jackk @aneurysmuz - Tumblr Blog

Jun 17

Fire Rescue

ryland grace x firefighter!reader

summary: 🔥✨ A failed experiment causes a fire to emerge in Mr. Grace's classroom. Luckily, a very handsome fireman is there to save him. ✨🔥

Tags: masc!reader, mlm, strangers to lovers, reader is implied to be strong/muscular ig, reader lowkey isn’t mentioned until 2k words in, ryland's kinda a jerk, not beta read oop

w/c: ~8.8k

“Holy fuuuudddgggeee! Fudger- fuuu” Ryland’s not-so profanities muddle into groans. A cloud of foam sprays from the nose of the fire extinguisher in his hands, snuffing the growing flames into nothing more than thick dark smoke. He holds his arms straight as he assaults the fire with sweeps of the extinguisher from side to side.

The science teacher coughs as he chokes out huffs of smoke. He fans his face in an attempt to clear the air, but it doesn't do much to alleviate the burn in his throat. The fumes flood his senses. Still, he sprays the extinguisher twice more for good measure.

It was supposed to be an easy experiment, trivial really. Ryland has done this experiment a million times and it has never gone this wrong.

Mr. Grace meticulously adjusts the gas dial on the bunsen burner on his desk. A room full of curious students watch him closely. “Okay, kids,” he starts “Get to somewhere you can see.”

The students raise their heads to get a good look. On his desk, besides the mountains of paperwork he’s pushed to the side, are cups of different powders and liquid, as well as the bunsen burner. Ryland grabs a box of matches and tosses them up and down in his hand.

“Alright, as many of you know, we’re going to be literally playing with fire today. And I am required by law to remind you of the safety measures, so let’s make this quick.”

“Do we turn on or adjust our burners without my permission?” He asks the class, pointing the thumb of his free hand to himself.

“NO!” The class responds.

“Do we put our body parts within one foot of the flame?”

“NO!”

“Do we put our hair up before starting the experiment?”

A mix of nos and yeses chorus from the room between the kids mindlessly answering and those actually listening to the questions. Ryland smirks.

“Ha, gotcha. Yes, everyone with long hair put it up. Keep your safety goggles on and come to me if you need any help, am I missing anything?” The students in the front row shake their heads. Ryland places a finger to his lips. “Oh! Listen to my instructions! The most important rule.”

The students laugh, but Ryland can tell they’re getting restless with excitement. “Okay, let’s get started. Everyone pay close attention to the demo I’m about to do.”

Ryland pulls his goggles over his glasses, which immediately fog up. He looks over the rim of his frames as he grabs one of the cups in front of him. “You guys have learned from our geology unit that different minerals have different properties. Density, hardness, colors. Those properties can also cause fire to burn different colors.”

He grabs a metal spoon and scoops the powder in the cup. He tilts the cup forward enough for the kids to see without spilling it. The shiny blue powder glistens, drawing the students even closer. “This is copper sulfate, a mix of sulfur and copper.” He raises the cup to his nose and makes a curious face. “Surpisingly, it has no smell,” he observes. “But don’t eat it! It’s not rock candy!”

He carefully pours the powder from the spoon into the barrel of the bunsen burner. “Any guesses of what color this will turn the fire?”

“BLUE!” His students respond enthusiastically.

Ryland smirks. “We will see.” He checks the gas line once more. “Okay count down.”

“THREE!”

He turns the gas handle.

“TWO!”

He lights a match.

“ONE!”

He lights the top of the bunsen burner using the match, igniting a small green flame. The students let out their ‘oohs’ and ‘ahhs’, shiny eyes reflecting the green hue back to their teacher.

“Woah, right?” Ryland hypes as he adjusts the flame's size using the needle valve until the flame is substantial and glowing brightly.

Well, it is for a second, before it flickers and dwindles. The blonde man’s eyebrow scrunches. “Huh,” he says, “that’s weird.” He fiddles with the needle valve… nothing happens. He scratches his head. Sweat is collecting at his brow now from the foggy goggles and he’d really like to wipe it off.

Ryland finally adds more gas with the handle. Maybe there was a problem with the gas pressure? And it had built up pressure at first? Whatever, he turns it up again.

He goes back to teaching, explaining the science of the green flame. The gentle whir of the air conditioning started. On good, now it won’t be so muggy and hot in here. Especially once all the burners are on, the room would be a sauna. The fire dances with the cool flow of air from the vents. Ryland considers taking off his goggles and fixing his glasses, but he figured that would be a bad example to the students.

Just as Ryland is answering a question from the girl in the third row, the fire surges, angry and vibrant.

Ryland jumps back. “Holy crap!” he exclaims, pushing himself against his whiteboard. He quickly remembers he’s the teacher, the trained scientist, and the only adult in the room; thus, it’s his job to handle this. He reaches back over to cut the gas, but not before the barrel literally falls straight off the base, tumbling down like a dead tree. Stupid piece of junk. Curse this school's ancient equipment.

Good news: the fire is disconnected from the gas. Yay!

Bad news: the fire has fallen onto all of Grace’s paperwork. Boo!

Any thoughts that Ryalnd had were quickly cut off by the screams of 13 year olds. The kids run to the back of the classroom, confused, scared, but waiting for instruction. They don’t really practice fire drills where the fire takes place inside their classroom. Ryland needs to think fast, because the green flame is increasingly feasting on stacks of research papers and handouts.

“Remain calm!” Ryland yells over the chaos. He reaches for the fire extinguisher he thankfully put nearby. Though, of course, he thought it wasn’t going to be him who caused the fire. He backs up and rips the pin out. The sound of the metal pin hitting the floor is muted by the spray of the extinguisher.

The room is as silent as a desolate battle field by the end of it. Mr. Grace looks at the students. They look back at him, all with the same thought in their heads.

What. The. Fu-

The ear shattering ringing of the fire alarm blares. Even the terribly inefficient smoke alarm (which Ryland highly doubts has been checked since… well ever) recognizes the smoke rising to the ceiling. The sprinklers (which have definitely never been used) release drenching sprays of water.

The kids screech and cover their heads. Ryland just sighs. His clothes droop and stick to his skin. He appears to be more of a wet rat than anything. He pulls his goggles up to his forehead and takes his glasses to wipe them off. It won’t do anything considering they’ll just get wet again, but it makes him feel just a bit calmer, more in control.

“Alright, everyone out into the hallway. Single file. You know the drill.”

It was a disaster. One that Ryland wasn’t entirely sure that he was ready to take responsibility for.

The parking lot was filled with students and teachers taking attendance. Most of the kids out there looked uninterested, but were grateful for the break from school. Everyone probably would have assumed it was just another drill had it not been for Ryland’s class of completely soaked children. He could already see his students gossiping with kids from other classes now. Oh, great.

Thankfully, everyone was accounted for. Ryland finishes taking attendance and wipes the sticky hair from his forehead. He already feels a sense of doom come over him.

