🎫

Amaze

[sipofchai]

scrambled (nsft ryland grace/reader, wc 16k)

Summary: You fell head over heels for Ryland Grace when you were twelve and he was thirteen. You let him break your heart when you were eighteen and he was nineteen (and an asshole). Now you're thirty-four. Now you're single, and determined to stay that way. Now you know better than to expect anything more from him than friendship, and advice, and maybe some sperm while you're at it?

(or: the one where you are done with dating, and want to have a kid, and ask your best and oldest friend if he'd be willing to contribute. With or without a turkey baster.)

Tags: childhood friends to lovers, pining, breeding, oral sex (f!receiving), fingering, piv sex, multiple rounds, multiple orgasms, breeding, reader has a vagina, bff!olesya ilyukhina, background ilyukhina/stratt, background colt seavers/ryland grace twin propaganda

A/N: 18+ only! this is part 1 of a 2-3 part series. it can be read as a standalone, but if you want a happy ending you'll have to wait. that said, it's very much romcom vibes - not at ALL like my other Ryland piece - and they WILL kiss eventually. Special s/o to @collarado for letting me holler in their dms and also suggesting moments like 'considerate ryland offering to finger you' and 'ryland eats it from the back' (everyone cheers)

Taglist: @evastrattapologist67 @shittyprofilebutfuckit @mensbestfriend @keigohawks

ao3 link

“I’m having a baby," you say without preamble, dropping your purse on the table at the same time you drop into your chair.

Olesya looks up from her menu like you’ve just announced you bought a one-way ticket to Mars.

"Not with Mark," she says. "No, no, you cannot be having a baby with Mark. I leave you alone for a week and you decide to have baby with—”

"No.” You shake your head emphatically, as though this will somehow erase the way you conducted yourself over the course of your most recent breakup (during which Olya was on the receiving end of many a late-night drunken wallowing session), and try to free yourself from the six inches of cushion you’ve sunken into. It’s at least better than the reclaimed-driftwood-hightop-stools at the last trendy brunch popup she chose. “Not Mark. Not anyone. I’m done with men."

"Thank God. You have terrible taste. Better to give up entirely." You let this slide, though it feels a bit rich coming from someone who has been going steady with her direct supervisor for the past six months (after six months of a generationally messy on-again-off-again thing). “If you schedule appointment for Tuesday or Friday, I can drive.”

“Appointment?”

“Yeah, appointment. Baby appointment. This week, next week. Unless you just want to try DIY first?” She holds up her mimosa flute, hands it to you, pours a little, takes it back, takes a sip, considers. “Mm. Not so strong.” She hands it back to you and fills it so much that a little hill of liquid rises above the lip. “Double dose. For safety."

You bring your mouth to the glass and de-meniscus the mimosa—which, for the record, is very strong—and shake your head. “I’m not pregnant right now,” you clarify. “I’ve decided I’m going to get pregnant. On purpose.”

She squints at you. “Why would you do that.”

“I want a baby.” You hate adages about biological clocks. That said, yours is currently ticking like a bomb. “And I think I’ve reached the age where all of the men available in the dating pool are…” You shudder.

You have dated and dated and dated, and at thirty-four you’re pretty certain you’ve seen all the kinds of men the Bay Area has to offer. Divorced men. Unemployed men. Silicon Valley wunderkinds who look at you and your non-STEM degree (and your very successful private law practice, thank you very much) with poorly veiled disdain. Tall, plain men with an abundance of options and a deficit of personality; short, beautiful men who compensate for the personality with a lack of empathy that borders on psychopathy. You have dated nice men and cruel men and boring men and self-interested men, and, at the end of the day, not one none of them ever had enough redeeming qualities to make you want to stay.

“I just can’t do it anymore,” you settle for saying. “There’s only so many times I can get ready for a first date, redoing my lipstick a dozen times, listening to the same Olivia Dean song on loop, trying to talk myself out of flaking last-minute because I know the sex is going to be bad. I’m too much of an adult to be acting like that.”

“No.” She shakes her head emphatically, pouring you both more booze. You have yet to even look at a menu, and somehow the pitcher is half empty. “You go about this all wrong. You go on dates from internet, from apps. App is for fling, fun, hookups. You refuse to try and date friend, date coworker, date neighbor—“

You shake your head. You have tried dating all of the above. You have weathered several rock bottoms in the aftermath. “I’m not trying to blow up my life, thanks. I like my life as is.”

“Yes, I know,” she says, rolling her eyes. “You like your life, you love your life. This is why you want to add a tiny person with no sleep schedule who spends all your money.”

“I already have you for that.” She blows you a kiss, unrepentant. “But yes, a baby would be nice, too. I’ve thought about it. I’ve saved up. I bought, like, three bottles of prenatal gummies. Now I just need to, you know. Get some sperm.”

“Easy. Sperm is cheap.” She claps. “Tonight! I set you up with someone at trivia. Bang, boom, baby in nine months.”

“No, no, because we’ve been over this: trivia is a social circle I am a part of. Half the people at trivia are people I knew in high school, and the other half are people I’ve worked with—” You hold up a hand before she can protest. “—and I know, you are a beautiful anomaly, you and Eva, but most people aren’t so lucky. You know the rules.”

She tips her head back and groans. “You and your rules.” When she brings her head back up, it’s with a pout. “You ignore so many of my perfect, beautiful matches for your stupid rules.”

“My rules exist for a reason.”

“Yes, to keep you unhappy.” She shakes her head, waving a hand. “Fine, whatever—I match you with someone from my work.”

“I’ve worked with people from your work,” you remind her. The entire reason you met was because her engineering firm (because Eva specifically) hired you during a patent dispute. They ask you back from time to time.

“Someone new! Maybe he stays in town, maybe not. Low risk!”

“Too much risk.”

She scowls. “All risk is too much for you. Life is all risk. Baby is all risk. Anya is risking her life every five seconds.” She looks off in the distance—thinking about her niece, presumably, who is two years old and getting cuter by the day. She shrugs. “You know, maybe baby will be good for you.”

“Thanks.”

“You’ll come to trivia. New guy will be there, I will be there—“

“Great. Want to give me some sperm?”

“Ha. Eva will be there. Grace will be there.”

Something in your head pauses. “Ryland's back?"

She points at you. “Ah!”

“What? No.” Your attempt at a casual laugh sounds unconvincing even to your ears. “No, that’s not what I meant. I just thought he wasn’t—Olya, that’s not what I meant, I thought he was still in L.A.—”

“He is back and he will be there and he will make puppy dog eyes at you like always, and you will ignore him because you are cruel.”

“I'm not—he won't—” You let out an exhale. Then you begin to tick off items on your fingers. “One, Ryland has a very nice girlfriend. And two, he does not make puppy dog eyes at me. That’s just how he looks.”

“Yes, how he looks at you.”

“Because he’s never stopped seeing me as his best friend’s annoying little sister,” you correct her. “It’s nostalgia. I told you, he took me to prom and he—I mean. You know, nothing happened.”

“Because he was stupid teenager. Now he is a stupid man, and you are a stupid woman—perfect. I’m a genius.”

“Did you miss the part where he has a girlfriend? I thought you liked Linda.”

“Eva likes Linda, and this is only because they know the same boring history facts.”

You snort in spite of yourself. “That’s terrible.”

“It’s true! And besides, you are just asking for sperm for baby, yes? Such an old friend, such a tiny favor, Linda can’t be mad about—”

“Olesya.” You give her a stern look. She looks back with the practiced innocence of a cat who’s already swallowed the canary and hasn't yet noticed the feathers stuck in its teeth. “No.”

“No trivia or no baby?”

“Yes trivia, no to whatever you're plotting.”

She sighs. “Fine, no to Grace. He can make puppy dog eyes at you across the bar while you talk to new work friend—”

“No setting me up with anyone.” You snap your menu shut, and flag a waiter. You can't continue this conversation—or, ideally, escape this conversation—without copious amounts of French toast. “It’s the twenty-first century, you know? They have websites now. Catalogs. Safe, discreet, easy. Like you said, sperm is cheap.”

-

As it turns out, sperm is really fucking expensive.

