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“-!”.
What?
“-! Can you hear me?”
Head hurts.
Your head hurts. Excruciatingly so. It’s all you can think about. A band wound tight around your skull, squeezing any coherent thought out of your scrambled mind. You take a shuddering breath, lungs stuttering as oxygen is drawn in, attempting to establish a regular breathing pattern. Your eyelashes flutter against your cheek, blinding light sending flashes of stars behind your closed lids.
After a moment, you finally gain control, blinking back to the present. Your vision is blurry, a shape of something in front of you that you can’t quite make out. You feel your brows furrow in confusion, mind desperately trying to reel in your swimming thoughts.
Orange.
Gold.
Blonde.
A man.
A man is on his knees in front of you. His face is familiar; you think you know him. But how?
“There you are. Jesus, you scared me,” he huffs, placing a hand on his hip while the other runs through his already messy hair.
Your eyes flit around, taking in his concerned features. Glasses askew, soft shadows contouring his handsome face. His eyebrows are furrowed upwards, mouth slightly open as he looks at you.
“Are you alright?”
You try talking, throat clicking as the words try to spill out.
“I-”.
You try again, swallowing with a wince.
“I th-think so?”
What the hell happened?
“What the hell happened out there?” he asks.
Well, obviously, he didn’t know either. Okaaaay. C’mon brain. Important questions to be answered. You close your eyes, trying to remember. Flashes of color stream behind your lids. You can hear your breath recycling itself in your suit. Your EVA suit. Okay, yes. You were out on the hull. Of what? An airplane?
No, stupid, a ship. Spaceship. We’re in space, remember? Oh yes. How could you forget the Inevitable death of being sent into the vastness of the unknown on behalf of saving the whole human race?
“EVA,” is all you can spit out.
The man’s gaze falls to you again, a frown forming on his face.
“Yes, you were out on an EVA. We were talking a few minutes ago. Do you not remember?”
Trying.
Trying.
Trying.
“I remember,” you say, a little unsure of yourself.
A huff leaves his lips.
“Yeah, that sounds certain. C’mon, we’re getting you checked out.”
Before you can object, he’s wrapping his arms behind your back and your knees, picking you up effortlessly. Zero Gravity. You remember. Space. Yeah. Keep forgetting that part.
“I can walk-” you start, pushing against his chest in an attempt to free yourself.
“Alright, alright,” he says, lowering your legs before releasing hold on your back.
The sudden lack of gravity has you spinning, liquid in your inner ear sloshing violently. It turns your stomach, and you heave once, not wanting to vomit in your suit. A groan leaves your lips as your head tilts, thudding against the glass of your visor.
Strong arms envelop you again, and you can’t help but lay your head on his shoulder, too nauseous to put up a fight.
“Armando!” you hear him yell before your vision blurs again.
When your eyes open again, there’s a robotic arm inches from your face, distorted by your visor.
“Heart rate 136 - diagnosis - Tachycardia.”
You’ve always hated going to the doctor.
“Eye movement detected - Slightly Delayed.”
You twitch your toes, feeling the soft cotton of the socks in your space shoes. A shrill succession of clicks by your ear has you wincing.
“Auditory stimuli response - Normal.”
Phew. A sigh of relief at that. You reach up to take off your helmet, and the robotic arms maneuver quickly, holding your arms by your side.
“Attempt to take helmet off - Body scan not complete.”
You huff, wriggling against the firm hold Armando has on your wrists. Your own breath fogs the glass of your visor as your breathing quickens. A sharp tap to your biceps, knees, and ankles is performed. You feel your muscles jerk in response.
“Reflexes - Slightly Delayed”.
“Armando, diagnosis?” you hear a voice say.
Him again.
You crane your neck to get a glimpse of him, but can’t move due to the arms holding you down.
“Prognosis diagnosis seventy-five percent complete. Possible concussion. Pupillary response delayed Dr. Grace.”
Dr. Grace.
Yes.
Ryland.
You remember now.
Bits and pieces are coming back. You must’ve hit your head pretty hard to forget him. How could you forget him?