Principal Croffely storms over, a stern look on her face. Ryland felt a shiver down his spine, though that might just be his wet suit jacket. The woman approaching him was… terrifying to say the least. She was a great principal, the perfect mix of strict and fun. However, she did not respond so happily to any mishaps- like fights, or graffiti, or, you know, a fire. Not to mention, Ryland doesn’t think she’s aged since he’s been here. She looks just as young as she did in the year books from when Ryland was in middle school.

“Mr. Grace,” she speaks in a low, calm voice. It’s a trap, and he knows it. “Please explain to me what happened?”

Ryland pulls at his collar. Despite it being soaking wet, his neck feels very hot all of a sudden. He’s seriously thinking about how to explain himself without risking his job, but there really is not any other way to phrase it without saying: “I started a fire.”

He runs a hand over his face, pulling his glasses down to balance below his chin and pinching the bridge of his nose. “It all happened so fast really.” He chuckled. He looked up to see Croffely… not as amused.

“A, um, material mishap happened with the 8th grade experiment. The bunsen burner I was using for a demonstration broke and fell over. The papers on my desk caught fire.”

The silence between them was loud.

“I am so sorry. But for what it’s worth, I put it out with the fire extinguisher before the sprinklers came on. Everything should be completely fine now. And the experiment was a success while we were at it! Bright green-blue flames.” The man speaks proudly and confidently for someone so in the wrong. Somehow Ryland’s endearing charm had given him immunity from all previous trouble. He thinks it is because all of the older teachers see him as someone to mentor. But he doesn’t think that’s going to help much this time.

Principal Croffely lets out a long sigh. “Well, I appreciate the situation being handled. None of the students are injured?”

Ryland shakes his head. “They were all at least 6 feet from the fire at all times when this took place.”

“Well that’s the most important thing… You’re lucky Mr. Grace. But I will be speaking to you later about how we can hopefully prevent anything like this from ever happening in the future. Yes?”

Ryland nods like an obedient child. He usually takes scrutiny well. Trust him, he’s used to people disagreeing with him. He never lets a bit of criticism stop him (just look at the UNESCO conference in Denmark), but there are a few authority figures that really make him squeamish and desperate for approval. One of those people being Principal Maria Croffely, who has a history of being an amazing teacher long before Ryland got wrapped up in the job.

Croffely gives him a final firm nod and an unreadable look- it probably says “you’re on thin ice”- and walks off to check on the other classes.

The man finally takes off his disgusting suit jacket. He is not sure how long they’ll have to stay out here. Since the problem is solved, they should just have to wait for the admin to turn off the sprinklers in his room. He’ll have a better chance of drying off in the San Francisco sun without wearing his thick jacket. His tongue sticks out in disgust as he wrings the material and watches the water wring onto the asphalt of the parking lot.

Ryland can hear a resounding siren in the distance. That signature “wee-woo” of American emergency vehicles. Ryland grumbles. “No way,” he whispers.

The science teacher jogs to catch up with Principal Croffely. “Ma’am- I mean, Principal Croffely, ma’am. The fire department isn’t coming, are they?”

The dark haired woman turns back to face him. Her strong jaw seems to always be in a permanent clench, so he’s not really sure if she’s clenching it harder now in annoyance. “They have been alerted, yes. And they are automatically deployed when the school’s fire alarm goes off and they haven’t been notified of it being a drill.”

“Great, just notify them that it was a drill.”

“It wasn’t a drill.” She deadpans with a cocked eyebrow.

Ryland chuckles to cover up his own annoyance. “It’s really unnecessary. I know I started the fire but I know how to put one out. It’s not that hard. Plus, the sprinklers must have gotten rid of any other chance for the fire to restart. The fire department coming out here is a waste of my- our time and theirs. While they’re looking for the fire I already put out, I could be fixing the damage to my room.” Ryland couldn’t help his sass. His want for firefighters not to arrive came from his stubbornness and extreme desire to fix all of his problems himself, especially the ones he’s caused. It’s insulting, really, that they think he can’t put out a gosh darn fire. Heck, he could be a firefighter… if he wanted worse pay, more hours, and to put his life on the line… so maybe not.

Mostly it is just embarrassing and Ryland doesn’t want any more people to know about it than those who have to.

Principal Croffely looked upon him disapprovingly. Ryland wasn’t used to people being so much taller than him, but she was easily 6’3 with her heels on. “While I want to trust your judgement, Mr. Grace, you did remind the both of us that it was you who caused the incident. The firemen, and women, will come assess the situation and the damage before we proceed. It won’t hurt to have professionals out here.”

She’s right. Ryland knows she’s right, but he still wants to argue. Unfortunately for him, he has no more time to make his case as a sleek fire truck pulls up to the school in front of them. Ryland covers his ears, protecting them from the loud blaring siren. The lights on all faces of the automobile flash an angry red, but overwhelming lights and noise soon stop after the truck parks.

A bald man jumps out of the driver's seat, quickly approaching the principal. Ryland assumes he has the top rank among the men there. Something about the way he holds himself.

“Lieutenant Geralds, ma’am. We received a distress call, what seems to be the problem?” He extends his large hand. He and Principal Croffely engage in a handshake strong enough to break bones, Ryland’s sure. Although relatively short, the large bear of a man seems like he could barehandedly break a log in half so Ryland would do anything to not get on that guy’s bad side.

“Science experiment gone awry.” Croffely looks beyond exasperated. “Mr. Grace here,” she gestures to the meek man beside her, “had a, what did you call it? Ah, a material mishap, and some papers caught fire.”

“I assure you the emergency is completely resolved,” Ryland butts in. “I’m usually more adept with fire, but I am very adept with an extinguisher hehe.” He swallows his awkward chuckles. “So, no issues here, sir.”

Lieutenant Geralds looks almost disappointed. Like he really wanted some action or something. “That’s good,” he says anyway. “I’d still like to check out the classroom before we leave and make sure everything is in order.”

“Of course,” Croffely agrees.

“And I seriously doubt we’ll need our full crew for this, so I’ll just send in one man for the job if that’s alright with you.”

“Surely one person is enough. I’m also sure that Mr. Grace will be happily willing to escort them to his classroom and explain the situation.” She side-eyes Ryland with a sharp glance. Ryland, who previously had just been looking back and forth between the individuals, like a small child listening in on his parents conversation, just gives a thumbs up and a forced smile. Whatever it takes to get this over with as quickly as possible.

Lieutenant Geralds walks back over to the truck and knocks bangs on the back door. “It’s all you, Squirt!” He barks in his deep gruff voice. The door opens up and whoever answers to “Squirt” hops out. The door covers his face momentarily as he exchanges a quick word with the lieutenant.

Then, you step into the light of mid-day. Not smiling or frowning, but a pleasant neutral expression on your face. Ryland raises his glasses to actually see properly. And, now, he knows this must be a joke.

