first nature for you to want to act like he's wrong. He'd get all squeaky, and then he'd get pissy when you'd laugh at him for getting all squeaky. That's always fun to do, but…only when Rocky's helping you do it.

"Well," you trail off, staring into the glare where his eyes are hidden and trying to come up with some smart assed remark that'll give you the upper hand.

Then you let your head fall backward and you push out a groan.

"Okay. You got me."

Ryland's laugh echoes off the lab walls. He reaches over to grab and squeeze your knee that's closest to him, then returns to looking into the microscope.

"Should've said something, hun. What do you wanna do? We've got all the time in the world."

You lift your head back up. While you're thinking of a response, Ryland starts to slowly rub his thumb back and forth over your leg. Your eyes drift down to his hand, down to his thumb, down to the soft sweeping notion he's doing. It's as if it's nothing to him, and yet everything to you.

The warmth of his palm is bleeding through your sweatpants. Bleeding through that glove he's got on. Why he put gloves on to look at a sample in a microscope, you aren't sure, but…there's a fire being stoked in your belly while you're looking at the soft blue color of it.

Maybe it's time for a little bit of that exploration you'd been thinking about.

"Rocky's out for a few more hours. Probably."

His grip tightens on your knee and you have to bite back a laugh. Sometimes he reacts like a dog does when you've just said its favorite word.

When he pulls off of the microscope this time, there's a glint in his eye that you only see when you've finally got a pinch of privacy. Could be the glare from the light, of course, but you know it's there anyway. He opens his mouth, then closes it, then rubs the back of his neck with his other hand. After he gives your knee another squeeze, he attempts to speak again.

"What's on your mind?"

Your thoughts drift to his thumb still gently sweeping over your knee. Then to his free hand, and the glove tightly wrapped around it, as it pulls his glasses down so he can hang them on his jaw in that weird way he always does. A soft, wispy sigh slips from between your lips, and you gnaw on your bottom lip a little, then you let out a breathy, slightly nervous laugh.

"I," you pause. Then you clear your throat. Ryland—always obedient and attentive—simply waits. Sits silently while his eyes not-so-subtly attempt to devour you.

"You mentioned roleplay a couple days ago," you spit out. That fire in your belly is still roaring; somehow, though, it's traveled up to your cheeks as well. Borderline uncomfortable, but not as uncomfortable as the ache between your legs when you see the little smirk playing on his lips.

"Yeah? I piqued your curiosity with that one, huh?"

"A little," you squeak out. He nods his head. Only takes a second for him to rise off of the stool he was perched on and slot himself between your legs instead. He runs his hands up your thighs before clutching your hips in a gentle, reverent grip. Your arms instinctively slide around his neck.

"I just," you begin, voice low and a little shy, "I haven't done it, and…"

You gasp when he tugs on your hips, pulling you closer to him and closer to the edge of the lab table. It cut your sentence off completely. Made you lose your train of thought. His newly tightened grip is intoxicating. He's closer, now, but not close enough for you to kiss him.

When he slips his hands beneath your shirt (his, a button up…why'd they send a button up to space?) and the latex-covered pads of his fingertips brush over your waist, you shiver. Why the feeling of that latex against your skin is giving you the filthiest thoughts, you're not sure.

Boredom's a crazy motivator.

"I had…an idea," you whisper. "It just came to me. Only if you're up for it."

"Always up to it with you," he whispers back.

The soft push of his forehead against yours just a few seconds later makes you smile. You get what you want because of that; as soon as you close in and press your lips against his, you finally feel whole. Your hands tangle in his messy hair at the nape of his neck, giving it a gentle, experimental tug that has him groaning into your mouth.

That little noise gives you a chance to slip your tongue into the kiss. A tilt of your head deepens it. Ryland leans into you a little more. Enough to press himself against you. It isn't long before he's cradling your body with one arm, slipping it around your waist while he presses his other hand into the lab table behind you. Keeps both of you steady.

He's good at that. Can hardly walk on his own two feet if he's doing something on his own, but when he's got you weak and pliable in front of him like this, he's invincible. It's actually quite admirable.

It's unfortunate that you have to breathe. Your need for oxygen makes you pull back. While you're panting and trying your best to catch your breath, Ryland's dipping his head down into your neck. His stubble tickles, prickly and a little overgrown—his usual look that you haven't gotten tired of once. Makes you squirm. The soft drag of his teeth against your skin before he nips at it yanks a moan out of you that you didn't even know you were hoarding.

"You're distracting me," you playfully scold him, laughing through a heaving breath and patting his chest. He smiles against your skin and pulls back to get a good look at you. Takes a little step back and removes his hands from your body; the equivalent of a death sentence for you.

It gets worse when, through his muttered apology, he goes to take his gloves off. You frantically reach forward to lay your hands over his when he slips his fingers beneath the elastic band tightened around one of his wrists.

"Wait, don't take those off!"

Ryland does as you say when he completely stops in his tracks. His brow knits together and he looks down at his hands. Confusion is always so adorably physical on him.

"Don't…take these off?"

"Don't take them off," you confirm. There's a beat. You stare at each other; him still lost, you still a little shy. But you've already made it weird by reacting like that, so…might as well go all the way.

Your hands slip away from his. He leaves them suspended in the air between you, still gloved. It's like he's too lost to move. Makes you giggle. Eases some of the tension. Your fingers find the buttons at the bottom of his shirt you're wearing, but they don't move. You don't wanna give him anything just yet.

You clear your throat and shrug your shoulders. Let out a very dramatic, very pathetic little sigh. Ryland hasn't lost that confusion he got well-acquainted with. Eyes widened, and cheeks flushed pink, and lips in the beginning stage of being kiss-swollen while his mouth hangs open just a bit.

"It's been so long since I've had any sort of physical exam," you purr. His eyes somehow get wider. His face somehow flushes deeper. You laugh at him.

"Maybe you could help me with that. Make sure everything's in tip-top shape. What do you think, Dr. Grace?"

He punches out a laugh of utter disbelief, but he smiles at you. A tiny shiver rushes down your spine. It's instinctual, honestly; happens every time he has his eyes on you.

"I absolutely can help you with that."

Your hands gently lunge toward his jaw so you can put his glasses on correctly. As you're settling them on his face and slowly pushing them up the bridge of his nose, you whisper, "Need to be able to see to get a good look at me, right?"

He laughs. Winks at you from behind his lenses. Now that he's standing above you, you can see his eyes clear as day. No more overhead light glare. Just a soft, steadily darkening pair of eyes that makes your heart race.

"Maybe you should be the doctor," he whispers back. Steals a quick kiss from you that sees you grinning at him. Then, he clears his throat and gestures toward the table you're sitting on.

"Can you sit back, ma'am? Y'know, so I can get that good look at you?"

You slowly lean back for him. The steel table is cold beneath your palms when you press them into the empty space behind you. Grounds you and cools you off just a bit.

Ryland's eyes trail over you now that you're a little stretched out. You see them linger on the familiar places he always does. Over your thighs and hips, over your sides, over the gentle curve of your breasts and up your neck.

The area over your collarbones is the only sliver of your skin he can see right now; everything else is covered by his shirt you're wearing and the pair of sweatpants you haven't ditched yet. That tiny bit of skin's basically an oasis in some sort of desert.

You huff before you look him in the eyes. He meets them soon after, face flooded pink but his gaze still…hungry.

"Do you look at all of your patients like this, Dr. Grace?" you tease. He rests his left hand on your hip.

"I assure you," he begins, voice deep and raspy and definitely full of need, "this is all part of the exam. You're in good hands."

"I like when my doctor is good with his hands," you purr. Was that too on the nose for this little game you're playing? Sure. But it's what makes this fun. It gets him to huff out a laugh through his nose and give your hip a little squeeze.

You gnaw on your bottom lip to keep yourself from laughing, too, but only for a moment. Ryland's too busy bringing one hand up to your face and cradling your jaw. As soon as his thumb brushes over your chin, you release your lip from your teeth. His eyes land on your mouth and stay there for a beat longer than they should.

The soft scent of latex gently creeps up to your nose as he holds your face still. That scent gets a little stronger, lingering and pushing into your skin when his thumb runs over your bottom lip.

Why is that doing something for you? Why does it have you making a mess in your panties? What the hell will this awaken in you? Why did it only take two months to get here?

Questions to address later.

"First thing we need to do," he rumbles while still eyeing your lips, "is a temperature check."

His thumb remains on your lip. It isn't long before he slowly, softly pushes it a little forward. Aiming for the inside of your mouth, clearly.

"I'm so sorry, but our themometer is broken, so," he pauses. Lets out a fake apologetic scoff. Then he shrugs and looks you in the eyes to continue hedging with, "I'll have to use my hand instead."

Said it with his whole chest. Completely devoid of jest. Seems like he's really hitting his stride here. How many times has he done this with someone else?

You add that one to the bank of questions to be answered later. You need to up your game if he's bringing this much to the table.

"Do you need me to open wide, Dr. Grace?"

Although your words are muffled from his grip on your jaw and his thumb playing at your lips, you get them out clearly. Clearly enough to make him flush a soft pink that bleeds over the bridge of his nose and threatens to reach his ears.

He doesn't stumble, though. If you guys hadn't been shot up into space against your will, he might have been able to pursue a career in acting. You know, after the whole "Sun's dying" thing got fixed.