You scowl at the laptop, willing it to give you a different answer, but the calculations come out the same the fiftieth time as they did the fifth. A couple thousand dollars, minimum, and that’s if you use an anonymous donor. For someone vetted—God forbid, someone you might get to talk to—it can go up into five figures.

You put down your notebook and plant your head in your hands. 

You are, by many metrics, a successful woman. You live in a one-bedroom apartment, in San Francisco, alone. Many of your clients see you over video, so you can more or less set your day. You have no student loans, and enough savings set aside to pay for childcare, doctor’s visits, diapers, a nice stroller.

You do not have enough to cover all of that and a round of in vitro fertilization that might not even work.

You lift your head up. You’ve been buried in your laptop for so long, the sun has set, leaving the apartment almost entirely dark, save for your screen and for the kitchen clock blaring bright green above the stove. It’s seven forty-five.

Trivia starts at eight.

You sigh. You stand up and grab your keys.

-

Trivia night is the same as always, which is to say it’s at the same dingy bar, with the same sticky black floors and pockmarked dart boards and outdated drink menu as always. You’re pretty sure the bartenders have worked here since you were too young to set foot inside.

“You came!” Olya crows, slinging an arm around your neck as soon as the door shuts behind you. “Here. Two for one.”

You gently bat away the bottle she waves in your face. "I drove.”

“Fine.” She winds her arm through yours, walking you across the bar. “I’m setting up carpool home. You and Eva can be boring designated drivers together.”

“Ha, ha.” Your eyes scan the room. You tell yourself this isn’t on purpose, which is probably true, it’s normal to take stock of a room—but you’ve taken stock of this particular room almost weekly for the past year and a half, which means there really isn’t anything in it you haven’t seen, until your eyes reach a table in the back and see Eva Stratt talking to—

“See?" Olesya pinches your waist. You jump. "I told you he is back."

“Ow."

“Come talk. We’re running late, nothing to do but drink and talk, and you don’t even drink tonight.” She bumps her hip into yours. “Maybe not for nine months, if everything goes good, eh?”

You hip check her back. “Yeah. Maybe. It’s not looking too—"

You hear your name, and you look up.

The voice is familiar. The face is familiar, if slightly more tanned from a few weeks out of the San Francisco fog; the hair a little longer. The lopsided glasses, though—and the bright blue eyes behind them, and the mouth and the smile and the dimples that go with it—are the same as they were twenty years ago. 

“Ryland.” Your face is warm, which is definitely because you just walked through a crowded bar, and for no other reason. “Hi.”

“Hey.” He stands up, so quickly he almost knocks over his bottle on the table, and catches you in a warm, friendly hug that you survive mainly on autopilot.

“Hi. Hi.” The hug ends, and you wave at Eva, who waves back, and then look back up at him. “Hi. I, um, I thought you were still in L.A.”

“Yeah. Yeah. Colt got a last-minute gig this weekend, so. I came back a week early. But it was good. He’s good. Said to send you his best.”

Colt has always been sweet. Of the two, you’d have thought he’d be the one to ask you on a family-friend-pity-date to prom. Ryland was always stuck in his books, his scholarships, too convinced of his own genius to see you as anything but silly and young, and the arrogance only got worse with each subsequent visit home from college. It was almost jarring to meet him again, two years ago, when he moved back home to teach. Somehow the intervening decade had rendered him easygoing, and softer-spoken, and humble.

Mostly humble. Trivia night almost invariably makes teenage Ryland rear his ugly head.

“That’s good," you say. "I remember the accident was…you know. Good to hear he’s getting back into things.”

“Yeah.” His eyes dart from you, to Olya and Eva behind you, to the bar, then back to you. “Do you want a drink? I’m going for a refill.”

“Oh, I’m not—”

“Virgin drink for her,” Olesya shouts from where she is now seated, which is more on Eva’s lap than in the booth. You force your face to remain neutral, as opposed to the expression it wants to arrange itself into at hearing the word virgin used in reference to you around the man who notably did not take your actual virginity at your high school prom. “Real drink for me. Double vodka Redbull. And espresso for Eva.”

“Right. Just espresso, no martini,” he says, with an automaticness that suggests he’s had the same thing repeated at him ad nauseam for the better part of an hour. “Okay. You?”

You blink up at him. Then at Olya. She mouths GO at you, accompanied with some rather violent hand gestures, and just as Ryland is about to turn and see this you grab his arm and tug. “I’ll come with you!”

When you get to the bar, you glance back to furrow your brows at Olesya, who has switched to double thumbs up and a shit-eating grin.

You roll your eyes at her, then turn to Ryland, who’s somehow managed to flag down the bartender and order three drinks in the span of fifteen seconds. “I ordered for you.”

“Thanks.” You get comfortable on a barstool, and look up at him. “So. You’ve been back—”

“A few hours.”

“A few hours? And you still rallied for Saturday night dive bar trivia? We should be honored.”

“Couldn't miss it. Everyone in L.A. kept trying to talk to me about crystals and vibes and, like artisan surfboards. I need this.”

You widen your eyes. “Oh, you didn’t hear? It’s artisan surfboard night."

He plays along. "Really?" He gets an elbow up on the bar, resting his cheek on one hand.

"Wood grain patterns, wave height stats, foam density.”

“That is…even better. I’m well-versed now.”

“An expert, I’m sure.” Your eyes map out the geography of his face. You have seen dozens and dozens of versions of this face over the past thirty years or so. This version has a few new freckles, dusted across his nose. You know, from long summers spent hiking and cycling and calling first dibs on the rec center diving board, that those freckles sometimes reach down to his shoulders, his arms, his back. "Was the sun gorgeous?"

“Maybe." His eyes don't leave yours. You wonder if he's running the same mental math, the same diagrams, the same map. It's a rare thing, to know someone your whole life. "You know I’m a sucker for the fog.”

“Ugh. L.A. is wasted on you." Once you're finished scrunching up your nose in disapproval, you sigh. "I bet it was gorgeous. I should move there.”

“You shouldn't.”

“Why? Because I’m the last person in San Francisco who remembers your landline number by heart?" Drinks arrive, and he slides one over to you. It’s red, and fizzy, and has not one but two maraschino cherries. You point at it. “Is this a fucking Shirley Temple?”

“Hey," he says, sounding unbelievably sincere in his disappointment for a man who, between the ages of eight and eighteen, taught you every four-letter word you know. "Language.”

“I’m not one of your students, and did you order me a fucking Shirley Temple?”

He shrugs, and takes a sip of his beer. “It’s the most virgin drink there is.”

You squint at him. Then you reach forward and press a palm to his cheek—not slapping him, just smushing his face away from you (and probably smudging his glasses in the process). “I should throw this at you.”

“Hey, hey!” He catches your wrist. Your pulse does something funny. Your breath is not where its supposed to be. He doesn’t notice. “That's the thanks I get? You used to love those.”

“When I was twelve," you say, tugging your wrist away, "at my mom’s third wedding.” You don't remember a lot from middle school, but you remember that wedding.

He danced with you at that wedding.

The Cotton-Eye Joe, or something stupid like that—but then also a slow dance. Half of one. He’d seen you and Colt dancing and felt left out. You’d let him lead you across the floor, in your sparkly teal junior bridesmaid dress and patent leather shoes, and that might be the first time you remember having that twinkle in your chest, that glow. 

Thinking, so this is what a crush feels like.

He clinks his bottle against your glass, shaking you out of the memory. “Good news, I’m pretty sure they haven’t changed the recipe since then.” He lifts his bottle. "To things that last."

Something tugs at your chest. “To things that last.”

You put the drink down once you’re positive that your face isn’t doing anything unhinged, which is to say after you’ve downed at least a quarter of it. When you look up again, you find he’s already looking at you, with an expression you are momentarily unable to place. It's not expectant, really. Not teasing. Just warm. Watching.

If he were aiming it at anyone else, you might even label it puppy dog eyes.

But it's Ryland, and you know Ryland. You know old Ryland, and you know this Ryland, and you know that this particular look on both of them is one of the kindest possible condescension. It means I met this girl when she was seven and I was eight, and I will see her that way forever. It means friendly, and nostalgic. It means nothing at all like what you wish it did.