The nickname “Squirt” evokes the image of someone small, kinda scrawny, short, probably. The man now in front of Ryland is not a “Squirt”, that’s a man. Like not just 5 bites, but a full meal of man. That’s the irony of it, he supposes.

You leave your helmet inside the truck, which gives Ryland a full view of your face- and that is absolutely not fair. You look like you came straight out of one of those shirtless firemen calendars. Except, you're a lot cleaner than he expected (on account of not having fought any fires yet today). And you’re not shirtless, obviously.

Ryland realizes that the previous comparison might bring up some questions, so he would like to make some amendments: 1. No, he has never, and will never, own a shirtless firefighter calendar. 2. No, he’s not thinking about you shirtless (well maybe a little), but he knows an attractive man when he sees one. There’s science and a pattern to what makes someone attractive. 3. There’s a reason people like men in uniforms…

“S-sir?”

You’re smiling now, gazing upon the drenched man with an inquisitive look. Croffely nudges Ryland and clears her throat.

Ryland looks around and realizes you have your hand extended to him. “Crap, sorry, got a little in my head there,” he tries to help the situation and shakes the extended hand. Your palm is rough from the effects of manual work, but warm and inviting. The handshake is squishy on account of Ryland’s still damp palm.

“S-sorry. Just sprinkler water, I promise.” He drops your hand and wipes it off on his jeans, which are equally, if not more, wet.

You shake your head, dismissing the concern and let out a low chuckle. You turn to Principal Croffely to shake her hand as well while introducing yourself.

“Thank you for the help,” the woman says, “Mr. Grace’s classroom is where the fire emerged, so you can follow him there. I’ve just been walk-ied and alerted that the sprinkler system has been turned off, so you shouldn’t have any trouble.”

“No problem, ma’am. I’ll be sure to take note of any damage or concerns before radioing the lieutenant to let you know when it’s all clear.” You pat the walkie-talkie on one of your belt loops. Both firefighters and school admin use walkie-talkies apparently.

You turn back to Ryland, eyeing him up and down. Ryland doesn’t usually feel self-conscious but his face feels hot enough to boil off whatever water is left on his skin. He’s not a people person anyway and now he has to interact with someone while embarrassed and wet. He probably looks like a sad stray cat.

His expression hardens as he tries to compensate for the nerves. Instead of presenting himself as the mess-up teacher that caused a fire, he’ll act like the hero who put it out. Both are true, but he chooses to ignore the former.

After taking your time looking at him, you walk off silently. Ryland’s left with his mouth agape. Okay then, rude.

You reopen the side door to the fire engine and seemingly search around the seats. When you return you’re holding a rolled towel.

You offer the towel to him. “You look cold,” you whisper softly. He blinks, not quite sure what to do. His first instinct is to reject it; to tell you that he’s just fine and doesn’t need the pity of a devastatingly rugged fireman. He figures the best (and most normal) response is to just accept it.

“Thanks, yeah.” The towel is nice and hot and unbelievably soft. Ryland melts into it easily as he wraps it around his shoulders. He glances back up to catch your kind gaze. You’re smiling so sweetly he feels nauseous. No wonder people fall in love with firefighters who save them. He knows if he was in a burning building and accepting death, and he saw a face like that, he’d probably fall in love with you too. And something about that makes him unreasonably angry.

“Lead the way.” Ryland nods, turning on his heels. He walks towards the front entrance, checking every few steps to make sure you’re trailing behind. You catch up to walk next to him so he doesn’t have to look back, with a rugged smirk still on your face.

Ryland opens his mouth a few times, clamming up. The silence is excruciating, and he can see you observing him in his peripheral vision. You’re probably judging him, or making fun of him. He has to say something.

“So, Squirt, huh?” God, don’t say that. He fights the urge to facepalm. Maybe something in his subconscious is trying to embarrass you, so that way you’re on equal footing and Ryland doesn’t feel so miniscule. He’s trying to fight that part of himself.

Heat rises behind your cheeks, but you’re still smiling. “You heard that, huh?” You shrug your shoulders, pulling your gloves on. “The crew calls me that because I’m the newest and youngest. Also because there was this incident with the hose my first time.”

Ryland raises an eyebrow.

You blush harder and glance away. “Long story. Anyway, yeah, they all call me ‘Squirt’ or ‘Kid’. I really hope that doesn’t end up being my permanent nickname, but it probably will. At least until I do something else more embarrassing, so it could be worse.”

The man beside you nods. “I guess it always could be. It’s a good name, though. Makes you sound like a cartoon sidekick… or a set up to a really dirty joke.”

“There are so many dirty jokes,” you laugh, a grave look on your face.

Ryland can’t help but crack a toothy smile. Dang it, he was supposed to be establishing his “dominance”, in a sense, showing that he’s not a total fool, but instead he’s laughing with you and getting lost in your eyes. He clears his throat and continues silently to his classroom.

When you finally arrive, there is water seeping out from the gap between the door and the floor.

“Got a wet floor sign?” You joke. Ryland doesn’t respond and simply opens the door to reveal a very wet room. The space is in complete disarray. Chairs are knocked over from when the students ran out of them. Some of his non-laminated posters are sliding down the walls, completely ruined. Somehow, his solar system is high enough that it is out of the range of the sprinkles. Thank god. If that model, which took him months to perfect, was ruined, he’d break down right here in front of this other grown man.

“Fiddlesticks,” he “curses” under his breath, examining the damage.

You’re similarly gazing around, but with a different look in your eye. Admiration, maybe. “Nice room,” you say, “though I’m sure it’d be nicer if it wasn’t like a drained fishtank.”

Ryland rolls his eyes. “A drained fishtank would be drier than this,” he comments matter-of-factly.

“Right, sorry…” No more jokes for now, you guess. You decide to stop flirting making small talk and actually do your job. “So, what happened?”

The science teacher groans loudly. He does not want to have to explain this again. “I plead the 5th.”

“You do know I’m not a cop right? You can’t really do that.”

Ryland bites his lip, holding back a smile. “I can and I will,” he says. It only takes him a couple seconds to fold and tell you. You are the professional after all, it’s not really like he can hold the information from you. While he explains the story with far too much detail, you inspect the bunsen burner and the papers on his desk.

“I hope these weren’t important.” You lift a half-scorched, fully-drenched piece of paper. There used to be words on it, but the ink has smeared so badly it’s illegible.

The blonde sighs. “Not really. The kids won’t like having to turn in their reports again, but they’ll survive.”

You nod. “What gas did you use?”

“Propane.”

“And there wasn’t any sparking, correct?”

After you ask all of your questions, you come up with the conclusion. “It just looks like there is some rust at the bottom of the burner here.” You point with your gloved finger. “That caused the needle valve to not function correctly, and for the barrel to fall over.”

Ryland steps closer, bending down to see better. Sure enough, the bottom of the bunsen burner is eroded with rust that he isn’t even sure how it got there, or how he didn’t notice it.