“Ry-” you groan.
A shuffling of footsteps to your left, and then he’s there, peering down over his glasses. His face looks relieved, features softened for the moment.
“Hey,” he says softly. “Almost done, okay?”
You nod, wiggling your wrist to give him a thumbs-up. He looks down and smiles, patting your helmet before stepping back.
Armando moves rapidly above your head, arms attaching to your life support and checking your oxygen levels.
“Contaminant detected.”
You feel your gut drop. What?
“Contaminant? What do you mean by "contaminant”?” Ryland asks, voice tilting upwards in concern.
“Twenty-one percent oxygen, seventy-six percent nitrogen, point zero four carbon dioxide, point nine six unknown.”
“Unknown?” you question, voice wavering.
“Small breach in EVA suit detected. Patching to contain contaminant.”
“Am I going to die?” you ask, chest starting to rise and fall rapidly as you take in the new information.
“No, you’re not going to die.” Ryland answers, already suiting up and taking a step towards the lab. “Stay put, I’ll be back.”
Don’t leave me, you want to say, but your throat is paralyzed with fear, only a soft whimper escaping.
“Body scan complete - Suggested treatment - quarantine for unknown contaminant.”
Armando picks your body up, your arms limp by your sides as you watch the ceiling above. You don’t try to fight him, the cold metal of the arms pressing unforgivingly into your flesh. The quarantine area isn’t big. Right inside the airlock, a small room was made for chemical showers to rid of any extra tagalongs of space exploration. Once the filter switches over and locks, Armando sets you down next to a stainless steel table.
“Undress.”
You look up at the robot, arms twitching as it waits for you to do as it said. With trembling hands you unlock your helmet, the pressure destabilizing as you breathe the air from inside the ship. Your nose burns, eyes watering as you slowly set the helmet down on the table with a thunk.
Calm. Stay calm. You’ll figure this out. Ryland can figure this out. It was why you were sent up in the first place, right?
Your lip trembles as you step out of the EVA suit, leaving the skin-tight suit membrane underneath. You put your hands out in front of you, twisting your wrists to look at the back of your hands and then your palms. Looks normal. Shaky, but normal. Next is the underlayer, you peel it from your body, sweat cooling on your exposed skin. Left in your space shoes and your underwear, you shiver as you turn back to Armando.
“Undress,” it states again.
“We really don’t-”
“Undress”
Fuck.
You quickly shed your underclothes and remaining dignity, using your arms to cover what decency you had left. Armando zips out of sight, coming back momentarily with an ugly yellow paper gown.
“Dress.”
A sigh of relief leaves your lips as you pull the scratchy fabric over your body. Ryland walks in a moment later, head down as he looks at his tablet. You fidget, the paper gown sticking uncomfortably on your body.
“Okay so. I don’t know much about the unknown space contaminant, but for all we know it could be nothing.”
He runs a gloved hand over his helmet, a sigh leaving his lips.
“I’m going to die,” you state matter-of-factly, gaze blurring at your feet.
Ryland looks up then, dropping his hands to his sides and stepping over to the quarantine zone.
“Hey, you’re not going to die. Not yet, at least,” he tries comforting.
You laugh quietly, despite it all.
“So, what do we do?”
“We get to solve this.”
The first hour in quarantine, you scrub yourself down with antimicrobial soap, and Armando sprays you off afterwards, giving you a new paper gown. Ryland had excused himself to the lab, wanting to take a crack at deciphering the unknown reading from Armando’s database scan. You weren’t able to have any equipment within your small room, so you weren’t much help. Grace was going to pull most of the weight. You were the attraction through the glass; any symptoms or new discoveries were to be time-stamped and written down, by mutual agreement.
He checks back in on hour three, with not much to report from you. You’ve taken to sitting against the plexiglass wall, staring at the door until he returns. How incredibly lonely, quarantined until (possible) death.
During hour four, Ryland suggests swabbing the inside of your helmet and your nose. You discuss options on how to safely transfer without infecting anything else. Brainstorming rising and falling away in your conversation.