You clear your throat and raise your glass. "Looks like twelve-year-old me had good taste after all.”

-

Trivia night ends the same as always, which is to say that Olya gets drunk enough to start heckling the opposition, Ryland nearly knocks over several chairs in his fervor to win, and Eva quietly leads the team to a sweeping victory. By the end of the night, the chaos has settled into a quiet hum, the room buzzing and buzzed off success and adrenaline and cheap beer.

You have not had anything to drink at all, and even you feel a little bit dizzy with the night. This could plausibly be explained by the rush of winning forty consecutive weeks in a row. It could be plausibly explained by any number of things aside from the actual cause.

You are trying very hard not to name the actual cause.

You do allow yourself to name several things around it, like: a high-five that turned into a hand squeeze that you felt long after he’d let your hand go; a smile, long and lopsided and devastating, every time a category came up he knew you’d be good at; a second Shirley Temple, ordered for you and handed to you seconds before he stood up to answer a question (at Trivia Night. Where all the questions are written down on paper. He is hopeless, and you are worse for liking it).

You are mid-naming-things-around-it, and midway to the door, when Olesya calls your name. You turn with a sigh. “Yes,” you say, with no small amount of reluctance, “I can help carpool.”

“Perfect. Every other car, full, you just need to take one person.” She calls back over her shoulder. “Grace!” She regards to you with a twinkle in her eye that you are all too familiar with. 

Your eyes widen. “Olya,” you hiss. “Olya, no—”

“All the other cars are full,” she says, pouting. “And he is on the way to your house.”

“That’s fine, I have no actual objections to that, I’m just objecting to the implication.”

“What implication?” she asks, and you don’t have time to answer because he is here and he has on a yellow raincoat and a beanie, and you hate how hard you are smiling.

“Hey,” he says. His cheeks are still a little pink from the thrill of beating another team at Who Knows The Most Useless Niche Fun Facts. His hair is a disaster. He looks between you and Olesya. “Everything’s good?”

“I found you a ride!” Olesya beams.

“Oh, I can bike home.”

“You biked?” you ask.

“It’s raining,” she points out.

“I have a raincoat.”

“He has a raincoat,” you say to Olya.

“I’m too drunk for this,” she says, before kissing you on the cheek and absconding with Eva.

You look at Ryland. He looks at you. “I really can bike home.”

The thunder is so sudden and so loud, you practically jump into him. When it’s passed, your shoulder is against his chest, and his arm is around your waist, and you blink and you breathe and then you, both of you, take a step back.

You clear your throat and pull your car keys out of your pocket. “Same address?”

-

You shouldn’t have been worried. Driving with Ryland is never bad, even if you haven’t done it in a few months. You amicably bicker about the music for a bit, and then talk about Colt (healed from his accident, back out on his first stunt gig since, apparently plotting to win back The One Who Got Away), and about your brother (teaching law on the East Coast), and your mother (flirting with golf caddies in Orlando), and about Los Angeles. You talk about your job, and his. Students. Books. Friends. The weather. And when the conversation fizzles out, it’s into a comfortable silence. 

The comfortable silence lasts approximately a minute and a half before he says, “I have to confess something.”

Your brows lift. “Oh?”

“This isn’t just a carpool. It’s a carpool with ulterior motives.”

“Thrilling start. Go on.”

"Olesya asked me to talk you out of having a baby?”

You slam on the break. You’re at a stop sign, but still. “Oh my God.”

He has his hand up on the ceiling, looking at you with—alarm, maybe? It’s difficult to tell, because the car is dark, and also because you’re trying very hard only to look at him through your peripheral vision. On account of the fact that you’re driving. Obviously. “She was pretty drunk, so, uh, maybe I misheard?” He pauses. You say nothing. He rushes to continue, “I said it was an overstep."

"Yeah."

"But she insisted."

"Okay."

"So if she asks, can you please tell her I tried? Before she sics her scary girlfriend on me?”

You snort out a laugh at that. “Yep,” you say. Then, quietly, through your teeth, “I will definitely tell her.”

Two more stop signs pass in silence before he speaks again. “Congratulations, by the way." You look over just long enough to make eye contact, or at least make contact with the glimmer of streetlight against his glasses. His face is unreadable behind them. "About the baby. Or condolences if it’s, uh, if it’s complicated.”

You hum. “It's complicated.”

“Ah.”

You realize how that sounds, and rush to continue, “Not complicated like that. There’s no father.” Does that sound worse? You think that sounds worse. “I’m not currently pregnant. Actually, I’ve sworn off men.”

He laughs. It’s brief. “Entirely?”

“Yes. Thank God.”

“Oh.”

“Except it turns out I do need one last thing from them in order to even do the single mom thing.” You roll to a stop in front of a red light, and lift one hand off the wheel to run back through your hair. “Who knew sperm could be so expensive?”

"Makes sense. They pay a lot."

You give him a look, half-delighted, half-inquisitive, and he sighs. "Ryland,” you say.

“I thought about it.”

“Ryland.”

In grad school. For the money."

"Ryland Grace."

"I didn't go through with it!” he protests. “I chickened out. I didn't like the idea of having a kid out there somewhere that I didn't know anything about. No way of knowing the parents, if they were any good or not."

"I get that." You purse your lips. "I also don't really love the idea of combining my DNA with a stranger's. I think if I was adopting it would be different, because that's a whole, real person who exists already. But that's expensive. And then sperm is also expensive, and IVF, and just, you know. Everything. I'm starting to think it'd be easier to just walk up to someone in real life and ask if they'd be willing to contribute."

“Contribute?” He snickers. “What, with a turkey baster?"

"At this point? Sure.” You flip the blinker, check your blind spot. “It's either that or the old fashioned way. You know, traditional."

He chokes.

You sightlessly grab your water bottle out of the cup holder, and pass it to him. He takes a long, long swig. The next time you pass by a street lamp, his face reappears redder than usual. "Right,” he says, then clears his throat. “Right, no, yeah, turkey baster's so—impersonal. Traditional's probably better. I'm a big fan of tradition."

“Would you have gone through with it, do you think? In grad school. If it was more like that."

"Maybe?” He considers it. “I don't know. I don't know if I was ready conceptually back then, for the idea of a kid. Too immature."

"Yeah," you agree. "You were kind of a dick."

"Hey." You give him just enough eye contact for him to think it over. "Yeah," he admits with a chuckle. "Yeah, I was."

"What about now? At the very mature, entirely un-dick-ish age you are now?”

A pause. “It would depend on who was asking."

Your eyebrows lift. “Really?” You keep your eyes very much on the road. “And how does Linda feel about that?"

“We broke up."

"Oh. I'm sorry.”

“It’s fine.”

You let the sound of the blinker fill the car for a few seconds before you speak again. “If you ever need to talk about it…"

"Not much to talk about,” he says. “She said she felt like I was only ever half-in the relationship. Like I was, uh, 'always looking for something better.'"

"Were you?"

"Yeah. I think so."

You whistle. “Ouch."

"It's fine. It was right before I went to L.A., so it gave me some distance. Time to process, figure out what matters to me."

“Figure out what ‘better’ you were looking for?”

He smiles at the next streetlight. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Yeah. Exactly.”

Right before he went to L.A. Two months, then, give or take—right after you ended things with Mark—which means they were together for three. You dislike that the calculation comes so easily. You dislike having to acknowledge, even to yourself, that this is something you have tracked.

"Gotcha." You try to keep your tone light. "I get it. I had a similar…I, uh, went through a breakup around then, too."

"I know.”

It’s the last thing either of you says for a bit.

Before you know it, you’re pulling in front of his house—his childhood house, the one he and Colt inherited. The one he lives in alone, now, since Colt settled in L.A.. It looks the same as it did when you were a kid. Same driveway, same bushes. Same bike out front. Same blue paint (peeling in the back, you assume, because they’d run out of sealant three-quarters of the way through and never got around to visiting Home Depot for more).

