Chapter Text
“On that note, I thought it important to mention–“
BZZZT…BZZZT…BZZZT
I jump a little at the interruption, my head snapping towards a black cellphone that slides forward with each vibration. It belongs to Stratt, who immediately halts her speech with an annoyed sigh to check who’s calling. I can't see the screen from my chair but she makes an expression I can only describe as her “an important person is calling” face, she makes that face a lot.
She shoots the group an apologetic smile before continuing.
“I’m sorry everyone but I really must take this, we may resume this meeting tomorrow.” With that she was on the phone and out of the door. Guess that’s that. I remain seated with my arms crossed watching the group pack away various papers, notepads and pens. They seem unbothered, probably off to whatever super important meeting they’re obligated to attend next.
I, however, have no such obligation. At least not for the rest of the night. I glance at my watch, six eighteen in the afternoon. That leaves a decent amount of time to myself before I have to get to bed. Most nights I simply tinker around in the lab until I can hardly keep my eyes open, not a whole lot else to do around here. This past week however my schedule has been filled to the brim so I'm looking forward to having a couple hours to relax.
A brief scan of the room reveals I'm the last person here, the scuffle of footsteps and soft chatter still within earshot just outside of the door. I can’t help but notice Stratt’s belongings still scattered about the table to my right. Whoever called must have had pretty urgent business because her voice is absent in the hall and she isn’t one to leave her things behind, even in a hurry.
With a soft grunt I rise from my seat and take a peek into the hallway. No sign of Stratt, only a lone janitor walking by who flashes a polite smile and waves as we make eye contact. After returning the gesture I spin on my heel, turning my attention back to the open binder, coffee, and loose pens sitting forgotten on the table.
My hand falls to the ring of keys nestled in my front pocket. A few months back Stratt had pulled me aside and entrusted to me a key to her personal office. Apparently, Carl is the only person besides her and myself who have one. She had mentioned something along the lines of “preferring to be prepared” and “emergencies only”.
I do think it’s a little odd that she would give me one of all people, there are plenty of security guards around who are way more qualified, but If I chose to dwell on every little thing Stratt did that I didn’t understand I'd go mad within the week.
She really emphasized the “emergencies only” part so I have yet to actually put the key to use, but if you really think about it– this is kind of an emergency, right? What if someone waltzes right in here and takes a peek at some extremely classified information? Or if they, god forbid, leak said information?
“Mmm, I doubt she’ll mind.” I announce to an empty room with a shrug. It’s a good thing I came last minute and didn't bring much to this meeting because it would be a pain in the behind to carry much more than an extra coffee. I go for the pens first, placing them carefully in my pocket before scooping up the plain black binder in my left arm. Next the coffees, carrying one in each hand. Our names are written on each in black marker.
“RYLAND :)” “eva”
Using my hip to push open the door I begin the journey to Stratt’s office. My eyes stick mainly to the ground in an effort not to trip and end up in a coffee tsunami along with Stratt’s papers, only raising them momentarily to ensure I'm not bumping into anyone. I never touch her things so I’d rather the one time I did they remain undamaged. Especially when I didn’t ask for permission. A chill runs down my spine at the thought of what she’d do to me if she found out I ruined anything important.
Finally, in the middle of having my little crisis about Stratt killing me, I reach her office. Probably should have thought this through a little farther because my hands are full and my keys remain buried in my pocket.
Awkwardly, I try to balance the coffee in my right hand on top of the one in my left and rest my chin on it’s lid for support. It seems stable enough so I rummage around my pocket using my now free hand.
“Ah– there you are.” My hand emerges with the keys, I fumble around for a second before finding what I'm looking for, a small silver key with the words “duplication prohibited” engraved, and unlock the door.
Stratt’s office is a few degrees colder than the hallway. Seeing it all dim and vacant like this is a little unnerving if i’m honest, I waste no time flipping the lights on. I've only been in here a handful of times, but never alone. I'm consistently impressed with how neat she keeps things in here. Maybe it’s because she’s too busy to even be in here half the time, but with how much she works there’s no way she doesn’t spend hours on end here. I shudder at the visual of what my own space looks like after a long night of work.
A large mahogany desk sits to the left of the room along with two black chairs facing its direction. I make my way to the opposite side and gently set the cups I've been balancing onto the desk, followed by the binder and pens in my pocket. After arranging the items neatly I put my hands on my hips, nodding once to acknowledge a job well done. It seems I live to see another day.