Instead, Ryland straightens.

"Mhm," he hums his answer. "Now, open wide."

So you do as he says and you drop your mouth open. Real wide. Until you can't open it any more. Time for that temperature check.

Ryland shoots you a sly little grin. Nods his head and blesses you with a whispered, "Very good."

The raw, deep rasp in his voice when he bestows that praise on you is enough to shoot a jolt of need straight to your pussy. Enough to make you squirm, to make your body physically ache for him. It's his most effective form of temptation. Has you wanting to ditch this fun little game and just let him fuck you.

But he's so enamored with this that you let it continue. You swallow your impatience, you still your writhing hips, and you let it go on.

His thumb gently pushes beyond your lips, brushing at the tip of your tongue. That heat blooming in your lower half deepens. Simmers a little more. Makes you think you might be sitting on an oven instead of a freezing cold lab table.

"Close," he instructs seconds later. Seems like you're not the only impatient one here. You've never followed directions faster in your entire life. Your lips encircle his thumb almost immediately. The skin-tight latex surrounding his hand takes away the joy of his thumbprint pressing against your tongue. Should be considered a crime.

"Perfect."

Ryland presses his thumb a little deeper into your mouth. You gently suck on the thick digit while looking directly into his eyes through your lashes. He's always been a sucker for the way you look at him while you're trying to tease him.

It breaks his concentration; an incredibly brief flash of need when he pinches his eyebrows together and he punches out a shaky sigh. His knees might have buckled, actually—but he plays it off like he's just shuffling to get closer to you. Like it actually was his intention to tighten his hold on your hip and pull you near the edge of this table.

When you push a little further and circle your tongue around his thumb, he actually shuts his eyes. Hangs his head for a second before he mutters, "Yeah, like that."

You indulge him. Suck a little harder. Tease with your tongue a little more. Give his thumb just enough attention to make him shudder in front of you. He reopens his eyes and reluctantly forces them back up and on you. It's not long before he's pulling his thumb out of your mouth. The quick action forces a lewd little pop to ring out into the tight space around you. Whether it's because he was about to come in his pants or not is beyond you.

Solid chance that it was, though.

"Did that feel good?"

Your cheeky question makes him chuckle. His face turns even more pink.

"My temperature, I mean," you clarify. "Did it feel good?"

"Yes," he answers through a smile that mangles the general casualness he was trying to upkeep. His hand slides down to your neck. His thumb, still damp with your saliva, braces against your jaw. You lean into his touch. How could you not?

"It was just right," he coos while he positions his fingers around the side of your neck, palm softly pressed against your throat. His thumb hovers on your quickened pulse on one side of your neck, just beneath your jaw, while his index and middle fingers dig into the pulse on the other side in the same spot.

You hum and try to ignore the thrumming between your legs when he gives your neck a single, firm little squeeze. When his fingers dig a little deeper into the soft give of your pulse points, when you can feel your own heartbeat hammering against your jaw from how hard he's grabbing you. It's not enough to take your breath away, but it's just enough to make you weak. To force a head rush when he releases his grip but leaves his hand there.

Your teeth find your bottom lip. You gnaw on it so hard that the taste of copper spreads over your tongue, metallic and abrasive as opposed to his softness. You look up at him through your lashes again—in that exact way that kills him every time—and your voice is breathy when you find it. Struggling from the gentle firmness of his grip and the fog of your own lust.

"What's this for, Dr. Grace?"

He gives your throat another squeeze. You shut your eyes and whine softly, head tilting back just a bit. There's something so intoxicating about the rough dig of his fingers into that sensitive, soft skin beneath your jaw. Did your hips buck up toward his? Probably. Not like you have time to focus on it, though; he's too busy giving you another fucking head rush when he relaxes his grip.

"For checking your heartrate."

When your eyes flutter open again, you find him smirking at you. He follows it up with another squeeze on your neck. One of your hands beelines for his where it rests at your hip. The way you borderline stab your nails into his wrist is almost as instinctual as the whimper that leaves your mouth when he relaxes his grip again and inundates you with a euphoric rush you're coming to adore. Your hold on him grounds you, but not for long.

"Seems to get quicker when I do this," he mutters, then he gives your neck another fucking squeeze. A little harder this time. Lasts a little longer, cuts off your blood flow just enough to make you deliciously woozy. Has your pussy fluttering and clenching around nothing. You'd be surprised if your arousal wasn't seeping through your sweats at this point.

You sink your nails deeper into his skin. He doesn't even flinch. Just laughs, soft and sweet despite how he's putting you through the ringer.

"What's that about? Are you nervous?"

"Yes! Yes, I'm—I'm just a little nervous. That's all," you stutter out. Total lie. Wasn't even convincing in the slightest. You run your tongue over your bottom lip and try to ignore the remnants of your own blood lingering there.

"No need for that," he reassures you, all saccharine and sickeningly comforting.

"You're in good hands, remember?"

Punctuates that one with another squeeze of your throat. That means another head rush a few seconds later when he releases it. You moan this time. Close your eyes tightly and tilt your head back a little. It was impossible to keep any part of that reaction in.

"Good hands," you eventually choke out. Whiny. Impatient. Breathy and embarrassingly pathetic. A parroting of only a fraction of his own question. Like you're giving him an excuse to call it quits and tear into you like you desperately want him to.

But Ryland doesn't break. Seems like he's actually capable of teasing you when he doesn't have his thumb in your mouth. It'd be admirable if you weren't so needy. All he does is hum to himself. Your bliss depletes when that soft, silky latex of his glove glides down your throat and toward your shirt.

"Got a strong, steady pulse aside from those nerves. Feels healthy to me," he mumbles. Does a good job at ignoring the frustrated groan that you punch out. You could have came from the "heartrate check" alone if he had done it a few more times.

Then, he drops his voice. It's a whisper, now. Confident, but so hardly-there that you consider leaning in when he tells you, "Let's keep going."

His fingers tease at the top button you've got fastened on his shirt. He taps it once, twice, three times. Gentle, and maybe a little teasing, but that's just your judgment from the hint of a smirk painted on his lips.

"I'm gonna need you to open your shirt, ma'am."

He clears his throat and shoots you a half-grin.

"So we can continue with your physical examination, that is."

It's right after that sentence that his hands leave you completely. No more teasing the buttons on your shirt. No more palm pressed against and fingers curling around your hip. He even takes a step back—distances himself from you until you can't feel his hips against the inside of your knees. Can't feel the warmth of his body flooding into yours even through all your layers. All you can do is deflate.

Months of close contact without even a second of personal space, and you're at your most miserable when you finally get a little bit of it.

The desperation to get it back is what pushes you to lift your fingers up to the buttons of your shirt. While you find each button and fumble with it, Ryland keeps his gaze glued on you. On your trembling fingers, on the heave of your chest, on the way you've got nothing but lust clouding your half-lidded eyes.

"Need some help?" he asks, soft and genuine, when he sees you slipping and fumbling over the third button on your shirt. You nod. Immediately. Quickly enough to have you feeling a hot, embarrassed flush in your cheeks. But it's only for a moment—he overshadows it by closing in on you again.

His massive hands are nothing but delicate as they close in on your shirt buttons. Slow and steady. Precision that gets your shirt completely unbuttoned within a matter of a few seconds. Why is that turning you on even more?

"There you go. Lean back and relax for me," he murmurs while in the process of undoing that final button. Instead of shrugging your shirt off, he simply pushes it open. The loose fabric billows around your waist. Brushes over your collarbones and your ribs. Hangs onto your shoulders as if it's only a brief look away from falling off of them.

By the time you press your hands back into the steel table, you're much more exposed. You'd conveniently forgotten to put on a bra this morning. Well…if it was morning when you woke up. Time doesn't exist here.

You chest is bare. Breasts on full display now that this shirt of his you've got on is open wide for his viewing pleasure. He looked directly at them, because even in the midst of his dedication to this roleplay, he's still a man.

Why not torture him a little?

"Is this where you want to start, Dr. Grace?" you purr. The hitched breath in his throat is audible when you gently arch your back and lift your chest in his direction. He tries to play it off with a fake cough but falters when he looks up at you. His pupils are so blown out that you should probably be concerned for him.

"Want me to take some deep breaths for you?"

Your teasing question makes Ryland hum. His hands have already returned to your hips. His thumbs, still enveloped in latex, are buttery soft when they gently trace back and forth over the skin just above your waistband. Almost as soft as the hold he's got on you. The gentle dig of his fingers into your body remind you of home. Maybe he is your home now.

"Go ahead," he commands. Nods when you do just as he says. One big, deep inhale—enough to make your lungs burn—followed by a full exhale.

"Very good. Just like that. Give me another one."

He trails one hand up your stomach, over your abdomen, toward your ribs. His touch merges with his praise. Leaves a path of goosebumps in its wake and a shiver shooting down your spine.

You manage to pull in another breath. Breathing is an automatic process for the brain, but when Ryland Grace is pawing at you this well, this hypnotically, it kicks that automatic process into manual. So when you draw it in, it's shaky. Hesitant, in a way. Unfocused.

All you can think about is the way he's inching closer and closer to your chest and how he's looking at you like he would devour you if you so much as thought about giving him permission to do so.