“Well,” he says, “this is me.” He turns, and you’re expecting a goodbye, maybe an awkward cross-cupholder-hug, but instead he just says, “You know, the landline number is actually the same.”

“555-7827.” You tip your head forward, resting it on the wheel. “God, there’s so much important shit I could be using that brain space for.”

“You can always call. If you ever need.” He gestures vaguely. “Anything."

"Anything?” You tilt your head. “Dangerous offer."

"Yeah, well. It's you.” With that, he unbuckles, and opens the door. “Goodnight.”

“I—goodnight,” you say, a little flummoxed, and a little flummoxed as to why you feel flummoxed.

He shuts the door. You watch him walk, to be polite, because you watch all of your friends to make sure they get into the door safely—but then he pauses halfway up and shouts something. Your name. You lower the window.

“Anything at all,” he calls. “You just. You just have to ask."

“Great!” You give him a thumbs up. “Thanks! Goodnight!”

He waves, and reaches the door, and he’s gone. You sit and look at the house. Then you sit and look at your hands. Then you shake your head at yourself, and you put the car back into drive, and you pull away.

-

It isn’t until several minutes into the drive home that you understand the implication.

This inspires a thorough self-inventory that probably would be better off done in the quiet of your home, rather than half-assed while driving; but alas, you are single-minded. And impatient.

There's the part of you that thinks this man is tall, and brilliant, and funny, and sweet, and has a great head of hair, and all of those sound like pretty good odds to gamble with on your future child.

There's the part of you that has wanted him, for years, for reasons that have nothing to do with wanting a kid.

Finally—and, though you hate to admit it to yourself, maybe most importantly—there's the part of you that hopes that maybe, if you were to sleep with him, just once, the wanting would leave and burn up and be gone, and you'd finally, finally be able to get Ryland Grace out of your system once and for all, the way you've been able to get every other man out of your system. Also, the excuse of the pregnancy might make it so that you could do this without entirely blowing up your friendship, the way you've done so many times before.

You go through this cycle of thoughts several times. You go through it on the drive; as you park; up the stairs, up the elevator, through fumbling with your keys and shutting the door behind you.

Ultimately, you decide to sleep on it. This isn’t the kind of thing you rush into. You could be misreading his offer. You could be misreading your own emotional capacity for doing this. You could wake up tomorrow and stumble upon the one sperm donation catalog in the history of humankind that would cost you less than two thousand dollars. You are very sensible and very logical about all of these possibilities, and several others, as you cross your apartment and sit down on the couch and pull your phone out of your bag and dial. 

He picks up after two rings.

"It's me,” you say, before he even greets you. “I'm asking.”

"You're asking me to—"

"Help me have a baby. With or without a turkey baster.”

He pauses for five seconds.

Your brain stretches this out to five years, give or take. Long enough that you barrel forward with the rest of the points you’ve come up with in response to any questions he might have.

“I know it's a big ask. You can totally say no. But you should know that I would never ask for money or anything, I can draw up a contract, it really is just a question of sperm. I mean, you wouldn't have to be involved at all post, um, post-conception. Unless you wanted to be an uncle, or a godparent—if you wanted to be a godparent, I guess you could duke it out with Olya—or, well, you can have multiple godparents, right? But also you wouldn't even have to see the baby if you didn't want to, and we wouldn't have to tell anyone, and—”

"I'll do it.”

“Really?”

“Yeah." He says it so casually. Like it's easy. No big deal, just a little sperm between friends. "Just letting you know, though, I have a very strict BYOB policy."

You puzzle over that for a half-second before your face splits in a grin. “Bring your own baster.”

"Bring your own baster,” he repeats, sounding like he’s smiling just as wide.

"Okay. I'll add it to my records.”

“Records?”

"Yeah, I have all kinds of lists and—less for you. More for me. You don't really have to do anything, except. Um. Donate.”

“Donate.”

“That. Oh, and get tested. I did last week, it’s easy—”

“Okay."

"It's not that I don't trust you, or anything, it's just, like, protocol—"

"That makes sense. I can do that tomorrow.”

“I can pay for it.”

“Don’t worry about it. I was due for a test, anyway. Good to go regularly, it’s been—um. Anyway. It’ll come back clean.”

“Great. Well. If you go tomorrow, that should be back in a few days, and then. Are you free Friday?”

“Friday…” There’s a pause, and some frantic shuffling. Pages being flipped through. “Friday I'm on detention duty, so I get off around four. Three forty five.” Another rustle of paper. “And then parent teacher conferences at eight. But I have to stop home in between anyway, so. I’ll be around.”

"Could I come meet you at four? Four thirty? At your house? I'll be s—”

"Yes,” he says, quickly. “Yes, I can do four thirty. Yes."

You pause. “Great. Okay, uh, pencil me in for four thirty to four forty-five.”

“Fifteen minutes?”

“I mean, really, it doesn't even have to be that long,” you joke. “If you get yourself close enough, by the time I get there, you can basically come in me and then I'll just be on my way."

There’s a long, long silence. Finally, he says, “If that's how you want to do it, yeah. Great."

"Great."

"Great."

“Great.” You swallow. “So. I’ll see you Friday. At four thirty.”

“Four thirty,” he says. “I’ll be ready.”

-

You pull up on his street at four twenty.

You park down the block. You sit there for exactly five minutes, in spite of the fact that you see a light in the windows, his bike sitting out front. You feel like a stalker.

At four twenty-five, you pull down the sun visor and stare at yourself. You put on a fresh coat of lipstick, which then immediately makes you feel very silly, so you wipe it all off. Then you dab it back on. You pinch at your cheeks. You look down at the dress you decided to wear. It was an entirely work-from-home day, mostly paperwork, so you wore a blazer over a dress and now you’re just wearing the dress, and it’s really the kind of dress you’d wear to, like, a date, which means it is lower cut up top and shorter at the hem than most dresses you’d be wearing on a work day. It’s more of a sun dress, really. So a picnic date dress. You feel both over and underdressed. 

And also you’re wet. On purpose. As much as anyone can be wet on purpose—you’d gotten a package from Olya yesterday, with the note attached, in lieu of sperm, and opened it to find some kind of fertility-promoting lube. Which, sure, it was a joke. And yeah, sure, you used some before you left home. 

You think about what you’d said on the phone. If you get yourself close enough, by the time I get there, you can basically come in me and then I'll just be on my way. You’d meant it only half as a joke. You’ve dated enough men to keep your expectations low. You’re not going to assume he’d waste a ton of time on foreplay. He’s doing you a favor, and he has work tonight, and if he’s in a rush then at least you’ll be more ready than with just a little spit and some half-hearted fingering.

You’re wearing stockings, too, nude pantyhose which seems…you don’t, know, silly? Try-hard? One layer too many? You glance at the clock—four twenty-seven—and look out both windows, reach under your skirt, and begin pulling them off, kicking off your shoes with a muffled curse under your breath. Your underwear starts coming off with them, which you fight and then go along with and then decide to commit to. Your skirt is long enough. You’d promised him this would be quick and easy, right?

You regret it immediately. But it’s four twenty-eight on the dot, and you are allergic to being late, so you shove tights and underwear alike into your glove compartment and drive the twenty feet to his house and pull over and get out.

Up the sidewalk. Up to the porch. You knock.

You wait.

It's colder than it was when you left work. You're really feeling the absence of your stockings right about now, not to mention your underwear, and you're approximately two seconds away from going back to the car to get both when the door swings open. 

"Hey.” 

"Hi," you say.

"Hi."

He's still in his work clothes. You’ve never seen him in his work clothes, actually, and it’s doing wild things to the this man is gainfully employed and good with kids, must procreate part of your brain. It doesn’t help that he looks significantly more disheveled than you would expect after a day of teaching sound waves. He’s breathing faster than usual, chest rising and falling against the blue linen shirt, which is only half-tucked at the bottom, at which point your gaze reaches his pants and you suddenly understand all of the above.

“Hi.” You nod in his general direction. "You, um. You got ready."