After debating possible risks, you finally decided to give Armando your helmet to scan, figuring it wouldn’t hurt the cause. There were trace amounts of the unknown contaminant, just enough for a few careful swabs. Armando had gathered the samples and given them to Ryland, who was now looking at them under the lens of his microscope.
He had stayed in his suit until Armando sealed them between two slides of glass. Precautions.
“Huh,” he tuts, adjusting the light of the microscope.
You had been lying on the floor, silence between the two of you comfortable as he worked. The change in tone had you resting up on your elbows, wary to hear what he had to say.
“What is it?”
“These samples look like pollen granules.”
“Pollen?” you ask, sitting up fully to make sure you heard him right.
“Yes. I would need to stain them, but I can sort of make out the sporopollenin.”
“So, not dangerous right? How is pollen surviving out in the vacuum of space?” you ask, letting your hands fall in your lap.
“Are you allergic to pollen?” Grace asks, not looking up from his slides.
“No, not really.”
“Then it has to be something else. You’re starting to sweat,” he states, grabbing the slides with gloves to prepare them for staining.
You reach up to feel the back of your neck, fingers coming back damp with sweat. Huh.
“At least run the stain to see,” you plead.
“Already on it. Armando, water please.”
Two arms drop a sealed package of water through a small opening in the quarantine room.
“Sip it slow,” Grace instructs.
You feel yourself flush, a warm syrupy feeling crawling down to your belly. Woah. What was that?
You turn away from him, hiding your face in your knees as you sip the water as he instructed. Proximity was a thing. You were aware of these things. It wasn't like the thought hadn’t crossed your mind before. You and Ryland worked a lot of long hours together, planning on how to fix the astrophage problem.
There had been plenty of late nights indicated by Mary’s internal clock that you had fallen asleep at your station, only for him to gently shake you awake, telling you to go to bed. You looked out for each other and had grown closer during your time together. Isolation does that to a person. That and the fact that you two were the only humans within millions of miles of stars.
“I’ll be back, the stain’s gonna take at least two hours. Yell if anything changes.”
You watch him leave the room, broad shoulders shifting as he maneuvers through the door. Something had changed, you wanted to tell him. But you couldn’t. It would ruin everything.
On hour seven in quarantine, you start feeling achy, muscles sore like they used to be after practice EVA runs before your time on Mary. The stain readback didn’t offer much, just that Ryland had been right about the sample being pollen. What type of pollen? Neither of you was sure.
“Starting to feel achy,” you state, thunking your head against the wall again.
Ryland has moved part of the lab to the airlock, mainly invested in his laptop as he researches Mary’s expansive library on every type of documented pollen in the history of mankind.
“Writing it down.”
“You think it’s a virus?”
“Maybe,” he deadpans, focused on a specific article at hand.
“If this were you, would you be freaking out?”
“Freaking out isn’t going to solve anything. So no. We’re one step closer. It is a pollen. I just don’t know what type. Trying to narrow it down.”
You scoff.
“You’re avoiding my question. You’d totally be freaking out.”
“Yeah, you’re right to both,” he laughs.
By hour nine, your skin feels like it’s on fire. You’re covered in sweat, the paper gown doing nothing but irritating you.
“It’s hot,” you whine softly.
“Ship temperature status - sixty-five degrees - eighteen point three three celsius.”
That can’t be right. You’re burning up on your side of containment. Sweat’s dripping down your back, pooling in the crevices of your elbows.
“Anything?” you ask Ryland, attempting to cool down by lying on the stainless steel table.
He’s been staring at the microscope for over an hour. You watch the slight shake of his head, brows furrowed in frustration.
“No. Buggers are unlike anything I’ve ever seen. The structures aren’t similar to any reference.”
“Bummer,” you sigh, fanning your neck.
“Bummer indeed,” Ryland sighs, putting his hands on his hips.
“You’ve been at this for hours, probably need a break,” you offer.
“I’m fine.”
“Ryland.”