After that pathetic attempt at a breath, Ryland clicks his tongue at you. Very quiet. A little disappointed. Maybe even an attempt at humiliating you because he knows you like it. There's something mischievous in his eyes. Something a little playful behind all the lust.

He runs his tongue over his bottom lip. Curls his fingers around a section of your ribs and gives you a gentle squeeze. Finds his voice a few seconds later, and gifts it to you in a low, rich rumble.

"I'm afraid that wasn't sufficient enough. I need you to take a big, deep breath, ma'am."

You whine. You squirm. You let your head fall back for some brief, momentary relief from his still-hungered gaze. It's the only set of actions you could muster, especially with his hand sliding up and toward the valley of your breasts.

His large palm splays out over your sternum, steady and grounding despite how miserable you feel right now. He's great at bullshitting this. There's no way that this is actually how breathing is supposed to be measured.

Not that you care.

"C'mon. Just give me one more," he firmly instructs. Gives you a gentle tap on your sternum and lowers his velvety tone to a whisper.

"You're my best patient. If you wanna keep that title, I suggest you take a deep breath."

That gentle, cooed compliment really gets you going. Does its job, although it's a bit difficult to get there. After you push out the remaining whisper of a breath you had in your chest, you inhale. It's still a little shaky, but it's full-bodied; enough to make him smile at you and pat your chest.

"Perfect."

He continues with the "exam" in a way that's actually familiar to you. Because, instead of doing it like an actual medical doctor, he's doing it like himself: As a scientist. His hands glide up to and over your chest, his fingers tease, pinch, and tug on your nipples, and he gropes your breasts. His expert hands slide down your abdomen while his tongue sings soft praises to you for obeying the good doctor's orders.

He's not examining you like a doctor, though. He's exploring you like a scientist—and you're a fool for it. Staring up at him through lidded eyes, sucking in stilted breaths, releasing soft little whines and whimpers and moans spurred on from being poked and prodded.

So much for a physical exam. This borders on a lab test. And being the test subject of the brilliant, world-saving Dr. Ryland Grace? That's even better than being his patient at this makeshift doctor's office.

But he knocks you back down into your roleplay as his fingers tease over the waistband of your sweatpants.

"Can you take these off? Pelvic exam's the final step before we wrap up here."

"How about you do it for me?" you plead through feigned innocence. "You're just so good with your hands. Much better than I am."

He laughs. Then he blushes. And when he starts to untie that knot at the front of your sweats, he sends you a grin that'd make you swoon if you weren't so desperate to have him all over you.

"I'd love to help you with that, ma'am," he purrs while he slips his fingertips into your pants and slowly pulls them down your thighs. Only takes a second or two for you to kick them off and let them fall onto the floor in a heap. Takes even less time than that for him to pull your panties down.

"Lay back," Ryland tells you. A gruff little command. Definitely not as professional as a doctor would be. He's gotta be hurting as much as you are if he's starting to break like this, as subtle as it was.

But you do as he says. The lab lights cascading all over your body as soon as you lie down are extremely bright. Almost fluorescent.

Here you are: Illuminated by the harshest light possible, all spread out on this cold steel table, a lab rat for him to test on. Fully exposed. It should be embarrassing. It should make you want to cover up. To run and hide.

Instead, you spread your legs. And it makes Ryland turn a much darker shade of red than he was earlier. He covers up his blush with a smile. His hands meet your calves. They slowly run up your legs and toward your thighs, smooth latex gliding against your skin and making you shiver. Part of you misses the feeling of his bare skin against yours.

Ryland's hands glide up and up and up, slow and teasing, before they rest at your hips. His thumbs gently press into the soft skin there, and his fingers tighten their grip on you, and his eyes do a little gliding of their own. Up and down your entire body, lingering on every inch of skin he can get them on.

His tongue runs over his bottom lip before he softly coos, "You're so pretty."

You gasp. Act offended. Try to hide your genuine adoration and glee for his compliment behind a fake, snippy attitude.

"Are you flirting with your patient, Dr. Grace?"

"Making an objective observation, actually," he sasses back. It's almost hard to believe this guy could barely look at you the first time you slept together. What an honor it is to witness someone coming out of their shell.

"If I'm so pretty, can this exam be on the house?"

Ryland throws both of his eyebrows up.

"Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

You scoff. A quip forms on your tongue, but dies almost immediately. You lose your ability to speak as soon as Ryland's hands slink away from your hips and toward your inner thighs. As his big, warm palms pin your legs down onto the table you're basically spread eagle on, he asks, "Can you keep your legs spread for me?"

You can't come up with the single, affirmative word. You just nod.

"I'm gonna trust you," he murmurs, thumbs getting to work by gently spreading your folds open. You keen. Your body jolts, and he's barely even touched you—but any sort of attention to your aching, needy pussy will do that to you.

"Especially since you've been doing so well for me," he adds. Although your head is swimming, clouded with nothing but wanton need that makes you want to lunge at him, you keep your word. Your hips squirm, but your legs stay open.

He smiles. His eyes flit up to yours when he glides one thumb through your folds. When you gasp and let out an actual moan, he laughs. Sweet and full of adoration for you.

"Easy. Sit still," he whispers. His other hand finds your stomach, big, warm palm splayed out over it so he can keep you still. You squeeze your eyes shut, and you toss your head back, and your jaw tenses so roughly that you're worried it might shatter.

But when Ryland's thumb finds your clit, the combination of the soft latex and his warmth makes it a little easier to relax. Finally, some fucking relief.

He starts rubbing slow, heavy circles on the sensitive bud. Enough to make your head loll to the side and your chest heave. Ryland's other fingers trace random shapes into your abdomen. It's soothing enough to keep you from squirming.

"Looks real good," he says while adding a little more pressure to the circles he's drawing on your clit. You moan again. It might be loud enough to wake up Rocky. You know that's not possible, but…there's a first time for everything.

"Reacting very well to stimulation."

"Fuck," you hiss, hips stuttering and one hand flying down to his wrist. Your nails dig into his exposed skin just above the elastic band of the glove on his hand. You want to stay in character; unfortunately for you, he's managed to wind you up so much with his poking and prodding that you're already about to come.

"Is something wrong, ma'am? Do you need a break?"

"I—No! I'm fine!" you squeak out, back arching, pussy fluttering around nothing and probably dripping onto the table beneath you already. He clicks his tongue against his teeth and, after getting you so close to your orgasm that you were seeing stars in your clouded vision, takes his thumb away.

"Why don't I try something else?"

Tears begin to pool in your eyes. You fall back down onto the table with a defeated, earth-shattering groan and let go of his arm. If you weren't so tired, you'd have fired off a string of insults his way. That's no way to get what you want, though. Ryland can be quite withholding when he's in the driver's seat.

He chuckles. Drums his fingers against your stomach for a moment, then gently mutters, "We're almost done. Take a deep breath for me."

With the last semblance of your mental awareness, you do it. The breath you suck in is deep. It burns your chest when you hold onto it. Luckily for you, though, it doesn't stick for long—Ryland pushes two of his gloved fingers into your pussy and your breath leaves you as a loud, guttural moan.

"Feels so good," he whispers to himself, as if he's the one struggling to keep it together.

There's no resistance. You're soaked from all the teasing and touching, so he slips in with ease. You cover your mouth with your own hand, teeth digging into your palm as you whimper into it and try to keep it together.

Truth be told, though, you didn't have a chance. Ryland's already thrusting them in and out of you, slow and deep and just how you like it. He's curling them up and hitting that soft, spongy spot that almost makes you black out each time he touches it.

"Dr. Grace!" you roughly pant, whimpering and hips roughly bucking up to meet his hand. He doesn't stop you. He probably wants to see you come more than you want to come.

"Is this part of the exam?"

He smirks up at you. Speeds up his fingers and presses his thumb against your clit again. Clears his throat and announces, "Of course it is. Just making sure everything's working how it's supposed to."

What a pervert. A beautiful, incredibly-skilled-with-his-hands pervert.

Something about that makes it impossible for you to keep it together. You throw your head back, your legs tremble, your lower half roughly and involuntarily twitches. The worst part is that you can't keep your mouth shut; you let go with a slew of almost unintelligible babbles and a set of moans so loud that you're worried your vocal cords will be torn to shreds.

When you come back down to Earth—or, rather, Mary—Ryland's got a shit eating grin on his face. It's a little crooked. Somehow, that makes it even more perfect. He clears his throat and straightens between your legs. Pulls his fingers out of you and presses both hands into the table, bracketing you in without a chance to escape.

Not that you'd want to.

"I think that test was inconclusive," he lies through his teeth. When you roll your eyes and lean up on your elbows because you want to shoot him a smart-assed response, you end up falling silent. His fingers are undoing the knot at the front of his own sweats, and he's taking you in like a starved man.

You giggle at him. At the way he's enamored with you despite you not doing anything. Then you simply ask, "What on Earth are we gonna do about that?"

He shrugs. Pushes his sweats down before he reaches forward, grabs your hips, and pulls you closer to the edge of the table you're still laid out on.

"I've got another test in mind."

@irlr0gue thank you for reading!! so glad to get the favorites tag - means the world to me that you enjoyed!!! <3

@grilchgurt i already responded to your adorably sweet comments, but im going to respond to your reblog too because it just made me that happy. and also because hand obsession with rygos is so real. he has the most beautiful hands i've ever seen i think. like they're Massive and they look so Soft. and don't get me started on the veins <3 thank you for reblogging and for all of your kindness!!! it means the world to me!!!