“I.” His face is flushed behind his glasses, which are maybe the most properly horizontal you’ve ever seen them. You expect that to last all of five minutes. “You…sorry.” He shakes his head suddenly, as if trying to shake something loose, and the things he shakes loose are his glasses. Five seconds, then. “Come in.” You follow him through the door, shutting it quietly behind you, your focus split fifty-fifty between trying not to imagine him getting himself ready and trying to keep yourself from leaking. You are failing miserably at both.

He’s ahead of you, back turned to you, re-rolling up his sleeves. They were already unbuttoned, but shoved up rather than rolled, messy, like he’d gotten home later than planned and immediately got to work doing—whatever it is he did that you are strictly forbidding yourself from imagining.

“Chinese,” he says, nodding at a bag on the kitchen counter. His hands move over his sleeves, four neat folds on each side, and his forearms are flexing and he’s still visibly straining against the zipper of his pants. “I ordered extra. In case you didn't get a chance to eat. And then the contract you sent over, and the test results, too. I printed them out, in case you want a copy. For your records. I went to the library, though, so it switches from colored ink to black and white halfway through. Didn’t seem like the kind of thing I should be printing out at school, ha.”

Two things hit you at once: the first, that you are not going to get him out of your system with one fuck. If anything, one fuck might make things worse. The second is that you absolutely cannot, under any circumstances, kiss him, because if you kiss him you’ll almost certainly fall in love with him and if you fall in love with him your life will be ruined.

"Right. Thank you. Right.” You are looking all around the living room—there’s the couch you used to build pillow forts next to, there’s the carpet the two of you melted crayons into, there’s the dining room, opening into the kitchen, where you helped his mom bake cookies, inevitably ending up with more flour on your head than in the bowl—in a bid to avoid looking at him, because you have a hunch that if you look at him and/or stop talking he is going to try to kiss you (because that would be the normal way to start this interaction, versus the objectively insane way you've decided to go about it) and if he doesn't kiss you you suspect one look at the bemused brows-above-the-glasses expression on his face will make you kiss him, which you are not allowed to do.

“So how was—”

“I left my underwear in the car. Long story.” The story being that you decided on a whim to leave your underwear in the car and now are regretting it immensely. “And I already got myself ready, and I don't want anything to—so we should probably just, um, take care of business first, if you're all good to go—is here okay?”

Here being his dining room table, which you approach and then smooth your hands across and then bend over, pressing your cheek to the wood in order to have a more concrete reason not to be able to look at him.

He laughs. “You don’t want the bed?”

“Nope, this works.”

“Oh.” He pauses a second, like he’s waiting for you to move. When you keep your face resolutely smushed against the table, he seems to get the memo. “I—alright.”

You feel, more than hear, his footsteps, soft across the floor.

“You said you’re—that you got yourself ready,” he finally says. He sounds close enough to touch. You don’t move a muscle. “How ready?”

“Ready enough.” You twitch a finger, gesturing. “I, um, I used this thing Olya gave me, this pre-seed thing.”

“Pre-seed.”

“It’s just fancy lube, I think.” You bite your bottom lip to try and stop rambling. You cannot stop rambling. “But it's supposed to be good for, like, sperm motility, or something, and I figured if I inserted it ahead of time then you wouldn’t be late for your next thing. Four thirty to four forty-five, remember.”

It’s a weak attempt at a joke. You’re not sure it lands. “I’m not in a rush," he says.

“Your Chinese food will get cold.”

He pauses. “I might be in a little bit of a rush.” You laugh, surprised. His voice is warm when he continues, “Don’t worry about me.”

“I’m not worrying about you. I’m worrying about your food.”

“You don’t have to worry about me or the food. I can worry enough for the both of us. Okay?”

You inhale, you count to four, you exhale. “Okay.”

“Okay.” He claps. It’s not a very loud clap, but it still takes you by surprise. “So, um, on that note—not that it’s a worry, it’s not a worry, not worried at all, just noting—if that’s all you. If you just used the lube and didn’t.” The pause that follows lasts about twelve seconds, which you know because you’re still box breathing in order to not hyperventilate. “You might need to, um, warm up. A little. For it to be comfortable.”

"Oh. Cool.” You think about ring fingers, and shoes, and height, and all kinds of things that don’t actually have any proven causative correlation with dick size, and then you think about the tent in his pants when he was half-hard just inside the door, and you conclude that of course, of course this is the way this is shaking out, because you have the worst good luck of anyone on the planet. “Cool, cool, cool. That’s fine. I can warm myself up more. Let me just.”

“I could. I could do that for you.”

You freeze. You open your mouth, then close it. You open it again. “You don’t have to.”

“I know,” he says. “Can I anyway?”

“Sure.” Your brain is producing approximately three thousand thoughts per second, none of them cohesive. “If that’s okay with you. If you don’t mind.”

“I don’t mind. Here?”

You nod. The table is cool and smooth beneath your cheek.

There is stillness and stillness and stillness and then, there—his fingers, gentle, just the tips on the back of your thigh. He starts halfway up, just kissing the hem of your dress, and then his fingers travel up and under, and they trace over where your underwear would be, and you know when he reaches the slickness that’s reached your inner thighs because he pauses.

One agonizing moment passes before his fingers continue their upward path, dipping slightly in at your entrance. You make a concentrated effort to exhale silently. You’d estimate that you succeed about sixty percent.

“You’re so…” He takes a deep breath. When he speaks again, it’s very carefully casual. “You’re wet already. That’s good. That’s great.”

You blink. “Did you just.”

“What?”

“You just used the encouraging-middle-school-teacher voice. To tell me good job for being wet. During a sexual encounter."

“Sexual encounter? I thought this was strictly business.” That gets a laugh out of you. A quiet one. You can hear him smiling, not unkindly, when he continues, “You seemed like you could use the encouragement. You’re a little nervous."

"I'm very nervous."

"I know. That’s okay.” He finds your clit. You lose the battle to keep silent. Your face flushes immediately, which he can't see, but maybe he can sense it somehow, because he murmurs, “I’ve got you." 

That just makes things worse, actually, because you feel his voice, low and sincere, run down your spine like a hand. And then he actually does stroke a hand down your back, and you wonder if maybe this is some great cosmic punishment for a past life. He’s not even doing it to turn you on, you don’t think, just to comfort you—but when his hand brushes your neck it does something to you that isn't comfort, and you clench down and whimper for lack of anything to clench down onto. “Sorry,” you mumble into the table.

“Sorry for what?”

“I don’t know. This is just—I’m being so embarrassing.”

 “It’s just me,” he says (which is, of course, part of the problem). “I’ve seen you embarrass yourself plenty of times.”

You snicker. “Hey.”

“Besides. Uh.” He swallows. “Trust me. If you could see yourself from here, you wouldn’t, you wouldn’t be embarrassed.”

Before you have a chance to process that, his hand slides back to where you’re wettest.

“I’m going to—” He runs one finger over your entrance, then pauses. “Okay?”

“Yeah.” 

It’s more breath than sound. But he hears it, and, sure enough, he slips one finger into you. It’s an easy slide, wet as you are, but he’s still careful about it. Slow. 

“You’re—” His voice is different. Strained. “I think you can take two. If that’s—”

“Yes. Yeah, that’s—ah.” Two fingers fit, but it’s—a lot. Snug. 

“Relax for me?” He angles his wrist to get a thumb back on your clit, and you flutter around him before relaxing enough for him to let him work the two fingers in and out of you. “There you go. Good job.”

“You’re—”

“That wasn’t the teacher voice, that was the I-have-two-fingers-inside-you-and-you-feel—you feel—” He breathes out, and it sounds unsteady as you feel. “That was, that’s what that voice was. Can I—” He curls his fingers inside you, and you let out a broken moan. “God. Can I. Can I use my mouth.”

You’ve never wanted anything more in your life. “You don’t have to.”

“You keep saying that. Can I please, can I please use my mouth.”

“Yes,” you say, and he gets on his knees so quickly you’re shocked he doesn’t bruise them in the process.

The hand on your lower back runs down, crossing the border from skirt to skin, smoothing up the fabric to reveal you more fully. He keeps his fingers in you for a few seconds more, slow, lazy, dragging them in and out, in and out. Like he’s watching them. He curls them again, deliberately, and when he pulls them back out fully you barely hold back a sob.