“Okay, I am a little hungry.”
“Go on, I’ll be fine,” you sigh. “Hour nine and I’m not dead yet.”
“You yell if anything changes. I mean it,” he says sternly, putting on his best teacher voice.
“Yes, Mr. Grace,” you joke.
That gets you a smile.
With Ryland out of the room, it was a bit easier to think. Not by much though. All you could focus on was the internal heat burning your nerves. Every point of contact on your body was set alight - the table, the paper gown, your hair on the back of your neck. It was unbearable.
You shifted on the table again in an attempt to get comfortable, but to no avail. Thighs rubbing together, heat building between your legs. This couldn't be pollen. You’d never had a reaction like this. All your mind could wander to was Ryland.
His arms.
The cuffs of his t-shirts stretched thin by his biceps. God. You felt yourself clench around nothing.
Pull it together.
Hour ten creeps up as slow as ever. Body trembling with want. Ryland. Ryland. Ryland. You bite down on your lip, feeling a sharp sting and the taste of blood in your mouth.
Hands. So strong. So certain when helping you into your EVA suit. Long fingers typing collected data into Mary’s database.
Nose. Crooked but pretty. Always sporting his golden glasses, never pushed up all the way. God the way he looks over the rims at you.
Voice. So soft spoken. Never raised it at you. Calm. Collected. Guiding in a way you didn't know you needed.
“No, back up, back up. There. Good.” Showing you how to read the map for your route to Tau Ceti.
“Could use another set of eyes on this.” Asking for your help with a calculation. “Use that pretty head of yours.” And when you solved it, “Knew you could do it. Smart girl.”
Good god. Your eyes roll in your head, a whimper escaping as you thump against the table. What time was it? How long had you been out of it? Yeah, this definitely was not normal pollen.
“Ryland?” you call out, voice wavering.
It's quiet for a few moments.
“Dr. Ryland Grace, your presence is requested in the contamination room,” Mary chimes.
“No, that's okay Mary-,” you blurt out, cheeks burning with embarrassment.
“Dr. Ryland Grace-.”
“Enough Mary!” you yelp, shutting down the command again.
Ryland enters a few moments later, looking disheveled. He’s halfway in and halfway out of a shirt, arms scrambling through the sleeve holes and pulling it over his head. Your mouth goes dry, and it takes everything in you to keep it closed.
“Sorry,” he pants. “Was trying to get a quick shower in.”
You can't help but stare, his hair is still wet, curling messily over his forehead. Those dammed glasses he has still have residual fog from the steam of the water.
“Everything okay?” he asks softly, wiping his glasses on the hem of his shirt.
“I don't think this is a normal pollen,” you whisper.
“Well, yeah,” he laughs warmly. “We’re in space. Gonna be a little different.”
“N-No I mean-” you start, body trembling as you grip the edge of the table.
Ryland’s brows furrow in confusion, watching you closely.
“Go on,” he encourages, full attention on you.
God. Damn. It.
“You can't say stuff like that,” you laugh exasperatedly, throwing your hands up to cover your face.
“What do you mean?” Ryland says, a hint of concern in his voice.
“I think the pollen is some sort of aphrodisiac,” you blurt out, twisting your hands anxiously.
Grace looks at you, stunned. His mouth opens and closes like a fish, sputtering on choice of words and air.
“Let me check the stain again,” he says eventually, words surprisingly level-headed with the new information.
“Fuck the stain!” you cry out. “Every single symptom I’m having points to it.”
“I-,” Grace starts.
You feel tears of frustration spring up in your eyes, spilling hotly down your cheeks.
“I didn't think- why didn't I catch that?” he mumbles to himself.
He looks over the list again, timestamps he wrote over the course of the day.
“I didn't tell you everything,” you sigh, slumping forward in resignation.
“Why?” he says, voice sounding hurt. “We’re supposed to work on this together. Do you not trust me?”
“Of course I do,” you pant out. “But this-this will ruin everything.”
“What do you mean?”
“It’s an obligation. I don't want you to feel obligated to help me.”