@pixiebuggz you're so real for this. this is exactly what i felt like writing it. this is what i felt like rereading it while i was editing it. this is what i felt like thinking over this concept and putting pen to paper to jot it down. i, too, couldn't stop screaming. thank you one million billion times for reblogging, im sooo happy that this scratched an itch for you!!! sorry about how you saw it while on the clock.......or maybe not. i hope it made the work day easier 🫶🏻

@sipofchai GLOVES!!!!! WE LOVE GLOVES!!!!! i hope that you enjoy when you return! thank you for the reblog!!!

@pensationalwriting oh my indeed 👀 thank you for the reblog!!!!

@oatyoat32 perhaps the realest reblog of all time? ryland grace has me barking and panting like a feral dog at all times. you get it! thank you so much for supporting!!

Peter had been avoiding you. 

Had been for days now, though it wasn’t ever anything direct enough to make it obvious to anyone who didn’t know him the way you did. There was always some excuse ready when you asked him to come over, some patrol running late or something he had picked up, his answers coming quickly before he disappeared again. You knew it had something to do with his senses. Everything had been heightened lately, sounds and smells and every slight touch reaching him stronger than they should, and Peter had already begun keeping his distance whenever it became too much.

A few nights ago, whatever had been building finally came to a head.

Peter had stopped by late at night, landing on the fire escape outside your bedroom window the way he always did after patrol. The familiar scrape of metal pulled your attention from the television, followed by the muted thud of his feet meeting the platform. Usually, he tapped on the glass even though you both knew you left it unlocked for him. Sometimes he would crouch there with his mask pushed halfway up, waiting until you noticed him, wearing that tired, crooked smile that always made it impossible to stay annoyed about the hour.

This time, he didn’t knock.

Instead, he threw the window open hard enough to rattle the frame, climbing inside with none of his usual care, one hand hooked over the ledge while the other held his side. His mask was crushed in his fist, his suit torn near his ribs and across one thigh, the dark fabric slick where blood had soaked through. More streaked across his mouth and jaw, already drying along his upper lip, while a fresher line ran from somewhere near his hairline and into his curls.

From the look of him, it had been a very long night. His chest rose and fell too quickly, each breath pulled in through parted lips before leaving him rough and uneven. Even after he straightened, his shoulders stayed tense, his mask still clenched in one hand while his eyes moved around your room without settling anywhere for long, passing over the bed, the desk, the window behind him, then finally landing on you.

“Peter—”

“I’m fine,” he said before you could ask, though the blood running down the side of his face and the hand pressed tightly against his ribs said otherwise.

You looked him over for another second, taking in the bruising already beginning to darken along his cheek and the slight tremble in his fingers, then turned toward your nightstand. You kept everything he needed in the bottom drawer now—the gauze, antiseptic, butterfly bandages and the painkillers he always claimed didn’t do anything, yet took anyway.

But before you could reach it, Peter started talking, drawing your attention back to him. He paced back and forth in front of the window, his movements restless as though standing still would only make whatever was happening worse.

“Something’s wrong.”

You stopped near the nightstand, watching him make another pass across the room. “What happened?”

“I don’t know.” He shook his head, answering while the question was still leaving your mouth. “I don’t know, I just… something’s wrong.” The words poured from him jagged and loosely connected, each thought giving way to another. Scorpion. The fight. The cop. Peter stumbled over every piece as he tried to explain what happened, his breathing still too rough, his pacing growing quicker whenever a detail caught in his throat.

“I almost killed a cop.”

Peter stopped near your desk farther along the same wall as the window, staring down at his gloved hands, like he could still feel the force of what he had done sitting there.

“I almost killed a cop,” he repeated, softer this time, disbelief thinning his voice.

You tried to catch his eye, still struggling to piece together everything he had thrown at you. “I don’t understand what you’re saying, Peter.”

“Just…” His face tightened before the rest could follow, a low grunt catching in his throat as his senses opened wider without warning.

The city crashed into him. Sirens several streets over, one set fading while another drew closer. Voices carried through the walls of the buildings surrounding yours, some clear enough to separate into words, others reduced to murmurs that still crowded together inside his skull. A couple argued half a block away. Pipes knocked behind the plaster while your neighbors shifted in bed, sheets dragging and old springs creaking beneath their weight.

All of it arrived with the same sharpness, every sound layered over another until there was nowhere for him to place any of it, including you. 

Especially you.

Your heartbeat pulsed above everything else, each beat carrying through the few feet between you as clearly as though his ear were pressed to your chest. He could hear your breathing change while you watched him, the slight catch at the start of every inhale, the softer release through your nose. The clean scent of your shower still lingered on your skin, soap and warmth clinging close, but underneath it was something sharper, sweeter, something his body recognized before his mind could force itself away from it.

Peter pressed the heels of his palms to his eyes, fingers spread across his forehead as pressure gathered behind them. He knew the feeling now, the warning that came just before they changed, before the world sharpened past what he could stand.

You called to him as you rounded the foot of your bed and moved into the narrow space beside the desk, but your voice folded into everything else instead of reaching him. Sirens swallowed the first syllable, pipes struck behind the wall, someone laughed in the apartment below, and your heartbeat climbed faster with every step that brought you closer.

He wanted to answer you, to tell you to wait, not to come any closer, but each attempt was swallowed by the next sensation tearing through him.

You lifted a hand toward his arm, trying to steady him, but Peter’s fingers closed around your wrist while yours were still inches from touching him. He moved so quickly that the sudden stop nearly pulled you off balance, your body tipping toward him until you caught yourself with a short stumble. 

The grip wasn’t tight enough to hurt, but his fingers had already closed completely around your wrist, holding you there while every part of him strained against whatever had taken over.

“Don’t.”

His voice came out scraped thin and low, and when his gaze lifted to yours, black had already taken his eyes completely.

“Peter,” you said softly, his name carrying none of the fear he seemed to expect, only the worry that had brought you across the room in the first place.

The black pulled back almost as quickly as it had appeared, his eyes shifting into themselves until brown broke through again, followed by the whites around them. His gaze dropped immediately to where his hand was still wrapped around your wrist, and the sight of it seemed to cut through whatever had a hold of him. His fingers opened at once, releasing you so abruptly that your hand fell between you.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, I didn’t…” His breathing stayed rough, the apology doing nothing to ease the panic moving through him as he backed away from you and struck the edge of your desk. The impact rattled it behind him, but Peter barely reacted, already trying to put more space between you. “I have to go. I should go. You need to stay away from me, okay? I don’t want to hurt you.”

You stepped closer anyway, refusing the distance he had just fought to put between you. “You won’t.”

Peter looked at you, his brows drawing together as if he couldn’t understand how you could say it with that much certainty after what had just happened. His mouth opened, but his answer took a second to come, the words falling lower when they finally did.

“I almost killed someone tonight.”

“I know.”

“No, I…” He shook his head, the movement sharp with frustration as he tried to reach for an explanation that still wasn’t there. “I didn’t mean to. I don’t know what happened.”

“It was an accident, Peter.”

“You weren’t there.” His hand went back to his side as he moved closer to the open window, fingers twisting into the torn fabric there while he struggled to pull in a full breath. “I couldn’t stop it. I didn’t even realize what I was doing until it was already done, and what if that happens again?” His voice thinned, the fear in it coming through. “I’m dangerous right now. I can’t control any of this. I don’t even understand what this is.”

You moved to close the space, reaching for him again, but Peter slipped through the open window and stepped backward onto the fire escape with another shake of his head. “No, stay back.”

The warning was still hanging between you when his face tightened, another rush of noise tearing through him from every direction. Peter covered his ears, his eyes screwing shut again as sirens, voices and passing engines crashed together inside his head, each one too sharp to ignore.

“Peter, wait.” You moved toward the window to follow him, one hand lifting toward the frame, but his wrist snapped forward as you started to climb through. A strand of webbing caught against the glass and pulled the window shut between you, the frame slamming down, followed by a second shot along the edge that sealed it in place.

“I’m sorry,” he said, his voice strained beneath the noise still ripping through him as he pulled the mask back over his head.

You called after him through the glass, your voice rising as you pushed against the window, but Peter was already moving. He stepped onto the ledge and threw himself away from the building, a web catching somewhere above and sweeping him into the night, carrying him farther from you with every swing.

The first night, you barely slept. Every siren that passed beneath your window had you reaching for your phone, checking for a call you knew hadn’t come, then opening the news instead. You searched through every alert and half-written post that mentioned Spider-Man, watching clips long enough to make sure none of them showed him falling, bleeding or failing to get back up. Between each one, you called him again, listening to the line ring until his voicemail answered in his place.

“Please just tell me you’re okay.”

You left the message softly, worry still outweighing everything else as you stared toward the window he had sealed shut. The webbing still clung to the frame, the strands stretched white against the glass, and the longer you looked at it, the more the image of his face returned. His eyes turning black. The fear in his voice. The way he had backed away from you as though you were the one thing he couldn’t risk being near.

By morning, he still hadn’t answered.

You called again before you got out of bed, then later while you were getting dressed, then once more when most of the afternoon had passed without a word from him.