There’s a long moment of stillness.

His one hand is still on your ass. His other hand is nowhere at all, and he’s gone silent, which is terrifying.

You use a finger to brush a strand of hair out of your eyes. “Everything good back there?”

“Mmph.” It sounds like his mouth is full, and then, with a quiet pop, not, and your brain shorts out because you realize that’s the sound of him sucking you off his fingers. “Yeah. Yeah. I just.” He presses a kiss to the back of your leg, to the crease where your ass meets your thigh, then pulls back again, and he’s gotten both hands on you, now, and he does what you can only describe as spreading you. 

Another silence. If it were anyone else, you would feel more exposed than you’ve ever been in your life. It’s him, though, which simultaneously makes it better and much, much worse. 

“You,” he finally says, which sounds like the beginning of a sentence until it becomes clear there’s nothing to follow. He kisses your other thigh, open-mouthed, slow, then rests his forehead against it, and breathes. “Fuck.” He says it quietly. Soft. Like it’s just for him.

“Language,” you say.

You mean it as a joke. You mean it as a reference. You mean it in a way that’s meant to break some of the tension and elicit a snarky response, so you are definitely not expecting the next thing he does with his mouth to be pressing his tongue flat against you.

He licks you from your clit to your entrance. The unexpectedness of it, the warmth and wetness and the intensity of it, has your knees buckling so much that you grab the table. You make some kind of sound that you cannot allow yourself to reflect too much upon without feeling intense embarrassment. You make an even more embarrassing sound when he does it again. 

He pulls back, and you put a lot of effort into not protesting. The effort is in vain.

“What was that?” You can hear the unbearably smug grin. “I thought you were telling me to watch my tongue.”

“I wasn’t. I.” You breathe slowly, trying to collect your thoughts.

You get about fifteen percent of the way there before he tightens his grip on your hips, pulling you back to meet his mouth so that he can rub his tongue back and forth against you. You let him press you up onto your toes. Your hips tilt further, allowing him closer, and you can feel the tip of his nose nudge against your entrance at the same time his mouth properly closes around your clit.

You have multiple degrees. You pay taxes, you run a business, you live alone in a one-bedroom in San Fran-fucking-cisco, and you have enough in savings that you can decide to get pregnant, on purpose, without considering yourself financially irresponsible. You are a very respectable person. None of that is reflected in the wail you let out as he sucks harder.

His hands are tight around your legs. His face is so firmly pressed into you, you would wonder if he needs to breathe, if you had any fireable neurons left to spend wondering things like that. You are beginning to have trouble breathing. The air keeps catching in your chest, in a building rhythm, and your knuckles are beginning to go white from how tightly you are gripping the table. 

“Ry—” You can’t even get out his full name.

He doesn’t stop. He doubles down.

You don’t know how long you spend there, bent over, unable to do anything but tremble as he sucks at your clit. Just as you’re close, he pulls away—but before you can say anything about it, his tongue is inside you, and he’s reached a hand around your thighs to get at your clit from the other side, and you think you might be making sounds in tandem with the thrust of his tongue, but your blood is rushing in your ears a bit, and your toes are curling against the floor, and everything narrows and narrows and narrows until—

He says something, you think. Tries to, but you can’t understand it, because his tongue is inside you and also because you’re coming so hard that you’re probably going to get a cramp in your right foot.

He doesn’t give you any relief. He lets you clench around his tongue, for a while, then pulls out while you’re still going to get his mouth on your clit again, relentless, arms wrapping around you tight to keep you from squirming away, as though you have anywhere to go, as though you aren’t trapped, totally and entirely, between the table and him. 

You come back to yourself in pieces.

You’re aware of your breath, audible, ragged; your hands, tingling; your right foot, uncurling just in time to avoid a cramp. You’re aware of his arms, steady; his mouth, gentling on you, pulling away entirely. You make a broken sound into the table. 

Something nudges at your entrance, and it’s his fingers, three of them, and they slide into you like its nothing, setting off another wave of aftershocks, and he’s slower than ever as he fucks you open on them. “Look at that,” he says, satisfied. 

Your face is warm. The mahogany is cool against it as you press your forehead back into the table. “You’re evil.”

“You’re perfect,” he replies, and you have absolutely nothing to say to that.

He pulls his fingers out as the aftershocks ebb. You don’t have any time to respond in any direction before he replaces them again with his tongue. 

Your hips buck against the table. Your knees genuinely threaten to give out; you’re not entirely sure they don’t, you can’t tell, because his hands are back on your legs more firmly than ever.

“Ryland,” you choke out.

“Mmph.”

“Ryland,” you repeat, more desperately, reaching back with one hand to push against the top of his head. “I’m good. I’m—I’m ready, I’m ready.”

He shakes his head, pulling back only to kiss your leg again. “Just a little longer.” He’s scattering kisses up and down your thighs, now, across the crease, fingers coming back to press against your clit. “Just a little longer, you taste so good, a little more—I bet I could make you come again like this—”

“Are you going to put a baby in me or not?” You’re still a little breathless, but you get enough of a challenge into it that he pauses. “I thought this was strictly business.”

He huffs out a laugh against you. “Right.” Because he’s the worst, he licks you again, circles at your clit, laughs at the way your hips jerk from the overstimulation, before grabbing the edge of the table and pulling himself up to standing.

You hear a buckle, a belt, a zipper. A pause.

You think about how long it’s been since you met him at the door. How everything that’s happened so far has been pretty much exclusively for you. “Is there anything I can do to help?” you ask, lowering your voice.

You know what his answer will be. You’ve never once had a man turn down a blowjob, which is fine, because you don’t really mind blowjobs, most of the time, and for some reason there is a part of you that’s actually incredibly eager to get this specific man’s cock in your mouth, all of which is why you are entirely unprepared to hear him say, “No.”

You pause. “Oh?”

“I’m good.” He steps forward, the length of him brushing against your ass, and you understand just how good.

“Just from—”

“Yeah.” He uses his hand to line himself up, and you feel him at your entrance, the promise of him. “Ready?”

“Yeah.” You press your face more firmly into the table, arch your back slightly. You breathe. “Ready.”

He presses in.

You are not ready.

You are ready in that you are wet; in that it fits; in that it feels good, properly good, good enough that you let out a long, quiet moan at the same time he does. But it’s still a lot. It’s still a slight stretch, even after three fingers, even after coming on his tongue. 

It’s still him.

There’s no helping it. All of the preparation in the world could not have kept you from feeling slightly overwhelmed by the heat and the weight and the understanding that Ryland Grace is inside you. It’s making you do stupid things, like get a little choked up. You bite back a sound that you fear might come out less sexy than emotional, but you don’t bite it back entirely, and he stops, still inside you. “Too much?”

Yes. “No,” you say, and swallow, because what do you possibly have to cry about? “I’m good. It’s good, you feel—good.”

“Good.” He pulls out, then pushes back in, slowly, and the sound he makes is—God. This was the worst idea you’ve ever had. This was the best idea you’ve ever had. “You too. I’m going to—” His hands press into your waist through the fabric of your dress. “Is this okay?”

“Mmhm.” You're both still basically fully clothed, which means you're barely touching, which just narrows your focus to the one specific place where you are touching, and its making the whole thing feel dirtier than if you'd just been naked. 

You clench around him, and he makes another sound and begins fucking you in earnest.

He’s still slow. He’s being careful, you suspect, which you appreciate because he is thick and he is long and your legs are barely functional as is. But the rhythm is steady. He drives into you with slow, deep thrusts, and already you are struggling not to make a whole host of embarrassing noises. You suspect he is also struggling with this because he is losing, badly—maybe he’s stifling them from his normal volume (whatever that may be), but he is close enough that you feel his breath on the back of your neck, and every single choked-off moan and whimper and grunt might as well be piped directly into your brainstem. When you give up on trying to mute yourself, and let out a quiet, “You can—harder,” he groans, long and low, and obliges, picking up the pace enough that you can hear the slap of his hips against yours.