“You know that's not-” he starts, shifting his weight on his feet and looking up at the ceiling. “I would do anything for you. Y’know that right?”
Your eyes land on him, tears welling up again.
“You’re all I have. You're important to me. This is important,” he says lowly, stepping towards you.
“Ryland-.”
“And I want to help. Please tell me what I need to do.”
He places a hand on the plexiglass, tapping his fingers in a soft rhythm.
“Just- be here with me,” you breathe out. “Just got to wait it out, right?”
“Right,” he nods.
At hour eleven, things took a turn for the worse. Your brain becomes clouded, the only thoughts you could focus on were as dark as sin. It took everything to keep your mouth closed, whimpers slipping through your crumbling resolve.
“Breathe,” Ryland encourages, tapping the glass to get your attention.
A long whine escapes your throat, crawling up faster than the embarrassment of the whole thing.
“Ryland-” you cry softly. “I can't.”
“C’mon, in…two…three…Hold,” he instructs. “Out…two…three. Breathe with me.”
You attempt to listen, lungs shuddering with jagged breaths. Tears blur your vision, your body burns with want. Your hips lift off the table, searching for any type of relief.
“Fuck it,” you hear him huff, and then the depressurization of the quarantine lock hisses.
“What are you-?” you gasp out, backing up as far as you can on the table.
“I can't just sit here and watch you go through this. What if this alters your brain? Let me help,” Ryland says.
“I can't-,” you shake your head, grasping onto the reality of the situation.
“I’m offering. Take the branch.”
You look at him then. Really look at him. There's certainty written all over his face. His eyes, locked on you - wait for an answer.
“The pollen,” you breathe, “won’t it affect you too?”
“Won’t know until we know.”
“You communicate with me,” you bargain. “On anything, okay?”
“Okay,” he compromises.
You nod and he steps forward, long fingers encircling your ankle. His touch feels like cold water, stinging your overheated skin. Relief. Ryland pulls you gently to him, your legs on either side of his slim waist. His left hand traces swirling patterns onto the soft skin at your knee, while the other brushes your sweaty hair from your forehead.
“Poor thing,” he whispers, giving your knee a soft squeeze. “Got a few ideas. Gonna stay with me?”
You nod fervently.
“Words. Use your words.”
God bless.
“Ye-es,” you whine, his voice already unraveling you.
“Let me know if it's too much.”
“Okay.”
Ryland moves slowly, like you’re made of glass. Delicate. His thumb brushes across your cheek as he leans forward, capturing your lips in a kiss. You gasp softly, and he takes the opportunity to slip his tongue inside. You feel your body tense and then relax, allowing him to explore your mouth.
His left hand slides up your thigh, squeezing at the fat there, each touch soothing for only a moment.
“Please,” you beg against his mouth. “More. Touch me more.”
He tilts your jaw up and to the side, placing wet kisses down and under your ear. A sharp nip to your sweet spot has your stomach doing somersaults. You grasp at his bicep, fingers curling around the taut muscle. His weight rests on his one arm, the other is placed on the side of your neck, fingers resting against the skin.
“Interesting,” he murmurs against your pulse point, nose brushing up against your jaw.
You shudder at the vibrations against your throat, squeezing your thighs against his hips.
“Are you experimenting on me?” you gasp softly.
Ryland hums.
“Maybe.”
Smug bastard.
He nips at your pulse point again, reveling in the soft noises falling from your lips. Your body arches against him on its own accord, needing to be closer.
“You would like this,” you scoff, no heat behind your words.
Ryland’s large hand lands on your hip, squeezing as he whispers in your ear,
“Guilty.”
Your eyes roll again at the sheer honestly of it, his want for you unwarranted.
“And you like the sound of my voice,” he states, smiling against your skin.
“I-,” you flush, skin burning at his observation.
“I’m right, aren’t I?”
Why of all times, now he decides to be smug, you’ll never know. Maybe the pollen was affecting him too. Ryland’s lips part, placing hot open-mouthed kisses down your neck, stopping at the paper gown.