“Peter, answer me.”

Your voice came out firmer that time, the worry still there but starting to wear thinner with every call he ignored. You tried telling yourself his phone was dead, or he was asleep somewhere, or maybe he had found somewhere safe to wait until whatever was happening with his senses passed, but none of those excuses held up for very long when hours kept passing and he still didn’t say anything.

Sometime that night, he finally answered one of your texts.

I’m okay.

That was all he gave you.

No explanation. No apology. Nothing about where he was, whether he was hurt or when he planned on coming back. Just two words dropped into the middle of everything he had left you carrying, like knowing his heart was still beating should’ve been enough to settle yours. It didn’t. 

You called the second you read it, only for the phone to ring until voicemail again. The confusion that had kept you worried began wearing thin after that, scraped away a little more each time your name lit up his screen without convincing him to answer. By the next day, you were no longer asking gently.

“One text, Peter? That’s seriously all you’re giving me after everything that happened? You know, I’m trying really hard not to be pissed at you right now, but you’re making that impossible.”

You ended the voicemail before you could say anything else, tossing your phone onto the bed only to grab it again a few minutes later when another notification came through.

Spider-Man. 

It was blurry footage someone had posted online, red and blue streaking across the screen as Peter dropped between two parked cars, then launched himself after someone farther down the street. Another video surfaced a few hours later, then another after that. Spider-Man swinging between buildings, stopping a robbery, throwing himself into the path of danger while strangers stood close enough to film it.

You should’ve been relieved. He was alive, still doing what he always did. Yet, every clip made your anger climb higher because he was still out there. Still fighting. Still putting himself near criminals, cops and crowds while insisting that you were the one who needed to stay away from him.

You made up your mind in a matter of minutes. The few days you had already given him were more than enough. You tried calling. Tried giving him time to calm down and figure out whatever was going on without pushing him, but that clearly wasn’t working, and watching him swing around the city while he ignored you had burned through whatever patience you had left.

So you went to him.

You didn’t care how late it was tonight or whether he wanted to see you, only pulled on your shoes and walked the few blocks to his apartment with your phone still clutched in your hand. If Peter refused to answer your calls, then you would make him face you another way.

Your knuckles met the wood of his apartment door once, then twice, the second knock harder than the first. You had already raised your fist again, his name halfway out of your mouth as you started to tell him to open the door, when it swung inward.

Peter stood on the other side, looking like absolute hell. The bruising along his face had darkened, a cut split one eyebrow and was held together by butterfly closures, and exhaustion sat heavy around his eyes. His hair looked like he had been dragging his hands through it one too many times. He seemed irritated before either of you even spoke, though it didn’t sit naturally on him. It was too tangled with the way his fingers tightened around the edge of the door and his eyes moved over you once before quickly finding somewhere else to land.

“You’re not supposed to be here.”

Not hello. Not an explanation or an apology for ignoring you. Just immediate resistance, as though he had spent every hour since leaving your fire escape repeating the same rule until he had convinced himself it was the only one that mattered. Stay away. Stay safe. Don’t let you close enough to make him want to let you in.

“Yeah. Well, I am,” you said, unable to keep the bite from your voice. You were done debating whether you were allowed to care about your own boyfriend. “You scared the shit out of me, Peter. You showed up bleeding, told me you almost killed someone, then left me standing behind a window you webbed shut. Which was a dick move, by the way.”

His eyes stayed on you, tired and guarded, and with the way he was looking at you, you expected him to say something back. To argue, apologize, tell you that you didn’t understand, anything, but he only stood there with one hand still wrapped around the edge of the door.

“I gave you space. I called you, I texted you, and you responded once like that was supposed to be enough before ignoring me again.”

Peter still didn’t answer, and after another second, you realized he wasn’t going to. Whatever he was holding behind that look, he had no intention of saying it out here.

You let out a short breath, your frustration pressing tighter beneath your ribs. “Are you going to let me in?”

Peter’s hand shifted along the edge of the door, his fingers tightening while the rest of him remained planted in the opening. For a moment, it looked like he might refuse, like he was still trying to convince himself that keeping you in the hallway was somehow different from shutting you out everywhere else. His eyes moved over your face, tense and unreadable, before he swung the door wider with more force than necessary and stepped aside.

He kept himself rigid near the door as you passed, leaving enough space between you to make the distance feel intentional, every part of him held back from even the slightest brush of your body against his. It didn’t matter. The second you crossed the threshold, his senses found you anyway.

Your presence cut through the stale apartment, every breath and small shift of your body reaching him like you were standing much closer than you were. Having you there made everything worse in a way he still couldn’t explain. The rest of the apartment seemed to drop back as his senses locked onto you so hard there was barely room for anything else—which was exactly why he had been dodging you. Whenever they narrowed in like this, someone ended up hurt before he knew what his body was reacting to, and he wasn’t willing to find out what happened if the person standing closest to him was you.

You stepped farther inside, looking around as Peter shut the door behind you. The living room curtains were pulled tight even though it was already dark outside, blocking the streetlights and whatever movement passed below. Nearly every appliance had been unplugged, cords hanging loose near the outlets, and a few lightbulbs had been unscrewed and set together on a nearby table. He had been taking the apartment apart piece by piece, trying to get rid of anything that made noise or gave off too much light.

He was struggling. That much was obvious, and he had still decided to sit here and deal with it alone.

You turned back toward him. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah. No, I’m fine.” Peter shifted near the door, barely looking at you as he corrected himself. “I’m fine.”

You knew he was lying as soon as he finished saying it. Reaching toward the counter, you moved to set your phone and keys down, but the second the metal touched the surface with a small clink, Peter winced.

His face tightened, one eye squeezing shut like the sound had struck somewhere directly behind it, and your hand stopped beside the keys. It had hardly been loud enough for you to think about, just metal touching a counter, something normal and forgettable, but it had bothered him.

That one little movement told you everything his lie didn’t.

Your anger didn’t disappear, but it changed as you looked at him, losing some of its heat beneath the sudden weight of how bad this actually was. You were still pissed that he had shut you out, still wanted to yell at him for deciding by himself that you were better off worried and ignored, but standing there inside the apartment he had practically taken apart to make bearable, all you wanted was to give him one second where everything didn’t hurt.

You moved closer, slow enough that he could stop you, and Peter’s attention caught on you immediately, the tension drawing tighter through his shoulders even though he didn’t step away. That surprised you more than it should have. He had been fighting this since he left your fire escape, and now he looked too worn down to truly keep doing it.

“You shouldn’t be here,” he said again, his voice lower now, strained by everything still crowding through him. “I told you to stay away.”

His brows pulled together, but he didn’t argue when you came close enough to touch him. Your hand settled on his arm first, nothing more than the warmth of your skin through his shirt. The breath that left him was uneven, but looser than the last, his body tipping almost imperceptibly toward your touch until he caught himself.

It wasn’t enough to fix whatever was happening, but you felt the change and followed it. Your palm moved along his arm and across the tight line of his shoulders until your fingers found the back of his neck. The tension there gave in small pieces, the muscles slowly loosening as your hand slid higher and found his face.

Peter fully leaned into it then, his cheek pressing into you as though his body had made the decision before he could talk himself out of it. His shoulders dropped by half an inch, some of the strain finally leaving them as you gave his senses one clear place to land instead of the thousands still fighting for his attention.

You kept going, one hand holding his face while the other returned to his arm, tracing back over his shoulder and up toward his neck. You touched him slowly, mapping him back into his own body one piece at a time while Peter stood there trying not to collapse into you.

He still wouldn’t look at you, eyes lowered somewhere between you as his forehead came down to yours, the contact light at first, then heavier when his body folded toward you by the smallest amount. It felt like he was split between two separate instincts, one still trying to put distance between you and the other pulling toward every place your hands touched him.

“You are everywhere,” he said, the words so low they nearly disappeared between you.

Your hand stilled at the side of his neck. “What do you mean?”

Peter didn’t answer right away. His forehead stayed pressed to yours while his breathing moved warm across your skin, something working through him that you couldn’t see, his mouth parting once, then closing again.

“I can feel you…” His words stalled as another sound dragged at his attention, his jaw tightening while he fought his way back to you. “Everywhere.” His breath left him rough against your skin. “All the time now.”

Your fingers traced a fraction higher along his neck, and Peter’s breath snagged at the motion, his body following before he forced himself still.

“Even when everything else is…” He swallowed, his eyes squeezing shut as the noise pressed in again. “Even when I can hear all of it, you’re still…” His forehead pressed harder to yours. “You’re louder.”

The meaning settled between you slowly, carrying a different weight now that you understood. It wasn’t only that every sound, movement and touch had become too much for him. His senses had fixed themselves on you through all that noise, following you inside it, pulling every part of you forward until nothing else could drown you out. He was already overloaded, and on top of that, his body had tuned itself to you so completely that being close made it harder for him to tell where the overwhelm ended and you began.

“I have an idea,” you said, your voice dropping between you as your thumb moved once along his cheek. “Let’s give you one thing to focus on.”

Peter didn’t fight you this time. He stayed there with his skin pressed to yours, breathing through the closeness while your hands held him in place. He nodded once, small and almost unconscious, the movement more instinct than anything he had thought through.