It isn’t until he stands straight that he notices how close you are. He can smell the light musk of whatever body wash or cologne you use. He can see every little hair on your face from this close; every little mark he can commit to memory. He wants to reach out and touch your ruffled hair. His “manly” front is dissolving as he stutters and blushes.

You stare at him so innocently. It should feel infantilizing, but it doesn’t. Instead it feels genuine. Like you’re genuinely waiting for him to find his words and hear what he has to say. That just makes him more flustered.

Eventually you raise your hands to his cheeks. You push up his glasses that were slipping down to the tip of his pointed nose. Your hands slide down his jaw to his shoulders and you pull the towel tighter around him. You smooth your hands over his shoulders and give them a gentle squeeze.

“If you don’t mind, I’m going to go inspect the rest of the equipment." You wink and step from behind the desk.

“Y-yeah.”

It’s been a long time since Ryland has been completely dismantled emotionally. He’s not the most social person and typically avoids interactions where he can make a total fool of himself. It’s not often he’s this flustered. And for a long time, he didn’t even know men could make him feel this way. Turns out there is a difference between finding a man attractive and being attracted to one. Ryland spent most of his life not distinguishing between those two things. It was only after he got dumped by his college girlfriend, Linda, that he took the time to really look at his sexuality and attraction. He realized he is equally interested and disinterested in most people (he doesn’t care much for labels).

Even if Ryland didn’t know about his sexuality, he thinks he would realize it right now, with a man like you in front of him, making his intelligence fall apart.

You circle the classroom, checking the other burners for possible rust. Ryland tries to keep his eyes focused elsewhere. He works on throwing all the ruined papers and posters into trashbags. He’s muttering to himself the whole time.

“Okay,” you say, “looks like the burner over here-” you point to a bunsen burner in the center lab table- “and here-” you point to one in the back- “are shot. No saving. The other ones just need to be dried off and cleaned with WD-40. They should be fine after that.”

“Okay.” Ryland nods. “God, I’ll have to put in a request for new ones. We won’t be doing this experiment for years probably. Or until we get the funding.” He mutters to himself under his breath.

You lean back against one of the lab tables. You toss your head back and throw him a sideways glance. “What was the experiment anyway?”

Ryland scoffs. He feels the set up for a nerd joke coming. Maybe something about him not being able to do a middle school experiment right. Or just about how pathetic it was that he’s a teacher. Why is Ryland so defensive right now? He doesn’t know. But you make him nervous, and he feels the need to protect himself.

He scoffs. “I wouldn’t really expect you to understand.” It’s so funny how that cocky pretentious Ryland from his academia days returns so easily when he’s on guard, even after he’s spent years trying to bury that version of himself.

You don’t look offended at all, however. “Try me.”

He looks up at you. “Uhh- I-” he swallows- “By placing certain minerals into the barrel of the burner, like copper sulfate for example, it alters the hue of the flame by shifting the chemical composition of the burning material. Thus, causing the flame to appear as a mix of the gas’s natural burning color and the minerals chemical components.”

Ryland feels smug and crosses his arms over his chest. You squint your eyes.

“You put rocks into the burner and it causes the fire to burn different colors?”

The science teacher's jaw drops open, before he clenches it. He stutters, “No!- I- I mean, yes! B-but, uhh, it’s more complicated than that!” He tightens his arms across his chest, hugging himself, and looking away. He’s acting like one of his students when they argue with him about a test question.

You laugh. “I’m sure it is. I’d love to hear all the specifics sometime, but I’ll save your time.”

“Wait, you’d actually be interested in learning about it?”

“Sure. I’m always interested in some science facts.” You beam and walk closer. You lean in and cup your mouth as you whisper, “Don’t tell my crew this, but I’m kind of a huge nerd.”

You lean back, grinning. “Though, they probably already know.”

Ryland feels warmer when you’re in his proximity. His cheeks dusted in pink as he pushes his glasses up his nose. For once, he finds himself without anything to say. Over and over, you’ve proven you’re more than the asshole Ryland meaninglessly assumed you were, all in order to protect himself from the thought of his mistakes being perceived. You’re making it really hard for him to be short with you when you’re so… nice. And, because of that, Ryland’s the one being an asshole.

“Anyway,” you continue, “it might be a cool experiment for me to show the kids.”

Ryland’s brain buffers like a 90’s desktop computer. He had never considered that maybe you have kids, much less the partner that usually comes with having children (often, but not always.) Stupidly, he asks, “Wait… you have kids?”

Your face scrunches in confusion. “Huh?- Oh! No, oh god, no.” You shake your head adamantly. “I lead the tours and the demonstrations for kids who visit the station. I teach them about fire safety, life as a firefighter, how to plan for emergencies- stuff like that. I think the crew made me do it as a punishment at first, but I really love teaching kids so I’ve just stuck with it.”

The blonde lets out a sigh of relief. Don’t ask him why he’s relieved, but something about you not having kids eases something in him. Because maybe that means you don’t have a partner either.

“You like teaching?” He asks, fiddling with his fingers.

You nod. “Yeah, I like it a lot actually. Being a firefighter has always been my dream job, but if I wasn’t doing that most of the time, I probably would have gotten a degree in education and became a teacher.”

“Who knows,” you say, “maybe I would’ve taught science.” You pat the man’s, now dry hair, that’s poofing up. It’s a cute look. His breath catches as he feels your gloved fingers against his scalp. He likes the feeling, closing his eyes and leaning into it.

As he opens his eyelids and catches your teasing gaze, he knows his face must be fire-engine red. He takes a half step back and casts his gaze down.

You huff a curt chuckle. You wish all emergency calls were this fun (joking!). You let your fingers fall back to your side from his light yellow tuffs of hair. “I better let them know everyone’s set to come back inside.” You delicately break the moment.

“Yeah- you uh… you better do that,” mutters Ryland.

“Do you have anywhere for the kids to stay while they’re drying off your room?” You ask with a gentle tone. Ryland’s head picks up.

“Huh? Oh, yeah. We’ll just be in the cafeteria I guess.” It warms his heart that you care about the kids. For only a second, he lets himself imagine you as a teacher. In a classroom next to his where he can see you (and shamelessly check you out) everyday.

You straighten up, turning your professionalism back on. You walk to the door, but hesitantly, looking back every few seconds as Ryland had when he was leaning into the building- as if you’re hoping he follows you. You clear your throat. “Well, Mr. Grace, I’ll leave you to it.”

Silence falls between the both of you, but you make no further move out of the doorway.

“Uhh, make sure you clear your desk off before your next fire experiment,” you say, jokingly, as a final remark. You’re one foot out the door, when Ryland seemingly teleports behind you and pulls shyly on your fireman’s jacket, stopping you in your tracks.

You turn to face the man once again. He opens his mouth a few times but says nothing, still trying to find the words. Finally, he coughs out, “Wait!”

You smile- so hard it makes your teeth hurt. “I am.”

Ryland curses under his breath. “I mean, if you’re really interested in teaching, Career Day is coming up soon. Next week. I know you’re probably busy and-”

“I’ll be there.” You cut him off. Now you’re both smiling like little kids. “You can call and give me the information.”