You reach back, at one point. You’re not exactly sure why. To grab at him, maybe—to pull at his hips, urge him deeper, faster—but he catches your hand in his, threading his fingers through yours.

“You’re so.” He manages to get his other hand under your waist, arm across, lifting, helping you stand up a little so that his chest is pressed against your back, his voice in your ear. “I knew you’d feel good, but I didn’t—you’re so—”

“I know,” you say, without really knowing what you’re saying. “Me too.”

He presses a kiss to your shoulder, where the neckline of your dress ends, and then further in, further up. You squeeze his hand. He squeezes back, thumb running back and forth across the edge of yours. When he kisses the top of your neck, wet and hot and open-mouthed just below your ear, you let out a desperate sound, not quiet at all, and you clench around him and you feel him smile and you want to strangle him almost as much as you want to kiss him. You want so badly to kiss him. You almost try to crane your head around to allow for it, except you remember dimly that you’re not supposed to, and you can’t for the life of you remember why.

When he slows down, you whine. It’s entirely undignified. You don’t really have it in you to care. “What are you doing?”

“I just. I just.” He rests his forehead against the back of your head, and through the fog you swear you feel him press his lips to your hair. “I need a second.”

“Is everything okay?”

“Yeah.” He swallows, and turns his head to press his cheek to your hair instead. “I don’t want to finish too fast,” he admits. You know what that voice looks like on him—it looks like beet red and mortified. “And I will. If we keep going. Right now.”

You burst out laughing. You can’t help it. “What?” You let your head hang, still shaking with laughter you don’t really have the breath to afford. “Ryland. That’s, like. The opposite of a problem. That’s the whole point.”

“That’s not the whole point.” He sounds insulted, which for some reason is even funnier, and makes you laugh even harder. He makes a vaguely pained sound, and you realize retroactively that laughing makes you squeeze which makes you squeeze around him. “You—stop doing that.”

“Then stop being funny!” You wipe a tear away, and turn just enough to make a sliver of eye contact. “You know, I would have planned a lot differently if I knew I had to factor in time to explain how babies are made.”

“I—” He goes through amused and annoyed and endeared in a comically short amount of time (and you manage to contain your reaction to light smirking, this time, because you are nothing if not good at taking feedback), and lands on an expression that is a combination of all of those things and leaves you convinced, in an even shorter amount of time, that you are in danger. “Did you really think you’d be out of here in fifteen minutes?”

“No.” You look at his lips again, and then face forward to cut yourself off. “Maybe.” You squeeze your eyes shut. “It would have been fine if you ohfuck—”

This last because he presses back into you, all the way, at the same time his hand finds your clit. “Do you still think that?”

“No.” Your voice is quiet, shaky.

“No?”

Louder now, “No, nope, not even a little—”

“Glad to hear it.” He starts moving again. It’s slow, and his voice is strained, but he’s moving and his fingers are on you at the same time he’s inside you, and he’s taking advantage of the pace to really focus on what spots he’s angling himself against. “Otherwise I might have gotten offended.”

“Didn’t mean to—okay.” Your elbows are beginning to go the way of your knees, which is to say you lower yourself back down to the table while you are still capable of doing so in a safe and controlled manner. His hand is still wrapped around yours. “Oh God. You can—faster. Faster, please.”

“I will. I just want to get you a little closer.”

“I already—”

“No, that didn’t count.” He is going faster, whether he realizes it or not; and it is getting you closer, which was maybe part of the point. “That didn’t count. I want you to come for me.”

“I did come for you.”

“On me. Around me. That’s what—that’s all I’m waiting for, you just have to—”

It’s working. What he did with his tongue, what he started and finished and started again—you feel it, feel the threads of it, lengthening, growing, sparking again each time he thrusts inside you. 

“Yeah,” you say, because what else can you say. “Yeah. Can you just—” You bite your lip. 

“What?” He’s breathing faster, again, almost panting.

“Your hand,” you manage. “On—on my neck.”

“Your neck?”

You nod against the table.

“Okay.” He doesn’t stop. “Okay. Can you—with your hand—can you keep rubbing yourself? Can you do that for me?”

You are flat against the table. The hand around yours doesn’t loosen at all. With some effort, you move your other hand down, under you, and it brushes his for a moment before he makes way for you, and uses his newly freed hand to reach up and wrap around the back of your neck.

“Like this?’’ he asks. He sounds almost hoarse, though nothing compared to the sound you let out as you nod, clenching around him even tighter than before. “Okay. And don’t stop—your clit—good, that’s good, just—”

His hand tightens around your neck slightly, just on the sides, as he starts fucking you hard, harder than before, hard and fast in a way that is forcing sounds out of you that you cannot control. You try to rub your clit in some approximation of what he was doing, and it’s more slippery than you could have anticipated and your fingers keep grazing his cock as he thrusts into you, and you’re close, you’re close again.

“I—” You make a sound into the table. “I’m.”

“I know.” He doesn’t stop. “I know, I know, I’m here—” 

He squeezes your hand again, and for some reason this is the thing that undoes you.

This orgasm is a different kind of good from the first. That was a sharp, hot, precise flash of pleasure; this time is broader, gentler, warmer. True to his word, he follows almost immediately after, shooting hot inside you, and you are full as you squeeze around him and pant into the table.

You can hear his breathing, too, behind you. You listen to it slow in time with yours.

He squeezes your hand again, this time as a precursor to letting go, and it almost hurts as much as the loss of him pulling out of you. He runs the other hand, the neck one, down your back, smoothing your skirt back down as he goes. There are shuffling sounds—boxers, zipper, belt. You don’t move.

“Hey.” His hand is on your hip again—lighter. Tentative, like he wasn’t just digging into it ninety seconds ago. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.” You are still face planted into the table for the same reason as before: if you stand up, you will have to look at him, and why you ever thought that would be easier after he fucked you than before is one of the great mysteries of the universe. “Yeah. That was—I’m just—.” You stand up very abruptly. “Oh my god.”

“What?” He sounds alarmed. 

“I need to lie down.”

“Are you dizzy?” He sounds even more alarmed. “Are you—the couch, is the couch okay?”

“Yes, I’m fine, the couch is fine but, do you have a towel, it’s just—I need to lie down for twenty minutes,” you say, apologetically as you can muster. He crosses a step to the kitchen, and grabs a towel, and tosses it to you. You catch it without looking at him, and you waddle over to the couch in the unsexiest manner possible, where you proceed to put the towel on top of a pillow and lie down with the pillow under your hips. Your skirt flips back up. You cross your legs as though it will help. It really doesn’t. “I completely forgot. Just so it doesn’t—you know.”

A pause. “So it doesn’t what?”

You look at him. In very short order he has gone from sounding alarmed to wearing a poorly-hidden smirk.

You narrow your eyes at him. “You know.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “I do. I think. But I kind of want to hear you say it.”

You purse your lips. You stare at the ceiling, then look back at him, then back at the ceiling, then at the insides of your hands. “So it doesn’t leak out,” you say, muffled against your palms. “There. I said it.”

“You did,” he says, sounding annoyingly pleased.

“Are you happy now?”

“Very.” His voice is getting closer.

When you open your eyes again, he’s standing over you. You frown, and push his face away with both hands. “I hate you.”

“I know.”

“You’re the worst.”

“I know.”

“I can’t believe I left my underwear in the car.”

“Why did you do that?” he says, sounding equal parts delighted and bewildered.

“I don’t know,” you wail, except you can’t help but laugh with him. “It just seemed like something people do!”

“What people?” His voice is further away now, like he’s leaving the room, and there’s a vague sound of drawers being open and shut. “Internet people? Is this a porn thing I don’t know about? Because porn is not supposed to be a good representation of real life, you know, that’s a specific thing I have to say in the sex ed unit. I have to say that. To a room full of eighth graders.” A drawer shuts. “Is porn where you got the table idea from?”

“No,” you say miserably, back into your hands. You aren’t sure if he can hear you, and you don’t care. “That was all me.”

A piece of fabric hits the back of your hands. You pick it up, to look at it. Boxers. White. Black text on the band. 

“For you,” he says. “They’re clean.”