You know, in all the times I've been in this room I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen this side of the desk. It’s busy yet just as tidy as the rest of the office, spare a few sticky notes with dates and times scribbled across. On the left, a file organizer holds stacks of notebooks and loose papers littered with tabs of various colors. Next to it is a mug filled with as many pens and pencils as it can hold.
On the right of the desk sits a simple black picture frame. It seems to be a photo of Stratt standing in front of a mountainscape, the sky a swirl of pink and orange behind her. Her lips are pressed into a thin smile while her shoulder length auburn hair flows out to her side, carried by the wind along with her scarf. She looks a few years younger and unsure of what to do with her body as she stands stiffly with her arms behind her back.
A smile creeps across my face while I study the photo. There is something bittersweet about seeing Stratt before things went south. I wonder what she had going on at the time this was taken, it’s hard to imagine her life before Project Hail Mary. I can only assume she was in some other sort of leadership role, that seems to be her calling. Maybe she keeps this here to remind herself of better days. My heart pangs.
My thoughts are interrupted once my eyes focus on something new. A journal lies a couple inches in front of the picture frame, an intricate tree design embossed in the deep brown leather cover. I can’t help but run my fingers across the design– it’s incredibly satisfying. I’ve always been able to appreciate a good journal, I have quite a collection back home, though most remain untouched due to my slightly irresponsible habit of buying more than I can use. Still, it’s pleasing seeing them lined up on my shelf. Man, I miss my stuff.
I know it’s probably wrong considering it’s not mine, but with two hands I lift the journal and observe its weight. It’s certainly real leather, I wonder where she got this. I’m sure it costs far more than anything I have in my collection.
I notice a navy blue ribbon spilling from one of the pages. Geez, even her bookmarks look fancy. I’m curious about the paper quality, though it would definitely be inappropriate if after Stratt entrusts me with a key to her office I go around flipping through her notebooks. That’s sort of what I’m here to prevent after all. However, this looks like an expensive journal and I'll be damned if I don't get a feel for some high quality paper. I’ll simply not read what’s written down, that’s the least i could do if i’m feeling up her personal things.
The journal flips open to the bookmarked page with minimal effort. Only the left page is written on. Her handwriting is neat but small, tightly packed enough to make it somewhat easy to ignore what’s written. I drag my fingers across the crisp white paper. The texture feels smooth, perfect for the use of a fountain pen. Hey, there’s something else I collect! I've always thought a good journal and fountain pen go hand in hand, can’t have one without the oth–
The thought fizzles as my eyes flicker towards the middle of the filled page. A few paragraphs down, packed between fine black lines and curves sits a familiar word. It begs for my attention.
Dr. Grace
My eyes only focus on the name for a split second, just long enough to recognize it as my own, before moving on. It wasn’t a conscious effort but it’s a little hard not to read and recognize your own last name, even if it’s a bit hidden.
I’ve already lost the word on the page, I know only the general area and I’d have to read the page to find it again. That would be a massive breach of privacy and trust, but that definitely is my name.
What could Stratt possibly be writing about me in her personal journal anyway? At least, I assume this is her personal journal. Sure looks like it, the cover stands out against the other more professional looking notebooks I’ve seen her carry around. I’d understand if she was keeping records or something like that but the formatting suggests otherwise. It's broken up almost like a story, with dialogue and everything.
Rapidly I flip through a few previous pages, far too fast to read anything else, and I might as well be flipping through a novel.
I continue my silent debate for a solid minute or two, the journal never leaving my hands. There is just no way I'll be able to focus on anything else knowing my name is in here and I have no idea why. I’m sure anyone would do the same.
With a sigh I flip back to the bookmarked page, swallowing hard and twirling the ribbon with my fingers as I begin to read. Why am I so anxious?
“Down”
Their eyes remain locked tight as he lowers to his knees, his hands rest flat on each thigh. He keeps his head still as he looks up at her past hooded eyelids, darkened pupils obscured by thick lashes.
God he’s beautiful like this, she thinks.
Eva rises from the edge of the bed and takes a few steps forward. The tips of her pointed shoes sit only an inch from his knees. He’s practically resting his chin on her thighs as his neck cranes in an attempt to maintain the eye contact.
She cups his face with a single hand, her touch warm. Gentle.
“Are you ready to show me what a good boy you are, Dr. Grace?” Her hand slid up from his jaw and brushed through the hair above his ear. His eyes are closed now, breathing jagged.
His own fingers dig tight into his thighs, knuckles growing white. He wishes they were hers instead.
“Y…yes ma’am.”
Oh. My. God.