“Call?” Ryland asks, and for a moment, he hopes that means he gets to have your number.

You nod, smirking. You’re not going to be that easy. “Call the station and ask for me. I’ll respond.” Ryland pouts, not able to help himself. You pat his cheek twice and turn to the door, leaving for real this time. “I’ll see you, Ryland.”

The man tilts his head to one side. He doesn’t remember telling you his name. You lean back towards him and put a finger to his chest, pointing at his name on his faculty badge at the end of his lanyard.

He smiles. As you make your way down the hallway, he calls after you. “What name should I ask for when I call?”

You throw a laugh over your shoulder before simply saying, “Just ask for ‘Squirt.’ They’ll come find me. I can’t wait to hear from you.”

“I can’t wait either!” Ryland grins. “Squirt,” he whispers, slightly baffled at the utter ridiculousness of the day’s occurrences. Who would have guessed that he would be excited to make a phone call?

Ryland forced himself to wait a full day before calling the number for the local firehouse. He didn’t want to come off as too eager or desperate, though he definitely is. Over that time, he was able to pinpoint the source of his rudeness from the last day. It was a lot of things: feeling embarrassed that he messed up an easy experiment, caused a fire, and got (lightly) scolded by his boss were all contributing factors. To make it worse, and he’s even more embarrassed to say this, but let’s face it! You’re insanely hot and it made him really nervous. Apparently when Ryland’s nervous around hot people he starts acting like a jerky idiot and ruining his chance.

That’s not to say he had a chance. He’s been “out of practice” for years. Since he broke up with Linda in fact. And he didn’t even know if you swung that way. Even if you did, who’s to say you’d be interested in a 30-something year old middle school science teacher?

Ryland takes a deep breath and lets out a long shuttering huff. He’s spiraling again, but trying to compose himself, lest he be an utter mess around you again when he finally calls. It’s after school now. He figured if he made the call before going home, he could justify it to be for school purposes. He sits at his desk, drumming his fingers against the table. His laptop sits open to the webpage of the local firestation; the non-emergency number has been highlighted by his cursor.

He glances at the clock and groans. He needs to make this call and bike home before it gets dark. He types the number into his phone with trepidation, making sure every digit is correct. Ryland stares at the screen for a second before mumbling “Screw it,” and pressing the green call button.

The line rings only twice before a tired sounding voice resonates across the line. “This is the nonemergency line for the San Francisco fire station #032. How can I help you?” The man on the other end lets out a barely muffled yawn.

Ryland lets out a breath that he wasn’t aware he was holding. He had really hoped you’d be the one to answer the phone to save him the trouble. Alas. He clears his throat. “Hi, yeah. This is, uhm, Ryland Grace? Is… Is ‘Squirt’ there?” His face flushes although there is no one there to see it. The nickname is already pretty absurd but the awkward way he says it makes it sound so much worse.

A chuckle comes through his phone’s speakers, turning into a full on guffaw. “You’re the teacher?” The voice asks.

“Yes…,” Ryland responds meekly.

The laughing continues on the other end. Ryland can faintly hear chatter.

“Did you hear that Molly? Squirt’s boy actually called!... Yeah!... Yes, could you go wake up the guy? He’s probably knocked out on the couch... Thanks, Molly.”

Ryland silently listens on the other end. He tosses his Earth-shaped bean bag in his hand. He gives it a squeeze between tosses to calm his nerves. He rubs his thumb over the worn-out crocheted yarn, the texture reminding him of the fibers of your gloves last night you were with him. He squeezed the beanbag again, thinking of your large gloved hand in his.

“One moment, Mr…. Ryland, you said?” The voice pulls Ryland back into the moment.

“Y-yep. That’s me.”

The man snickers “God, I’m never letting Squirt forget this,” he mutters under his breath.

Grace perks up when he hears your voice in the background. His grip on his cellphone tightens.

“Hand over the phone, Bennie.” You growl, “no, he called me let me talk to him… Man, go away.” There’s some shuffling on the other end before Ryland hears a sigh into the microphone. “Ryland?” You speak, your soft tone opposing the harsher one you were using with your crewmate just a second ago.

“Hey.” He says breathlessly. “Were you expecting me, Squirt?” He says the name with a bit more confidence now, and it rolls off his tongue easily.

“You know I was.”

The two of you do not get to speak for nearly as long as Ryland would have liked. You were about to get whisked away for a task just 30 minutes into the call, which sounds like a long time, but he felt like he was just getting past your coy exterior. Halfway into it, he found himself leaning onto his desk with his chin resting in his palm. He might as well be a teenage girl, twirling her hair and kicking her feet on her bed.

Fortunately, he was able to give you all the information about Career Day and you confirmed that you would, in fact, be able to attend (yippee!). Beyond that, you told him you’d be there in your full firefighter gear, which made him more excited than he’d like to admit.

“Okay, well I’ve got all the info for next week down,” you say. “I should really get going, now.”

Ryland chews his lip. “Mhmm,” he hums, disappointed. “Do I get your name now or do I have to keep calling for ‘Squirt’?” He chuckles. He’s half joking, but still hoping he can get your real name.

You laugh alongside him. “Not yet. I don’t really mind the nickname when you say it.” Your sultry tone throws Ryland for a loop. He chokes on air and falls into a coughing fit. You chortle on the other end. “Sorry, sorry. That was so bad, don’t know why I said that.”

Ryland tries to catch his breath, but he’s laughing between his coughs. He finally gasps a deep breath, filling his lungs with air. “‘s okay,” he mumbles. You can hear the smile on his face over the phone.

“Though,” you continue, “I figure it would be a lot easier to reach me if you have my number. Do you have a pen nearby?”

“Y-yes!” Ryland leans over his desk to reach towards his cup of pens. He fumbles around and misses the cup before finally grabbing one. “Got one, got a pen.” He mutters, prepared to write on the nearest piece of paper to him (it’s one of the worksheets he planned to assign tomorrow. He’ll just reprint this copy.)

You slowly say your phone number, digit by digit. “Got all that?”

Ryland nods even though you can’t see him. “Got it… I’ll text you?”

“You better. I need to go now, or the Lieutenant will kill me- Yes!? I’m coming, Bennie! Give me a second, damn!”

Ryland hears a barely muttered “bye” before the line drops. He sighs dreamily. The sun is slowly inching closer to the horizon in the west, shining perfectly through the large windows in Mr Grace’s classroom. He thinks the kids will like you, just a feeling.

The teacher was swamped in the next week; between prepping for Career Day, fixing up the damage to his classroom, and teaching 5 periods a day, he barely had time to daydream about you. Well, that was at school. Outside of work, he still had plenty of thoughts about your face, and your scent, and your touch. That being said, Career Day came faster than anyone had expected. Next thing Ryland knew, it was Wednesday and you were walking into his classroom with a guest pass, your full uniform, and a duffle bag full of other firefighter stuff.