You closed what little space remained, both hands sliding fully around his face as you pulled him into a kiss. For a second, he only took it, his mouth warm but motionless while his fingers flexed once at his side. Then his lips parted slightly, and the restraint holding him there gave just enough for him to kiss you back. It was soft at first, almost hesitant, but it didn’t stay that way for long. His head tipped into yours, his mouth fitting more firmly with your own as a low sound worked its way from his throat.

The kiss pulled at him quickly after that. His breathing changed, each exhale heavier than the last, while the tension held between your palms shifted into something harder to contain. He leaned closer, chasing your lips when you moved against his, and for a few seconds he let himself have it, let everything narrow down to the pressure of your mouth and the warmth of your hands holding his face.

Then you felt him catch himself again.

His lips slowed against yours before they stopped, not all at once, but like he was forcing himself out of the kiss piece by piece. He stayed close when he broke it, his mouth still brushing yours with every uneven breath, forehead lowering to yours again while his body remained pulled toward you despite the restraint tightening back through him.

“I don’t want to hurt you.” The words came out strained, carrying the same fear he had been trying to keep between you. 

“I know,” you said, your thumbs moving along the bruised edges of his face. “You won’t.”

Peter moved restlessly beneath your touch, angling his face away from the certainty in yours without putting any real distance between you. His mouth opened, voice turning rougher as your fingers held him there. “I don’t. I don’t trust myself.”

Your hand shifted along his jaw, tilting his face until he had no choice but to look at you. Peter resisted only in the slight tension that met your fingers, his eyes lifting to yours, dark and uncertain as they searched your face for some trace of hesitation. You held his gaze, letting him see there wasn’t any.

“I do.”

The words stayed between you while your hand slipped from his face and found his hand hanging stiffly at his side. His fingers twitched when yours closed around them, but he let you guide him forward, let you bring his palm to your hip and press it against the curve there. The contact pulled something taut through him, his fingers spreading, then tightening by degrees when you leaned into his hand.

Your lips found his again, slower this time, and Peter matched it before the kiss turned heavier. The restraint was still there in every measured kiss, in the way his hand stayed fixed at your hip even as his fingers flexed there, but when yours slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck, something in him gave. His breath caught, rough and startled, and the hand at your hip tightened hard enough to drag you flush against him.

He moved like leaving any part of you untouched had become impossible, his palm sliding over your waist, tracing your side before moving higher across your back, with no direction beyond the need to keep finding more of you beneath his hands.

Every movement seemed to send the city another mile away. Traffic blurred beyond the windows, voices in the building thinned into something far off, and even the low sound of the building’s elevator moving through its shaft lost its edge as his attention fixed entirely on you. Your mouth. Your breath catching between one kiss and the next. The heat of your body pressing into his while his grip slipped from careful to possessive without him seeming to notice the difference.

Peter kissed you like he had been starving with your name in his mouth—like every day he had spent keeping himself away had only sharpened the need until it hurt—and you let him. Your hands twisted into his hair as his mouth left yours and moved along your jaw, his kisses growing messier by the time he reached your neck. He hardly seemed to care where they landed, his lips pressing just below your ear, then dragging lower while his breath spread hot across the skin he had already left damp. His grip tightened around your waist when your head tipped back for him, pulling you closer as his mouth found the quick beat of your pulse.

His senses zeroed in on something specific in your scent, something he still didn’t have a name for. You smelled good, but it wasn’t only the perfume fading from your clothes or the fragrance left in your hair. Something warmer rose beneath both, coming straight from your skin, the same thing he’d picked up the other night, only stronger now with your body pressed to his and his mouth open over your throat.

Whatever arachnid instinct had sharpened alongside his senses recognized it without asking him to understand. Peter wasn’t just kissing you anymore; he was drinking you in. His nose brushed along the side of your neck while his mouth returned to the quick pulse there, lips parting as every beat struck hot and frantic against them.

He could feel every reaction before you gave it sound, the flutter that moved through you when his teeth grazed your skin, the warmth rising where his hand spread across your back, the small shift of your body that pressed you more firmly into him. Each one found him cleanly now, stripped of the noise that had been tormenting him for days, giving him a stronger signal to follow. 

Peter’s palm dug deeper into your waist as his mouth closed over that sensitive point, rougher this time, and the breath that hitched in your throat went through him like a command, pushing him further.

Without warning, his hands swept behind your thighs and hauled you off the floor in one effortless motion. Your legs wrapped around his waist on reflex, arms winding over his shoulders to keep your chest pressed to his as he carried you toward the bed. His mouth stayed on your skin, working down your throat in hot, open-mouthed kisses and breathing you in between them while every hurried step pressed the hard rise of him between your legs.

Your back hit the mattress hard enough to bounce you once as Peter followed you down, already tugging at the clothes between his hands and your skin. You tried to help, lifting into him as he dragged your shirt upward, but Peter was moving too fast for either of you to make it graceful. Fabric tangled around your arms, your hands knocked into his, and his breathing sharpened as he fought it free, throwing it aside so he could get his mouth back on you. His lips moved from yours to your jaw, then the bare stretch of your shoulder while his hands kept working, rough and impatient as they stripped away everything still covering you.

His own clothes went just as quickly. You reached for the hem of his shirt, but Peter was already wrenching it over his head, barely giving the rest time to hit the floor as he came back to you. There was none of his usual awkward fumbling, no nervous laugh when your limbs got in each other’s way, only the desperate need to get closer. He kissed you again the second there was nothing left between you, his mouth opening hot over yours while his hands finally met skin. They swept over your waist, closed around your thigh, dragged you farther down the mattress as though having you naked against him still somehow wasn’t close enough. His breath broke harshly across your lips as he lined himself up, then pressed inside.

There was nothing slow about it. Peter sank into you in one hard movement that pulled the air from your lungs and forced a low, strained sound from his throat. His forehead dropped to yours, fingers digging harder into your hip while the sudden stretch split through you, raw and immediate, making your body lock around him. The reaction went straight through Peter, his mouth finding yours again to swallow the sound you made as his hips started rutting into you. 

He fucked you like he was trying to drown in the one sensation that didn’t hurt, each thrust driving him deeper while his mouth stayed pressed to yours and his hands kept you pulled tight against him. He had denied himself this until the distance became another kind of pain, listening to your voice through unanswered calls and imagining the touch he had forced himself to avoid while every nerve in his body burned too hot inside him. Now your lips were under his, your fingers twisted in his hair, your body wrapped around every place that had ached for you, and the relief was already turning sharp at the edges.

The overload still threaded through him, coiled and electric, but now every sound that hit too loudly was dulled almost as soon as it reached him. A horn blared somewhere below, only to vanish into the broken way you said his name. The pipes knocked inside the wall, but your nails dragged down his back hard enough to leave heat behind, giving his senses something closer to hold onto. He could hear every shift in your breathing, every wet pull of his body moving inside yours, every small sound you tried to swallow into his mouth, and each one cut cleaner through the noise than anything else had. He even felt the smallest rise in your temperature where your skin met his, warmth gathering a fraction at a time across your chest, your stomach, the inside of your arms where they held him close, each change so slight you never would’ve noticed it yourself, but Peter caught all of it. 

It became too much and still somehow wasn’t enough. Peter answered every change in your body without thinking, pounding into you faster like he could keep coaxing more from you—more warmth, more sound, more of those filthy little reactions whenever he struck deep enough. Feeling all of you at once wore through what remained of his control, every tremor, every shiver, every breath sweeping across his face, until he stopped trying to escape the overload and gave himself to it instead, sinking further because now every part of it tasted like you.

The second your body started to settle into the rough pace, Peter slowed. One last deep stroke left you stretched around him, then he withdrew so abruptly the loss barely registered before his hand closed around your hip and turned you over. Your stomach hit the mattress, sheets twisting around you as he rolled you onto it, one palm pinning you in place while the other hauled your hips back to him. You’d hardly caught your breath when his weight covered you and he sank inside again, the angle wrenching a broken sound from your mouth as your back arched on instinct, your ass meeting his hips while he started fucking you all over again.

Peter leaned forward until his chest covered your back, skin hot and slick where it sealed to yours, then hooked one arm around you and drew you into him. His bicep locked across the front of your throat, thick at the hollow just below your chin, holding you exactly where he wanted while his mouth hovered near your ear. The position left you trapped between his body and the mattress, your back pulled flush to his chest as he drove into you harder, each thrust landing deeper from the way he’d folded himself around you. His grunts broke low beside your head while your moans spilled out underneath them, his breath hitting the shell of your ear in short, ragged bursts whenever your body clenched and dragged another sound from him.

God, you felt good. The thought tore through him somewhere between the sound of his cock fucking back into you and the way you cried his name in those thin, ruined breaths, your voice breaking each time his hips snapped forward. With your body wrapped hot and tight around him and your pulse hammering against his arm, the thing inside him that kept scratching for release finally had somewhere to go. It settled lower, meaner, turning relief into a hunger that cinched his arm tighter and drove his rhythm toward something brutal, his mouth grazing your ear while he fucked you like he needed to hear exactly how much of him you could take.