I read and re-read the page at least four times, I can only blink rapidly with my mouth agape as I’m doing so. My chest feels tight and I think my knees might be wobbling but I'm too focused on what I'm reading to be sure.
A wave of guilt crashes into me, my mouth feels dry, my stomach lies at my feet. I really, really shouldn’t be reading this. I feel like a kid getting into his parents' things with the knowledge they could walk in the door at any moment and catch me red handed.
But what am I supposed to do now? Put the journal back and pretend I never read this? Honestly, that might be a good idea. I could leave right now and forget all about this.
No. No way I'll be able to move on what I just read with the snap of a finger.
What else am I gonna do, confront Stratt? Walk right up to her and say hey boss, I went through your personal stuff and found that little story you wrote about us in your office! Care to explain? She would probably boot me from the mission and have me back home before I even finished my sentence if she didn’t decide to kill me herself.
Finally, I peel my eyes from the journal. I set it open where it originally was on the desk. I need to sit.
My knees definitely are shaking so I park myself in Stratt’s office chair. Is this really how Stratt sees me? As far as I know, I’m the only Dr. Grace around so it's not like she's writing about someone else. She could be writing about a fictional character– but why the hell would she give them my name? I can only assume she’s writing from her own perspective given the fact she also used her own name, plus of course the fact that this is her journal sitting on her desk in her office.
The journal is about three quarters full. A few fresh beads of sweat form at my temple.
What else was written in there? There is simply no way the entire thing is filled with stories solely involving me. Maybe there are a few different people around the vat she’s fantasizing about? Perhaps a character in a medical drama she’s always had a thing for? I guess that could explain the Dr. Grace thing. I can’t exactly blame her for finding a hobby to indulge in after hours considering how hard she works, but in no universe would I have guessed I’d be part of that. Especially not like this.
I could confirm my thoughts…nobody’s stopping me. I could pick that journal back up right now and skim through as many pages as I please, see what else Stratt writes about in the little free time she has.
My hand lifts and I’m reaching for the journal again before I can even begin to convince myself how this might be a bad idea. I absolutely need to know what else she’s written about me. This time I flip to a random page and begin reading from the top.
—
“Quiet.” She snapped without looking up from her paperwork. Her foot lifted, pressing hard against the bulge in his pants. A deep groan escapes his lips, sending a fresh wave of pleasure throughout her body.
His tongue quickened and she sucked on her lip in an attempt to steady her focus on the report in front of her.
Grace had begged her on his hands and knees to let him help her work, and he was quite convincing in the way he’d fluttered those watery eyes. How could she say no? She was starting to regret it now however, his constant noises proving to be quite the distraction.
She was suddenly pulled from her thoughts at the added sensation of his fingers brushing against her ankle. They made their way along her calf, across her knee and creeped achingly slow up her thigh.
Her breath hitched when she felt one slide into her. The pen she was holding dropped to the table with a soft clack, workload abandoned as her eyes squeezed shut.
He was going so painfully slow she couldn’t handle it.
Her hands moved to grip the chair’s armrests, she sank down slightly and shifted her hips in an attempt to chase his touch. He smiled against her, he knew exactly what he was doing. Her brows furrowed in frustration as she imagined how she would punish him for it.
—
Okay…holyshit.
So it looks like maybe there’s a bit more to this than I had originally thought. I can’t help but be painfully aware that I'm sitting in the same office this story seems to be taking place in. I feel my face grow warm at the thought, but that doesn’t seem to be my only reaction.
Looking down past the journal confirms my suspicion.
An erection. In Eva Stratt’s office. While reading her personal smut fantasies involving, oh you know, me.
What the fresh hell is even happening right now.
Never would I have ever expected Stratt to see me like this, or even be capable of this for that matter. I mean Christ, she called me beautiful on the first page I read. My blush deepens further at that.
I check my watch, six thirty five. The meeting earlier was originally scheduled until half past six. Stratt had mentioned meeting with Yao and Ilyukhina afterward, for what I have no idea. A small daily calendar sitting on a file cabinet to the side of the desk reveals she won’t be done until seven fifteen at the latest, she prefers not to go overtime if she can help it.
I shift the journal from both hands to just my left. I can’t believe I’m actually doing this.
My palm meets my aching bulge and I let out a shallow gasp, sliding further down into the seat. Every cell in my body begs for more.
What would Stratt do if she figured out I had gotten off in her office? Which I am in without permission, don't forget that part. Even worse, she could walk through that door at any minute and catch me touching myself to her journal. I think I might actually have to jump right into the ocean and swim home myself if that were to happen.