You give him a heartstopping smile as you walk into the classroom, stopping to lean against the doorframe. “I see your room’s good as new”

Ryland nearly jumps out of his skin. He looks over his shoulder to see you giving him that signature smirk. He rolls his eyes. “You’re early. I said 8:00.”

You shrug as you casually stride into the classroom. “I like to be punctual.”

The blonde sighs. He’d been getting all the worksheets about “What I Want To Be When I Grow Up” ready for his students. His glasses had been pulled beneath his chin, where he usually wore them. You point to the frames. “Do you ever wear those things correctly? Kind of takes away the purpose of glasses, you know.”

Ryland walks closer. Despite your jeers, he’s still smiling. “I didn’t invite you here to tease me,” he says, fixing his glasses to the bridge of his nose. “I invited you to do a career presentation. Speaking of which-” his voice softens to a gentle murmur as he casts his gaze aside. “Thank you for coming. You really didn’t have to clear your whole day to be here… I appreciate- and I’m sure the kids will appreciate it…” He trails off.

You place a comforting hand on his shoulder. His eyes find yours again. “No problem. I love teaching kids about what I do, it’s a passion of mine. Thank you for having me.” There’s a subtle tone in your voice that makes Ryland’s heartbeat quicken ever so much.

“Also.. I just want to say I’m sorry again for how much of a jerk I was when we first met. I’m not going to make any excuses. I was just… I was being a dick for lack of better words.” The curse sounds foreign and forced on Ryland’s tongue.

You wave your hand dismissively. “Stop it! You already apologized on the phone. You weren’t even being a dick last time.”

Ryland raises an incredulous brow. You laugh at the look on his face.

“Okay, yeah. You were being a little bit of a dick. But I understand you were having a bad day. I forgive you, for what it’s worth.” You grin.

“I’m glad you came back.” Ryland admits. The words slip out before he really thinks about their implications.

“I am too.”

The rest of the day Ryland watches you repeatedly give an interactive presentation on firefighting (including having a “Stop, Drop, & Roll Contest” where you time how fast students can flop to the ground and start rolling like a log.) You really were good with presenting, and good with kids. Ryland can tell you’ve done this before. It was also incredibly attractive to get to lay back and watch you talk about heroic fire fighting. Every block, a new group of kids come into the room to be impressed by you. You even let some kids try on your firefighting gear.

It was easily a successful day. Not only did Ryland get to stare at you shamelessly for 6 hours, but you decided to spend lunch with him as well. That time was filled with getting to know each other, joking, and (not-so) subtle flirting. Notably, you had leaned over to wipe the crumbs of a sub sandwich off of Ryland’s lips, which he’ll be thinking about for days, if not weeks.

By the day’s end, you are both pooped from dealing with rowdy kids. Still, you’re slow to pack your things, clearly not wanting to leave quite yet. As you carefully pack your duffle bag, you continuously glance up at the other man, who is always looking back at you.

“Not so bad, huh?” you ask. “The kids seemed pretty entertained.”

“You did great.” Ryland replies.

“High praise coming from you, Mr. Teacher.”

Ryland shrugs. “What can I say, you deserve it.” Then he says your name, your full name.

Your head whips around at him to see him pointing at your name and id number on your helmet. You sigh with a smile. “It was only a matter of time before you found my name, or until I simply told you.”

Ryland smiles smugly. You roll your eyes. “Are you proud of yourself? For figuring it out without me telling you?”

Ryland laughs, his cheeks dusted in pink. “A little bit. I can keep calling you Squirt if you’d like. I don’t know if you reserve your first name for people… closer to you.”

You shake your head. “You can call me whatever you want to,” you say lowly.

It gets quiet in Ryland’s classroom. You zip up your bag and it seems to hit the both of you at once that this could very likely be the last time you see each other. Ryland’s brain is whirring, thinking of ways to not have to let you go so soon. There’s no way he can start another fire at school without definitely being fired. Maybe he could start one in his apartment, just a little one. It wouldn’t even be that hard, he’s set the smoke detector off multiple times from his own terrible cooking. But he doesn’t think his landlord or the other tenants would appreciate that very much. Maybe he could get a cat stuck in a tree. He’d have to get a cat first. Maybe he could get stuck in a tree.

While Ryland’s making up ridiculous ways to get to see you again and abuse your personal phone number, you’re just admiring his thinking face and wondering how long it'll take from him to break from this daze. He doesn’t notice you coming closer until you brush a stray strand of hair out of his face behind his ear.

“Ryland,” you repeat for what must be the tenth time.

You startle him a bit. His eyes widen in shock, but he doesn’t back away. “H-huh?” He gasps.

“I asked if you wanted to have dinner sometime.”

“Dinner?! With me?”

Gosh, he’s so dumb. You snicker, “who else could I possibly be talking to?”

Ryland’s face heats up. “I just- I don’t- yes.”

“Yes?” You cock your brow, fiddling with the hair at the nape of his neck.

“Yes, I want to have dinner with you,” Ryland finally spits out. The words slur together with the speed of his speech, but the meaning is still clear.

You thread your fingers into the man’s blonde locks. His impossibly blue eyes gaze straight into yours. He seems to be holding his breath in anticipation of your next move.

One of your hands slides down to pinch his chin and angle it towards you. “I’m going to kiss you now, if that’s alright.”

He breathes out a confused, “Wha-” before it registers that you’re leaning in. You hover right over his lips where you’re able to breathe in each other’s air. He shudders, breath fanning against your face. You give him plenty of time to pull away, but it doesn’t seem like he’s going to. In fact, he leans in quickly, crashing your lips together.

It’s a very clumsy crushing of mouths for the first few seconds. Spit and teeth and lips clash. You smile into it all the same, tilting your head to find the right angle. Ryland’s hands stiffen by his side before he’s able to ground himself by pressing his palms against your hip bones. He grips your waist like a lifeline, slowly melting into the kiss.

He tastes like coffee and that sandwich he had for lunch. The gentle scent of his soap and cologne feels heightened. You can feel his heated skin against your own.

Ryland whines as you slowly pull away, but the need for air outweighs his want for the kiss to continue forever. His eyes blink open, pupils blown out in icy blue irises. His expression is a mix of dazed happiness and confusion. Nothing is said for a few moments as you both just bask in each other’s warmth, your faces staying inches apart.

“Hi,” Ryland whispers.

“Hi,” you whisper back. A breathless laugh is shared between you. “Are we still on for that dinner?”

Ryland nods enthusiastically. “Defenitelly… I, uhh, didn’t know… I- I wasn’t even sure you were into guys like me… or guys at all…”

“We’re in San Francisco, all the firefighters are gay.” You say matter-of-factly. “I can name like 4 gay guys in my crew- 5 if you count lesbians.”

Ryland laughs. “San Fran firefighters are gay, good information to know I guess. I’ll tuck that away for later.”

You jokingly shove him away lightly. “You’ve got other gay firemen you’re flirting with? Wooowww.”