“Didn’t answer me.”
Your stomach flips again as you drag in a shuddering breath. Dizzy with want, you try to focus and remember what he even said. Thoughts fully focused on not having enough of him.
“Losing train of thought here,” you whine. “Overstimulating.”
“Lie back,” he says, pushing your shoulder gently.
You rest back on your elbows.
“What’re you-?” you start to ask, brows furrowing and mouth going slack as he pulls your thighs to rest on his shoulders.
“Trust me?” he asks, peering over his glasses.
Those god damned glasses.
You nod, eyes wide as he pushes the paper gown up to your hips, exposing cool air to your quivering lower half.
“Ryland-” you start.
“Testing a hypothesis,” he says, eyes focused on your spread legs. “You’re soaked.”
His breath comes out punched, the sight of you splayed on the table going straight to his cock. Ryland pulls your hips up, up, up, before pressing his tongue flat against your soppy folds.
“Oh fu-uck-” you choke, throat clicking as you gasp.
You watch his eyes flutter closed and you feel him moan against your core. His tongue glides slowly through, searing the taste of you to memory. Your fingers slide into his messy hair, gripping the strands in a way to keep yourself semi-composed.
He’s relentless, chasing your bucking hips as you grind against his face. The stubble on his face burns deliciously, rubbing the soft skin of your thighs. Your stomach pulls taut, legs trembling as he circles your clit in rapid succession.
Ryland makes a mess out of you, your slick coating his chin and dripping on the table below.
“God-,” you gasp, legs kicking out in a futile attempt to get closer? back away?
You’re not even remotely sure, lost in the pleasure burning through your spine.
“Gonna-” you warn.
“Come,” he groans against your pussy while pressing kisses against your folds.
It comes fast and hard, pleasure rippling through your body and ending in your fingertips. You gasp, lungs stuttering as you writhe. Ryland guides you through it, slow licks and pets to your side as you come down.
Body trembling, you blink your eyelids, not having realized that they had closed. Your fingers are tight in his hair, fingers cramping. You release them slowly, patting Ryland’s cheek to let him know you were alright.
“Jesus-” you laugh, the burning hot feeling slowly residing to a warm pulse under your skin.
“Hypothesis confirmed,” Ryland grins. “I know how to fix this.”
“How?” you ask, playing along.
You know the answer too.
You take his fingers next. They're long and thick when they press against your walls.
“Fu-uck, Ry-,” you pant out, lids heavy as he curls them up towards your spongey spot.
“Yeah,” he pants softly. “Good, isn’t it?”
You nod, eyes focused on his lips. He leans down and kisses you again, pulling his fingers back and thrusting them back inside as he bites down on your lip.
That tears a groan from your throat, crawling up unabashedly and swallowed by the man above you. He’s panting into your mouth, thumb rubbing against your clit.
“C’mon,” he praises. “You got another in you.”
You clench around his fingers, whimpering at his words.
“Yeah, yeah. C’mon, almost there.”
Fuuuuuck.
You feel the second one coming, nerves bunching tightly in your core before sending your limbs into a trembling fit. Pleasure burns at the base of your spine, hips twitching with the aftershocks.
“Ohmygod,” you sob, Ryland’s fingers milking every last drop of pleasure from you.
Your chest heaves as you cry, relief settling in your body before starting a slow simmer again. Insatiable. Utterly insatiable.
“There we go. Good girl,” he coos, pressing a kiss to your temple.
Your eyes flutter closed, whining as he pulls his fingers out. You feel your hole flutter, slick dripping down your thighs.
“Messy girl,” he admonishes, swiping through your folds and bringing his fingers to your lips. “Open.”
You oblige, letting the pads of his fingers rest on your tongue. You taste sweet, the sweat on his fingers triggering your saliva. The two of you stay like that for a moment, sharing breaths, fingers resting in your mouth. You lick them clean. You’re exhausted, body and mind in a post-orgasm haze.