Even then– my hands find themselves undoing the button on my pants, trembling as they slide down the zipper. Biology wins.
In one motion I slip both my pants and briefs down my waist just far enough for my dick to spring free. My entire body prickles with goosebumps as flush hot skin meets chilled office air. God why does she have to keep it so damn cold in here. Though I guess she probably isn’t prancing around with her pants off. Well there’s a visual.
My eyes fall back into my skull as my right hand wraps firm around the base of my cock. After getting used to the sensation, I guide it up and down slowly. It’s been almost a week since I've had a true chance to unwind, so I'm more sensitive than usual. Pleasure creeps through my body and my breath grows uneven. The absurdity of the situation seems to fade in my mind momentarily.
Once I reach an even rhythm my eyes find their way back to the journal still in my hand. My brain is rapidly growing fuzzy and my eyes have a hard time focusing on the text, but Stratt's crisp handwriting makes it easier.
—
He added a second finger, picking up his pace slightly as they curled against soft flesh. His tongue moved in quick circles around her clit and the combination was enough to render her brain useless in terms of getting any work done.
Deciding his pace isn’t to her liking she grabs a generous handful of Grace’s hair, pulling him hard into her cunt. He lets out a muffled whimper but seems to get the memo, his fingers working deeper into her. Her hips rock in tandem with each curl of his fingers, creeping closer and closer to the edge.
While leaned back like this she has a perfect view of Dr. Grace under the desk. He’s currently a whining, disheveled mess of a man. Blonde hair sticks up in every direction around her fist. His eyes are pressed shut as if he’s deeply focused, glasses pushed up his face and almost entirely fogged up.
She finds it cute how dedicated he is to her satisfaction while completely ignoring his own needs. The apparent bulge in his pants sat unattended. It would remain that way, he was being bad.
For now, Eva focused solely on her own pleasure. A second hand finds his scalp, settling at the back of his head and guiding him exactly where she needs him to be. It’s like he can read her mind, slowing and speeding up his movements at just the right times.
Her eyes alternate between looking at Grace and squeezed shut, she was so close now.
—
My eyes fall closed. I can hardly even focus on the words as the book trembles in my hand, nearly toppling to the floor a few too many times.
I’m slouched almost halfway down the chair at this point and my glasses hang on for dear life at the tip of my nose. My lips are trapped between my teeth in a desperate attempt to stay quiet, but that silence is tainted by wet slapping and involuntary whines.
“Mmphffu–“ My hand pumps furiously now, squeezing a little tighter when they reach the tip of my cock. Whatever steady pace I’d started with was now abandoned.
The scene I just read replays in my mind. I can almost feel Stratt’s fingers in my hair, pulling me into her. I feel the way the muscles in her legs twitch under my touch, the heat of her on my tongue. I wonder how she tastes.
When my eyes open again they fall naturally to the photo of Stratt on her desk. It’s such an innocent looking photo, featuring such an innocent looking girl. It’s hard to imagine the woman featured is the same person responsible for such filth.
It’s extremely hot.
My mind paints a visual of her hand holding one of her expensive pens, grip firm. Her muscles flex as the ink dances across the page. Words flow with ease from the depravity of her mind to a fresh page of paper. Somehow her hands look both strong and elegant. I want them all over me. I need them all over me.
“Ah–Eh..Eva–“.
My eyes stay glued to the picture as I release a week's worth of tension onto my shirt, a fresh wave of pleasure hitting my body. My toes curl in my shoes while my jaw hangs open. Fallen hair obscures my vision.
Somehow in all the excitement I've sunk even further down into the chair, my butt now hangs nearly half way off. My glasses rest foggy on my chest, sweaty clothes stick to my body. God I look absolutely ridiculous.
There’s no way in hell I just did that.
My eyes flicker once again to my watch. It reads six forty two, plenty of time to clean up and get back to my room (hopefully) without suspicion. I can ponder the morality of my actions later.
I have to remain seated for at least a few minutes before attempting to stand. Something tells me if I do so too quickly I’ll end up firmly on the ground. Well, I can at least pull my pants back up and clean myself off while I wait. With a stretch of my arm I manage to set the journal on the desk from where I'm slouched. I use my now free hand to throw on my glasses and to hoist myself up by the armrest.
Behind the picture frame sits a box of tissues– wish i’d noticed those a little sooner. The last thing I wanted to do is make a mess in Stratt’s office but it’s probably not great to just, uh, let go all over my clothing either. Better than on the desk, I suppose.