“You know I don’t,” Ryland says with a scoff. “I didn’t even know you’ve been flirting with me, honestly,” he mumbles.

You try to fight the laugh coming out of your mouth, you really do. But you can’t help it. You shudder with laughter and let your head drop against the other man’s shoulder. “You’re joking right?” You finally let out between chuckles.

You can feel Ryland’s face heating up as you tuck yourself in the crook of his neck. “I couldn’t tell! I mean, it seems more obvious now, but how was I supposed to know you’re into me?” The science teacher sounds like he genuinely didn’t pick up on your overly apparent flirting.

Another laugh escapes your lips. You press a kiss to his neck and slowly work your way up his jaw before kissing the corner of his mouth. “For an incredibly smart man, you can be insanely dense at times.”

Ryland punches you softly in the shoulder while covering his red face with his other hand. “Shut up.”

“Gladly,” you reply, pulling his hand away from his face and leaning in to steal another kiss.

aneurysmuz

Apr 17

abracadaverdog

“I bet”

Holland March x Male reader

almost 2.7k words, not beta’d

Holland knew no woman could ever replace his wife. But it wouldn't hurt to see if a man would, just for one night.

You run into a man in the bathroom of a shitty bar, and he makes a bet you can’t turn down.

Warnings: 18+, NSFW minors do not interact. reader is written with a penis, but no other appearance descriptions. no use of y/n. holland calls you baby like once. porn w/ minor plot. hickeys, dry humping, cumming in pants, frotting (but it’s through clothes). very minor mention of age difference (reader is supposed to be early 20s, Holland is mid-30s, nearing 40). Holland talks about porn too much in this

A/N: I haven’t posted smut since I was a teenager, so be gentle with me. Feedback + reblogs are appreciated <3 If the formatting is weird let me know, tumblr makes it look weird on mobile. He’s also wearing the cream coloured suit from towards the end of the film, these photos just fit the vibe more

If you’d asked Holland March where he saw himself in the early hours of the morning after wandering into the bar in search of a few drinks to wind down, he’d probably answer that he expected get drunk and wake up face down on his living room floor. His usual.

He wouldn’t have guessed he’d find himself in the situation he was currently in, that’s for sure.

There’s a man- and he’s not even sure of his name- mouthing at a spot on his throat no one had been near in years.

“Easy.” He grips the back of your head, prying you softly away from where you’d been making good progress of sucking bruises into his skin. “I got a fucking kid, man- she knows where my fuckin’ gun is and she will shoot me-“ He doesn’t finish the thought, because you’re making light work of loosening his tie and prying the first few buttons of his shirt open.

“Here okay?” You don’t even wait for a response before latching onto a spot on his peck, and hands are flying to snatch and your hips barely a second later.

“Yeah I uh- I think I can work with that.” He tries to sound confident, but the little hiccup that follows does little for his case, especially when he finds himself groaning into the top of your head. “You a fuckin vampire or something?” He swats at your head, pushing you off once more.

“Not my fault you taste good.” You quip, taking a step back to lean against the stall wall. Having encounters like this weren’t exactly your style, and whilst you liked the look of the man in front of you, any romance of the situation was somewhat dampened by the fact he was practically backed up against a toilet. “I bet the rest of you tastes-“

“Nuh-Uh, not with those fuckin teeth! Look at me, I’ve already got fuckin’ bruises.” His voice was a little high pitched, and whilst he was clearly trying to sound tough and stern, the small laugh behind his words said otherwise.

“You’re no fun.” You prod one of the hickeys blossoming rather nicely on his tan skin, and once more he slaps you away, startled.

“No fun? I just let you fuckin’ maul me!” He gestures at his open shirt, and every fibre of your being forces you to resist going for him again. “Jesus christ- look at the state of me!” His words are an exaggerated hiss, but his lips tug into a smirk as he stares down at his own chest. “C’mere then, show me your teeth.” It’s your turn to be startled, and you cocked your head to the side in confusion, narrowing your eyes at him. You smile, but it’s clearly not what he’s looking for, because hands are on your cheeks now, and a thumb is bullying its way past your lips.

Holland doesn’t do this. Holland March does not go into the men’s toilet, let a man chew half way through his chest and then he definitely doesn’t stick his fingers into said-man’s mouth.

And yet…there he was, pushing his thumb to hook around your bottom teeth, just enough to urge you back towards him. “Mhm..” He hums to himself, staring at you with an intensity you hadn’t expected from the man that mere minutes ago had been staring into the bathroom mirror, hazy eyed and splashing water into his face. He’s inspecting, and with one hand holding your mouth open, the other drags his index across your teeth. “Yeah, just as I expected, vampire.” He muses, tongue darting out to lick across his own lips, a sudden hunger behind his eyes, and all you can do is stare back, slack jawed in his hold.

“You want some fun?” It’s almost taunting, the way his eyes flick up and down your form, and any semblance of confidence and control you’d entered the stall with died a fiery death in the pit of your stomach. “Why don’t you..turn around?” He says it more like an excited question, rather than a command, but when he releases your mouth, a string of spit connecting you both, you feel a little too dizzy to question whether he even knows what he’s doing, so you spin on your heel.

“You ever been with a-a man?” Your words skip in your throat when those same hands that had just been probing at your mouth return to your hips once more.

“No-“ You feel them tug at your shirt, pulling it out of your slacks, fingers dancing at the soft skin of your waist. “But- I’ve watched enough fuckin’ porn in my life. Seen a few films made, too.” They smooth over your stomach, itching towards your belt as a chest presses to your back. “How hard could it be?” He laughs stupidly into the crook of your neck, one of his hands trailing up under your shirt, up towards your chest.

“Very hard, apparently.” You can barely choke out the ridiculous joke as he ruts once against your ass, and it prompts another round of laughs from the blonde man practically pouring himself over your shoulder, pushing you closer to the stall door. If anyone were to come in, it’d hardly be subtle, two pairs of feet caged against the door, rattling it in its frame as you writhed against each other.

“You know-I once saw this-*hic*- guy, and I swear to god, no word of a lie, his dick was like- fuckin’ 10 inches!” You had half a mind to shove your own hand in his mouth just to shut him up, because between jerking his hips forward, he was rambling like a lunatic, mumbling barely incoherent lines that were either straight from a porn film he’d seen, or anecdotes about one. “How bigs your dick then?” He was practically panting into the side of your neck, and before you could even open your mouth to formulate a response, he was grabbing at it through the front of your trousers.

“Fuck!” You’d be ashamed if you were any more sober or if the man behind you wasn’t who he seemed to be, because the high pitched squeal practically echoed off the walls.

“You know-“ You didn’t really want to, actually. “I once saw this thing in a porno-“ He paused, still palming at you, before groping at your hips to spin you back around, so excited and urgent it made your head spin.