His free arm circled you next, crossing over the first until both locked you to him, closing your body into his while his hips kept driving forward with nowhere left for you to move. The pressure forced your back tighter to his chest and kept him buried along the same swollen place over and over, each thrust striking it so cleanly that your cries started breaking apart. You said his name once, then again, louder when the tension finally split through you, your legs locking straight before they broke into short, uneven kicks across the sheets. The orgasm flooded through you hard enough to make your whole body seize inside his arms, thighs trembling, hips jerking, your pussy clenching around him in pulsing waves while Peter held you there and kept fucking you through every second of it.

Even with your body shaking around him, he still wasn’t done. The release moving through you gave him more to feel, every tight pulse dragging over him, every fractured sound falling from your mouth landing right against his senses. The sensation turned his breathing rougher near your ear, but he finally dragged himself out, the loss drawing a wrecked sound from your throat as his arms loosened around you. One hand stayed at your hip while the other caught your shoulder, flipping you onto your back so quickly the room tipped around you. The mattress sank with his weight as he followed, settling between your legs and driving back inside while you were still catching your breath, the stretch tearing another ruined sound from you when your body took him again so soon.

Peter braced himself over you with both arms framing your head, his chest dropping close enough that each rough exhale reached your face. Then his hips started moving, driving into you with a pace that made the bed shift with each stroke, the headboard knocking softly into the wall while your body slid higher over the sheets. His mouth found yours in the middle of it, but even the kiss came apart under the force of how he was fucking you, teeth catching your lip, breath spilling between you, his mouth missing yours for half a second when a harder thrust jolted you both before dragging back over it.

Your hands landed on his shoulders, nails pressing into skin already marked from you, and Peter answered by dropping more of his weight over you. One forearm stayed planted beside your head while the other slid down your body, palm dragging over your waist until his fingers closed behind your knee. He pulled your leg higher along his side and hooked it over his hip, opening you wider for him without slowing, the shift changing the angle enough that the next thrust struck somewhere that made your whole body jerk. Your mouth broke from his on a sharp cry, and his face tightened at the sound, eyes dropping between you as he felt the way you closed around him.

That was all the encouragement his body needed. He rolled his hips lower on the next drive, grinding into you instead of pulling back as far, keeping himself buried while he worked over that same sensitive place from inside. The motion was slower for half a second, deeper in a way that made the pressure build instead of break, his pelvis dragging against you while his hand held your leg tight to his side. Then he pulled back only enough to do it again, each stroke forcing you open around him before ending in a rough grind that pressed every inch of him inside you.

He kept changing the rhythm by fractions, listening to what each adjustment did to your breathing, watching your lips part when he angled his hips slightly higher, feeling your leg tighten around him when he drove down and forward. Every stronger reaction pulled another one from him, a low grunt breaking near your mouth as he chased the spots that made your body seize beneath his.

You could feel how close he was in the tension running through his body, in the way his stomach drew taut over yours and his breath kept catching between clenched teeth, but he still wouldn’t let himself fall into it. Even like this, with sweat slick between you and that rougher edge cutting through every movement, Peter still had a hold on himself. You knew him well enough to see it. 

His rhythm would stutter for half a second, one broken thrust landing harder than the rest, then he’d drag it back under control and force himself into something steadier. His jaw stayed locked, the muscles along his shoulders trembling beneath your hands while his eyes squeezed shut, and you knew what he was hiding from when his lashes pressed tighter against his cheeks. The black was threatening to rise again. One side of him was clawing for more while the other kept every part of his body pulled painfully tight, terrified of what would happen if he stopped controlling each breath, each muscle, each filthy drive into you.

You reached for his face, palms sliding over the heat in his skin until your fingers curled along his jaw and pulled him down toward you. “Peter.” His eyes stayed shut, his hips still moving with that strained, measured force, so you said his name again and made him look at you. Brown showed first when his eyes opened, darkened around the edges by something deeper trying to surface, and the fear there was sharp enough to cut through the hunger twisting across his face. 

You held him there anyway, thumbs braced high along his cheeks while his body kept moving between your thighs. “It’s okay.”

He shook his head once, barely enough to count, like even that small movement might loosen something he couldn’t put back. His mouth brushed yours as he breathed, each exhale hot and uneven, his forehead dropping close while his grip tightened around your leg.

“You don’t know that,” he managed, though the words broke apart when you clenched around him and his hips jerked hard into you. You nodded against him, refusing to let him turn away, your hands keeping his face close while your lips moved softly over his. “It’s okay,” you told him, the words landing between one kiss and the next. “Let go.”

You were looking straight at him while you said it, your body spread wide for him, your mouth still touching his as you asked for the thing he’d been fighting to keep from you. Peter searched your face for hesitation and found none, only your fingers tightening along his jaw and the quiet nod you gave him when his breathing caught. His brows pulled together for half a second, something strained and almost disbelieving passing through his expression, and then everything changed.

His palm struck the headboard above you, fingers spreading hard over the wood as his hips drove forward with enough force to shove you higher across the mattress. The next thrust came faster, then another, whatever restraint he’d been holding finally splitting apart as he fucked into you with the strength he’d spent the entire night trying to keep buried. Your mouth fell open, each breath spilling into helpless sounds while your hands slid from his face to his shoulders, nails digging in as each snap of his body buried him as deep as you could take him.

The bed slammed under you, its wooden frame knocking against the wall in a violent rhythm that matched the pounding of his hips. The headboard struck once, twice, then kept hitting until the plaster cracked behind it and dust sifted loose along the edge, but Peter didn’t slow enough to notice. His arm stayed locked above your head, every muscle drawn taut as he fucked you harder, each impact traveling through your body until your breasts shook and your legs cinched around his waist just to keep yourself anchored.

You felt all of it, every brutal glide as he pulled back and every deep, punishing thrust that filled you again, his hips grinding into yours at the end of each one as though even that last inch mattered. The mattress shifted at your back, sheets dragging over your skin while Peter’s mouth found yours between ragged breaths, the kiss missing at first when another hard stroke knocked your head back, then met it again with teeth and tongue and the rough sound he made when you squeezed around him. He was finally letting everything through, all that impossible strength turning each movement sharper, fuller, until there was nothing in the room except the bed striking the wall and the wet, filthy rhythm of his body driving into yours.

His pace broke without warning, one deep thrust holding him against you while his whole body went rigid above yours. A wrecked sound tore from his throat as he came, hips jerking hard into you again while his fingers pressed deep enough into the frame to splinter the wood under his palm. His face tightened through it, mouth falling open near yours, and when his eyes lifted they were already changing, the brown disappearing into black until the darkness swallowed them completely.

Peter realized it almost immediately. You saw the exact second pleasure gave way to fear, his body still trembling over yours while those blackened eyes searched your face for the reaction he’d been expecting since the first night. He waited for you to tense, to recoil from what he’d finally let you see, to understand why he’d begged you to stay away, but you only tightened your hands behind his neck and pulled him down into a kiss. Your mouth met his without hesitation, soft for half a breath before opening wider, catching the rough exhale that left him while your fingers pushed into his hair and kept him close.

This was what he’d tried to outrun, and he’d been wrong.

You saw the black in his eyes, saw the change he feared would make you look at him differently, and you didn’t treat him like a monster. You kissed him like he was still Peter because he was. Your arms drew him closer as his weight settled over you and his hips kept grinding through the last uneven pulses of his release. The slow pressure dragged over the place he’d already worked raw until your second orgasm spilled through you, your body closing hard around him as his name slipped from your mouth and into the kiss.

Peter felt every part of it. The sudden heat spreading through you, the sharp tremor running down your legs, the helpless way your nails caught at his shoulders while your body tightened around him in wet, pulsing waves. He held you through it with his forehead pressed to yours, those dark eyes fixed on your face as the terror he’d carried for days found nowhere left to stand. You weren’t scared. You weren’t enduring him or trying to calm him down. You wanted him exactly like this, still wrapped around him while your breath shook against his lips and your body kept drawing him deeper whenever the aftershocks moved through you.

The realization met every sharpened sense at once, cleaner than the noise outside or the damaged headboard creaking beneath his hand. Your pulse wasn’t racing with fear. Your scent had only grown warmer, richer, threaded through with the same desire that had pulled him to your throat in the first place, and the arms around his neck weren’t trying to hold him back. They were pulling him closer.

His body had been trying to tell him that from the beginning. Every time his senses cut through the rest of the city to find you, every time your voice rose above thousands of others or your touch gave all that noise one place to settle, it hadn’t been choosing a target. It had been reaching for an anchor. He had spent all this time afraid to touch you, forcing himself to stay away while every part of him remained painfully aware of what he was denying himself, never realizing he had been running from the one thing trying to bring him back.

Something in him settled around that truth while something else rose to meet it. His mouth found yours as his hips began to move, slowly at first, then with a gathering force that filled the room with heat, the creak of splintered wood, and his name breaking apart in your mouth again and again.

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His fingers start to idly thrum against his leg. The bones of his hands, his metacarpals, press up through his skin at the movement. It makes the veins there even more pronounced, makes the first row of knuckles undulate. This is all recorded, faithfully and carefully.

At almost eleven minutes on the dot, he speaks. “Something I can help you with?”

You do not look away from his hand. The fingers have stilled, which is unfortunate. You weren’t done observing them. You are about to open your mouth and tell him, no, he’s already helping just fine, but then an idea occurs to you, stemming from the way it’s resting on his leg. A way to gather hands-on data. (You let the pun pass you by. You’ll tell him about it later.)

“Actually, yes. I have something I’d like to test.”