Would she punish me if I did? If I made a mess of myself all over her desk?
My already spent dick twitches at the thought of what she might do to me. I shut my eyes hard enough to see stars and try to shake the thoughts away, but my efforts are fruitless. I need to keep in mind that these stories are strictly fantasy, not something to be taken seriously.
Then why am I tingling at the thought of Stratt grabbing my face rough enough to leave a mark? Her nails dig into my flesh. Why do I want her to lean in until the tips of our noses hover over each other, gaze dark and unforgiving as she scolds me on how disobedient I've been? Her breath is warm against my face, spearmint. I want to taste it. My pupils shake as they’re forced to meet hers. Why do I grow clammy at the idea of her leading me to the bed by my hair for whatever discipline she sees fit? My eyes water at the sting, it feels so good.
Jesus Christ I’m doing exactly what she is.
I’ll be honest I do see the appeal, though I don’t think I'm anywhere close to bold enough to write any of it down. I’ll be taking that to the grave, thank you very much.
Finally, after coming to my senses I clean myself off the best I can with just a tissue. Unfortunately my shirt is black and therefore the thin streaked stains are plainly visible. I really hope that’s not too obvious as I head back to my room. The last thing I need is someone seeing that, especially after I've come from Stratt’s office. In Stratt’s office? Whatever.
Tentatively I raise to my feet. A few beats pass as I stand still to ensure I'm stable enough to walk around. It seems I am, so I straighten my shirt. That stain is really bugging me but there’s not much I can do about it now. I'm about to toss the tissue in the trash under her desk before I’m struck by how stupid it would be to leave that kind of evidence. I highly doubt Stratt is examining her trash for other intruder trash but with that woman’s diligence you never know.
I crinkle my nose as I realize what I’m about to do. I lower the tissue into my front pocket, the one without the keys (obviously, gross). I really need to make sure I remove that before laundry day.
I do my very best to return the chair back to how it was when I found it, matching the placement and rotation to my memory. A few extra tissues is enough to wipe up any sweat still stuck to the leather. Once I'm satisfied I take my time adjusting the journal. If anything she would certainly realize if that was out of place, even the bookmark needs to be right.
I grab a blank sticky note from the desk and place it on the returned binder. Probably a good idea to let her know who moved her things should she go looking for them.
“u forgot ur stuff so I moved it to ur office for u, hope thats ok :) - Ryland”
That’s good enough, easier to ask for forgiveness than permission I suppose. With that my job here is complete. Technically it had ended before I masturbated to completion in my boss’s office but I’d rather not dwell on that any longer.
With that I'm on my way to the door. I do a quick scan of the room to ensure everything’s in its place before turning on my heel and power walking down the hallway. I’m hoping if I walk fast enough the stains on my shirt will be less visible. Thank god nobody was in the hallway when I stepped out, I look like a shoplifter on their way out of a department store.
That night sleep never comes. Sprawled out on top of an unmade bed I stare at the ceiling in silence, hands joined atop my torso. I don’t even bother to remove my clothing, only kicking my shoes off the second I enter the room before falling into bed where I stir the whole night.
I mean– how the hell am I supposed to sleep with the newfound knowledge that my boss (who is very pretty and very intimidating might I add, doesn’t make this easier) has strong enough sexual fantasies about me to have an entire journal dedicated to it? I tried thinking about a bunch of other much less sexy slash more important things as well. The Petrova line, Astrophage, the impending doom of death as the sun fades out, etcetera.
Yeah, it didn't work.
I have no idea how I'm supposed to face her after this. Unfortunately, I have zero choice, I'm by her side constantly. I’m not going to just ignore Stratt and therefore the mission just because of a silly little fantasy.
Just a silly little fantasy. I think that’s what I'm so hung up on, I can’t tell if that’s the truth. The only way to know for sure is to ask Stratt and there is no way that’s happening, absolutely not ever. Even if I didn’t think she would be pissed, I don’t have even close to enough guts.
I sigh. My brain begs to wander, growing tired of repeated analysis.
“Are you ready to show me what a good boy you are, Dr. Grace?”
The sentence burns a scar in my mind. I can hear her voice purring the words over and over, feel her hands on my skin, in my hair, on my body. I try to imagine her room, the texture of the floor on my knees as I kneel for her. Maybe she has a rug. It's soft and smooth under my fingertips as I crawl towards the bed. She’d tut and wave a finger, On the floor until I'm convinced you can behave.
I have got to get myself together.