“Is there anything you haven’t seen in a porno?” He rolled his eyes at your question, looking a little feverish as he stared down at the state you’d both been reduced to, shirts agape and tents shamelessly growing in your trousers. You prayed to anyone that might be listening for no one to walk through the door.

“My wife used to say I make my work in “rumpy pumpy.”” He does little quotations with one hand as he says it, the other rubbing harsh circles into your hip with his thumb. “God knows what that means- but I’m an educated man!” My wife. It sticks a little bitterly in your tongue, but you can hardly dwell on it when he roughly grabs at your dick through your slacks again, all questions of whether he still had a fuckin’ wife, bleeding out into a shameless whine. “So sue me- I know my way around some cock.” He says it all too casual, a little slurred and sleazy, but you seriously cannot bring yourself to care, especially with the way he’s staring at you with that hunger again. -Anyway, this whole situation was sleazy, and you’d be lying if you said you hated it.

“I bet you, I can make you cum in your pants.” You can’t even react to what an insane statement that is from a man who seemed too shy about hickeys just a short time ago, because he’s already dragging you to be flush to him. “It’s called frotting.” He explains, as if you, a gay man, wouldn’t know what the hell that was, but you just bite you lip and nod, almost eager to hear whatever lesson he was about to give you. You’d take any lesson from him, any day. “Usually we’d both be dicks to the wind, but what’s a little dry humping between friends, hey?” The way he says it is supposed to be jokey, but it comes out downright filthy, and you almost fall into him with the sudden urge to fuse your bodies flush together.

“I don’t even- I don’t even know your name-“ You pant out, ragged between thrusts into his crotch, feeling obscene with the way the fabric rubbed against you.

“March.” He grabs a fistful of your ass, dragging you closer, and allowing him to control your rutting. “March, march, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, no one can.” He hums, presumably to himself, head tucked once more in the crook of your neck, and he takes initiative to copy your earlier action, mouthing sloppily at the expanse of skin.

“March-“ You groan out, giddy with the way he’s jutting his hips forward to meet yours, shuffling to cage you against the stall wall, one hand to the surface, the other still grappling with the flesh of your ass. He hums at your call of his name, clearly very proud of himself as you feel him grin into your throat, humming across your pulse point.

“Mhm, that’s it baby.” He nips your earlobe, before dissolving into a fit of giggles, yet his pace never falters. March may be ridiculous and goofy, but right now he has a job to do.

You grasp almost fruitlessly at his shoulders, fisting hands into the fabric of his shirt, pulling it taught away from his neck, exposing where you’d bitten earlier. He looked a mess- filthy, sweat dribbling down his forehead, beginning to stick his hair across the damp skin, lip caught between his teeth as his eyes rolled back in his head. You’d wager good money that you were in a similar state, you could almost taste your own sweat running onto your lips.

You wanted to kiss him, that much you decided in the moment, you wanted to feel the scratch of his godawful moustache and beard. “March-March kiss me, please.” Wrecked, was the only way you could describe how you sounded, barely able to choke out the words. The feeling of both your cocks rubbing together, even through your trousers, was becoming almost too much to bear, and you’d be damned if you made it through this ordeal without tasting the inside of his mouth before you came.

“Fuck me.” He laughed, leaning forward just a fraction. “Desperate.” He mused, before you were taking matters into your own hands, snatching at the hair at the nape of his neck to push his face forward. “God-“ The groan ripped through his throat, ratting into your open mouth as his tongue probed at your teeth, and all you could do was moan in agreement. God. Thank god you walked into that bathroom.

The walls of the stall were rattling violently in their frame, and your back would surely ache by the morning from the force of it slamming against it, but you seriously couldn’t care. Non of that mattered, all you could focus on was the feel of him. He was all over you, groping like a madman, trying to feel every inch of your skin, inside your mouth and out.

“C’mon, you can do it.” He urged, the hand on your ass sliding to your hip, moving just enough that he could trace the outline of your dick with his thumb, pausing his thrusts for a moment. “C’mon!” It’s almost an impatient whine, and you wonder if he wants to cum, or wants you to come more. But you aren’t one to look a gift horse in the mouth, and if some hot middle aged man wants to get you off this desperately, who are you to deny it?

“Fuck, March.” He’s prodding a little clumsily at your tip through your trousers, pressing his thumb into your fly, and it’s almost painful, until he pulls it away and rubs up against you again. It’s less thrusting now, he’s just straight up grinding, rutting your hips together in a way you’re not entirely certain won’t give you friction burn.

“Yeah? C’mon, fuckin cum, baby.” In that moment he does sound straight out of a porno himself, and you curse any moment you’d doubted him about his knowledge, because the way he’s grinding relentlessly into you is about to push you over the edge and-

His mouth latches firmly into the sensitive spot where your neck meets your shoulder, and all you can do is squeal and whine and buck your hips up as he sucks, mouthing messily across your skin. “Cum for me.” It’s such a stupid, cliche line, but it’s enough to push you over the edge, and your toes curl in your boots as your eyes roll back, and he has to grab at you to keep you upright as your legs wobble. “Fuck!” He laughs, but it’s cut short with a ragged moan himself as he jerks his hips a few more times before falling against you.

“Shit-“ You mumble, the words feeling sticky in your mouth- or maybe it’s just the combination of spit mixing in your tongue. You vaguely think he groans something of an agreement, but his mouth is still pressed to your throat, and with the way he’s all but draped over you, everything is muffled.

“I won, you gotta buy me a drink now.” He’s all too cocky when he finally pulls away, hair a mess, plastered down the sides of his temples before he runs a hand through it.

“What?” There’s a dull thunk, as his back hits the opposite wall of the stall, and despite the fact you’re only about a metre apart, the distance allows you a look over him. He’s totally wrecked- not that you’re in any space to judge, and a laugh bubbles from your throat at the sight of the obvious wet patch at the front of his light coloured trousers, and you thank god you’d chosen to wear your darker slacks today.

“I said I bet you I could make you cum in your pants, and I did.” He seems rather unfazed by the rather debauched look he’s now sporting, collar damp with sweat, because he’s grinning like a cat who’d got the cream, nodding downwards to where you awkwardly readjusted yourself. You’d regret it in an hour or two when you had to go home and get changed. “So pay up.” Despite barely knowing the man in front of you, his smirk and the sheer confidence in his words doesn’t surprise you one bit, and you roll your head on your shoulders with a shrug.

“Fine. On one condition?” He tilts his head, amusement clear in his eyes, swinging an arm behind his head as if he was merely relaxing back on a fucking beach, nodding for you to continue. “I get your number, and you let me try for my bet on whether all of you tastes good.”

Before he even thinks it through, he shoves a hand into his back pocket and presses a business card into your palm. “I think we can come to some sort of agreement.” Then, as if nothing had happened, he retrieved his jacket he’d draped over the door, and stumbled out of the stall like the drunken idiot he was.

You’d barely made it through the door at your home before you scrambled for the phone, dialling the number with shaking hands.

“Holland March-“

“I bet I can get to your place in the next 20 minutes.”

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