He swivels his chair to look at you. He’s already excited at the thought of helping out with whatever experiment you’d like to run. It’s sweet. “Awesome. Hit me with it.”

Your eyes flick up to his face. You’ve lost count of how long you were looking. This is not ideal; you will have to restart the mental timer another day. “I’d like to see if I can orgasm from riding your hand.”

Ryland blinks. “…Okay? How do you mean?” This is the great thing about him: he likes to try and understand every angle of a problem before he tackles it. “Like—just to see if you can do it? Because I feel like, historically, this has been tested. A lot.”

“First,” you say pointedly, “it’s always good to check theories, even if they’re generally accepted. Second, I mean something very specific.”

His hands slide down his thighs as he listens to you. You wonder if it is an unthinking motion, or if he’s already starting to test something of his own. “You make a good point. Alright, details, then.”

“It’s the back of your hand. It’s very—you have very pronounced veins, good bone structure.” He looks down at his hands, then, admiring them in a new light. “You’ve never noticed this before?”

“Well, I don’t think anyone’s ever laid it out so clearly, so—no.” He raises them up and starts opening and closing his fists. You adjust yourself in your chair. He notes the adjustment. “So. If I’m following all of this right. You want to—”

You finish the statement for him. “Ride the back of your hand. Yes.”

A flush is already starting to creep onto his face. It’s not technically relevant to the topic at hand, but you jot it down in your head anyway. It might be good for the literature review, or something. “I mean. I’m not going to say no, obviously. What should I—how do you want me?”

Such a willing test subject. You almost say this out loud, but at the last moment you decide to refrain. “Just how you are, honestly. Keep your hands on your legs.”

“Great. That’s. Yeah, I can do that.”

He stays sitting, palms against his thighs, as you stand and unbutton your pants, sliding them down along with your underwear. His nostrils flare, and two of his fingers start to tap-tap-tap reflexively. Hm. This might require some more preparation, because he has a tendency to move without realizing that he’s doing it, and you don’t want anything interfering with your results. “One sec,” you mutter, and then you’re walking across the lab and digging through one of the drawers.

When you return with some rope, his face somehow turns an even deeper shade of pink. “Alright. This wasn’t mentioned. What’s that for?” His voice raises a little bit with the question.

You smile as you start winding a longer piece around his shoulders and the back of his chair, tying it securely, then lifting one of his arms to lay on the armrest, tying that down, too. You consider strapping his other wrist to his thigh, but you figure your weight will be enough to keep it in place. “You move a lot, did you know that? Without you even knowing. It’s really important to me that there’s nothing that might potentially interfere with the process.”

“Right. The process. Of course. The process of you—sure. I get it.”

“Test it for me?” You ask, sweetly, because he’s being so good about it all.

He tries to lean forward, but his shoulders stay put, and so does his hand when he attempts to lift it. “Knots are good.” It’s cute, how measured he’s trying to keep his voice.

You look at the other armrest. That will definitely get in the way. You’re not sure that your leg will fit in the gap there. “Sorry, one more thing,” and then you’re digging out a screwdriver and lying down on the ground to remove it.

Your pants are still off. “Don’t mind me,” Ryland says above you. “Just, you know. Sitting here. Tied to a chair. While you’re half-naked, by the way. In case you’d forgotten.”

The armrest comes off, and you gently toss it to the side. “Okay, I think we’re ready to start now. Actually, wait, I should time this—”

“Would you just get over here, already?”

You tsk and grab the stopwatch on the table. “So impatient. This is important.”

He scoffs, but he’s still smiling, even as you step forward and place your knee on the chair, in between his legs. “Sorry. Very important science that’s about to happen.”

Slowly, slowly, you lower yourself down, your other foot braced against the floor, one hand carefully holding the back of the chair. “Of course. I only do very important science.”

When the apex of your thighs meets the back of his hand, he inhales sharply, and his eyes widen. “Are you—you’re already wet,” he breathes out in awe. “Was that just from looking at my hands?”

“Hush. I need to start the timer.” You try your best to hit the start button right as you begin to slide against his hand; you’ll need to remember to account for human error in this regard. Your grip on the back of the chair tightens as you swirl your hips, trying to find the best placement, where one of his knuckles will sit against your clit. His hand moves, as if he’s trying to help. “Stop that,” you scold. “You’re interfering.”

He laughs, and it is a restrained and breathy sound. “Sorry, sorry.” His other hand clutches the armrest as you keep sliding, back-and-forth, and then his head tips back when you let out a moan, once you’ve found the right spot. “And this is. You’re sure I shouldn’t be doing anything else.”

“I’m sure,” you gasp. This is going pretty much how you envisioned it would, but it’s vital to see these sorts of things through to the end. “You just need to sit there.”

You watch as his Adam’s apple bobs. “That’s the thing, though. Not very good at sitting still. You know this. I know this.”

“Hence the ropes,” you hum.

He tries to laugh again, but it gets caught in his throat when you shudder. “Hence the ropes,” he repeats, almost in disbelief.

Then: silence, as he tries to let you do what you’ve set out to do. His hand only flexes underneath you once in two minutes, as your slick spreads across the back of it, as your abdomen tightens, as you whimper and exhale.

Another minute passes like this, of you testing different rhythms, before he pipes up again. “I just think—we rushed into this a little bit.”

“How—so?” You think you’ve found the right pace, the optimal pressure with which to grind your cunt down, and you sigh contentedly.

“For example, I would really like to use my other hand right now. Which is still a hand, for the record, and I don’t think we properly accounted for that.” He tries to shift his hips, and you swat at his shoulder, careful to adjust the timer as you do it, so you don’t accidentally hit ‘stop.’ “Sorry.”

Your head dips down as you really find the right groove, toes curling against the floor. “Stop. Talking,” you grind out, because really, this is another confounding variable. The sound of his voice has a similar kind of effect on you, and it needs to be studied separately.

His lips pull into a shaky grin. “And that’s another thing. We both know I’m not really capable of that.”

This is true. He loves to talk, and you love hearing it, which is exactly the problem. So you shift the stopwatch in your hands, until it’s hanging from your fingers by its cord, and you press your palm over his mouth. His eyes widen, and you can feel the whine he lets out against your hand.

You keep rutting your hips against him, trying to keep the same speed, the same pressure; and you can almost sense it, the beginning of the buildup, which means that you really should check the time.

“I’m going to move my hand, now,” you breathe. “And you’re going to stay quiet.”

He nods feverishly. It seems like he’s actually going to listen—or try, at least—so you carefully draw your hand back so you can check the stopwatch. And he does, he stays quiet, and you think that this merits a little reward, even if it’s technically just another confounding variable.

So you move both of your hands to the button of his pants, still rocking your hips; your calf burns, just a little, at the effort, but it’s nothing you can’t handle. The button’s undone, then the zipper, and you tug down his jeans and his underwear until you can see his cock. It is already painfully hard, and red, and leaking, and your rhythm falters for a moment.

“Okay, I know you said—this is scientist to scientist, right now,” he groans. “How is this a part of the experiment?”

“It’s not,” you reply, simply, returning your hands to the back of the chair. “Just wanted to see it.”

His head tips back even further, at that, and his hard length twitches against his lower abdomen, and your pace quickens. Yes, you think, this is technically skewing the results, but it looks so pretty like this, flushed and weeping; and really, this is just more data, because it tells you that this is doing something similar for him, too.

You’re close, you’re already close, and this is surprising. You assumed this would take at least a few more minutes. You consider slowing down. This is axed immediately. That’s not the objective, anyway. This is about seeing if you can do it, not about how long you can make it last.

Ryland is, apparently, able to sense this. “That’s it,” he murmurs. “What’s the time?”

You glance at the stopwatch. “Six minutes, forty-seven seconds.”

“Wow. And how long were you looking at my hands for?”

You moan as the pressure keeps building in between your thighs. “I don’t—over eleven minutes, I lost track,” you confess. Your eyes flick to his, then down to his lips, and, god, you would really like to kiss him right now, but—scientific method. Controlling variables.

He hums and shifts again. You don’t have it in you to stop him, even as you can feel his hand move underneath you, pressing his knuckle into your clit, because that’s it, that’s the exact pressure necessary to the equation here.

The edge is swiftly approaching, and in your short-circuited mind, you decide that, since you’ve already let a few errant things slide, the whole thing is pretty much out the window, anyway. So you click the stopwatch (since you can estimate the time, really), before you let it fall to the floor, and then you reach down to wrap your hand around his cock, twisting, once, twice, before your orgasm rips through you as he keens and juts up into your hand.

You force yourself to keep your eyes open as you shake and tremble, because just this single touch already has him spurting onto his shirt with a loud whine, and this seems like an important thing to record. For you, really, not for the experiment, because that part is already over. Oh, right—that means you can finally kiss him, then, so you do, licking into his mouth while he trembles.

“So,” he finally says after a while, your head having dipped down to rest on his shoulder, “did you get the result you were looking for?”

“Mm-hm. I’ll need to run it again at some point, though,” you smile. “Have to verify my results.”

You can feel his chest shake as he laughs. “Great. Here’s a thought, a suggestion, really—how about no ropes, next time?”

“I don’t know,” you sigh, turning your head so you can press your lips against his throat. “It’s important to maintain as many variables as we can, across tests.”