“Check in,” Ryland says as he pulls his fingers from your mouth, tapping your cheek twice. “How’re we doing?”
“Good,” you breathe.
“Good,” he mimics back.
You take in the sight of him. Glasses fogged, eyes dark as sin. He’s got a pretty flush, cheeks and the tips of his ears red.
“Pretty,” you murmur.
He leans down, pressing a kiss to your lips.
“One more,” he coaxes. “Give me one more?”
You whine softly and he pets your side.
“Promise.”
“O-kay,” you say, pleasure fogging your thinking.
Ryland steps back for a moment, pulling his shirt over his head and letting it drop to the floor. He’s gorgeous. Tanned skin, lean physique - all muscle. Pretty little happy trail leading into his sweatpants. Your mouth waters at the sight. He shimmies his sweatpants down to his thighs, the tip of his cock peaking out.
Red and swollen, the head slick with precome. He palms himself over his boxers for a moment before pushing those down too. It bobs up against his stomach, resting against a bed of soft curls.
“Don’t know what you do to me,” he sighs, stepping forward and placing one of your legs on his broad shoulders.
He slides the swollen head through your folds, the tip catching on your entrance. You’re already soaked, and he’s able to slide in with no restraint.
“Fuuuck,” he groans, eyebrows furrowing in pleasure.
Ryland inches slowly, pushing down on your abdomen to feel himself fill you up.
“Incredible,” he muses, slowly pulling back and thrusting back in.
His gaze is fixed on where your bodies meet. Your skin burns against his own, finding reprieve the closer you are. You’re so fucking full, dumb on his cock as he opens you up. It’s overwhelming and not enough. You clench around his length, loving the way his hips stutter.
“Harder,” you beg. “Please Ry.”
Ryland glances at you over his glasses, a quick look of confirmation and his hips slap against your ass. He griiiiinds against your clit, cock tilted perfectly against your cervix.
“Mmmm- fuck,” you moan. “Right there. Right there.”
He does it again, praise encouraging him. One deep stroke and a slow grind, breaking your body open and putting it back together again. He presses his forehead to your calf, breath shuddering with each thrust. Devastatingly observing every breath, every gasp, every whimper as you come undone. Your hands grab at him, any expanse of skin you can touch. Crescents from your nails left behind. Ryland’s kisses burn into your skin, branding you as his.
He’s divine - a sight painted in full Renaissance above you. Lids heavy, pink lips parted and panting, a slight sheen of sweat on his skin. You want to taste it. His eyes glimmer mischievously, hand snaking between the two of you to rest on your throat. A placeholder.
A hum of appreciation leaves your mouth, mixing with the sounds of skin meeting and parting over and over again. Ryland’s other hand rests on your torso, fingers splayed over your ribs.
“Beautiful,” he sighs, rolling his hips languidly against your own.
Your vision blurs, overwhelmed. You choke out a moan, orgasm punching the breath from your lungs. It’s sudden, causing your walls to flutter around his cock. Ryland’s hips stutter again, tight heat pulling him near the precipice of his own pleasure.
“Not gonna last,” he laughs, the airy noise turning into a moan.
“Inside,” you plead.
“Y’sure?” he asks, words fumbled due to pleasure.
You nod.
“Words. I need words.”
“Yes. Ryland god please yes,” you ramble, arching your hips up to meet his own.
“Fucking Christ,” he gasps, hips stuttering for a moment before stilling, warm release coating your walls.
The warmth beneath your skin dissipates and you cry in relief. Ryland slumps against your chest, the weight of him pleasant on your spent body. It’s quiet for a moment, your breathing cycling with each other up, mirror systems regulating.
“Thank you,” you say, running a hand through his hair, it’s damp with sweat.
“You’re welcome,” he breathes, swirling patterns into your side.
Another quiet moment.
“So-,” he starts.
“So?” you question.
“How are you feeling?”
“Better. Much much better.”
“Good,” he says.
“You?”
“Very good.”
You laugh.
“Thanks for not letting me die.”
“Thanks for trusting me.”
“Always, Ryland. Always.”