“Oh. Thanks.” You look at them a moment more, then pull them on. “You know, I really wasn’t expecting this from you.”

“Okay,” he says, leaving to the kitchen. “So what I’m hearing is that first, you thought I’d be the guy who would finish having sex and kick you out within fifteen minutes—still not over that, by the way—and then you also thought I’d let you leak in misery on the couch? For another twenty minutes? And I was still your first choice of sperm donor? Because if that’s the case, we need to have a serious chat about your taste in sexual partners.”

“You can connect with Olya about that. I think she already had an intervention planned.” You pull the waistband of the underwear out, then release, letting it snap against your waist. “But I was talking about the Calvins. I kind of assumed there’d be, like, little Bunsen burners around the band. Or some kind of day-of-the-week situation.”

“The Bunsen burners are my Thursday pair,” he says, emerging from the kitchen with a glass of water. He passes it to you before plopping down on the floor next to the couch.

You take a sip. “What are you doing?”

“Sitting. Next to you.”

“It looks like you’re lying down.”

He is, in fact, flat on the carpet without so much as a pillow. “Yeah. Next to you. Is that allowed?”

“Of course it’s allowed, it’s your house. I just don’t want to stop you from doing the things you need to do.”

“What do I need to do?”

“I don’t know. Put your cold Chinese food in the fridge?”

“I did that already.”

“Oh.” You take another sip. “Prepare for parent teacher conferences?”

“I did that already. At school. It’s mostly the same every time. Parents agree. Parents disagree.”

“Parents hit on you,” you continue for him.

His face turns a little pink. “Sometimes, yeah.”

You roll your eyes. “Of course they do.”

“What, you don’t believe me?”

“I literally said of course they do. Because of course they do.”

“What does that mean?”

“You’re. You know.” You look at him—messy hair, messy glasses, messy smile—and then determinedly back at the ceiling. “You’re not completely horrible to look at.”

“Wow. And this is you after two orgasms.”

“That was a nice thing! I said a nice thing!”

“You’re in my house, wearing my boxers—”

“Yes, your Bunsen-burner-less boxers. I’ll have to plan around Thursdays, going forward.”

“Going forward?” he says.

You freeze. You do not look at him. “If it’s not too much of an imposition,” you say carefully—and then you are immediately cut off by his hand smushing your face.

“It’s not an imposition,” he says. “It is absolutely not an imposition. We can do this as much as you want.”

“Mmph,” you say.

He pulls his hand back. You look at him. “I just didn’t want to assume,” he says.

You stare. Messy glasses, hair, smile—you look back at the glass. “Like you said, this is me after two orgasms.” You are very interested in the glass and, furthermore, the water inside it. “Which was, for the record, not the point.”

“Of course it’s the point.”

“But like, okay, if we were doing this with a turkey baster, that wouldn’t even be a concern—”

“Well, we aren’t doing this with a turkey baster. I made it very clear that it was on you to provide the turkey baster, and you didn’t, so—”

You shove the water at him, if only to shut him up, but you’re grinning. He’s also grinning. You take the water back, and struggle to take a sip, because it is significantly emptier and you are still flat on your back.

He stands up. “C’mere,” he says. He helps you sit up, and then sits down where your head was, letting you lay back in his lap. “Is this okay? If I sit here?”

“It’s your house, Ryland, you can sit wherever you want—” He pinches your nose. You glare up at him. He smiles pleasantly down at you. “Yes. Idds fide,” you say. “Awesobe. Really.”

He releases your nose, and runs a hand back through your hair. Your eyes shut automatically.

“But seriously,” he says. “Was that—was there anything bad? Anything you didn’t like? I’m very open to notes. For next time. Since there’s going to be a next time.”

“It was all good,” you say. You think it might be the first time you’ve said that to a guy and honestly meant it. “The whole thing.”

“That can’t be true.”

You open one eye. “Are you calling me a liar?” The other eye opens. “Or, wait, was it bad for you?”

“What? No.”

“I mean it. I am also open to feedback, and I know I was being super weird at the beginning, I was just, like you said, I was nervous, but I can be so much more normal next time—”

“You were perfect,” he says, at the same time he runs a hand back over your head. “And, sure, I’d prefer if you weren’t that nervous all the time, but that’s because I don’t want to be doing things that make you nervous. So if I am—”

“You weren’t. It’s just you.”

As in, there’s nothing you could have done better. As in, you make me nervous just existing. As in, I’ve thought you were perfect since we were in elementary school, and I know you don’t mean it back the same way but if you were going to say it at all I wish it had been sooner than this.

He smiles. “Yeah,” he says softly. “It’s just me. And it’s just you. So there’s nothing to be nervous about, yeah?”

“Mm.” You let your eyes close back shut as you turn your head, snuggling more firmly into his lap. He makes a noise that sounds like a wince, and shifts beneath you, and you look back up at him. “Sorry. Did I—”

“Nope,” he says. His voice is definitely strained. “No. You’re fine. I just. Has it been twenty minutes yet?”

You look at him. Then you look at his lap. Then you look back at him. “Already?”

“Yeah, I think. I think it’s been about twenty minutes.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s been less.”

“Has it been an amount of time that would qualify as going forward?” he asks. Then: “We don’t have to, if you’re not up to it.”

You make a show of genuinely considering. “I am a little sore.”

“Right. That, that makes sense.”

“But not that sore.” You meet his gaze. “And probably going again is good. Statistically.”

He nods as you sit up and put the water down on the coffee table. He keeps nodding as you begin to shimmy off his underwear, his own hands going back to deal with his belt and his zipper and all. “Yeah. Better odds, definitely better. The numbers alone. If you’re sore, do you want to be on top this time? So you can have more control over how—”

"Right. I just feel like, is that counterproductive? Like, I spent all that time on my back, just to let gravity..."

“I’ll—” His mouth clamps shut. “Nope.”

You stare at him. In years and years, in decades, you’ve never known any version of Ryland Grace to do anything but say exactly what he thinks, exactly at the speed he thinks it. “What was that.”

“I was just about to say the worst thing I've ever thought."

"What."

"You'll leave if I tell you."

"What?"

"I was going to say, I'll plug you up."

You’re not smiling. Really, you’re not. It’s just that the corners of your mouth are pulling so far up and out that it’s hurting your cheeks. “Oh my god."

"I know."

"That's terrible.”

"I told you!"

“Like I’m, what, a sink? A power socket?” His face is too buried in his hands to allow anything but a muffled groan in response. You grin. He is somehow, in spite of all of this, still hard. “If you wanted me to leave you could have just said so."

“I don’t—”

"Hey, signal received, loud and clear. I’ll just—” You stand, and turn to the door. You mean it as a joke. It doesn’t matter, though, because you don’t get that far before he catches your wrist and tugs you back.

It only takes two or three movements for you to straddle him.

All at once your field of vision is very full of nothing but messy hair, and eyes bright behind his glasses, and his stupid perfect nose, and his mouth—

"We can't kiss," you blurt out.

He blinks. His face stays still otherwise. “Okay.”

"It's a rule I have. For hookups. No kissing on the mouth.” At the word mouth, his eyes drop to yours, which is fine, that’s normal, you can’t just tell someone not to think of an elephant. But the thought of him thinking about kissing you makes you dizzy enough that you rush to continue, “Everywhere else is fine, though."

You are not a good liar. He is an even worse liar, which might be the only way you get away with this. He also might be justifiably distracted by the fact that the entire naked length of him is pressed up against the entire naked length of you, and you are wetter than before from his mouth and from two orgasms and from him leaking out of you.

"Everywhere else?" he asks.

You nod. 

“Here?” His hand is warm against the back of your neck as he drags his thumb back and forth across your neck, just below your ear. 

When you nod, he follows with his mouth.

He continues lower, fingers and then lips, to your shoulder—“Here?”—your sternum—“Here?”—and then his hand is cupping your breast over your dress—“Here?”—at which point your nodding becomes frantic. You dip your shoulder, helping him push down the strap and the neckline until he’s able to dip into your bra and free you and drag a tongue across the curve, closing his mouth around your nipple as you wrap an arm around his head and press him to you and wind your fingers into his hair. 

He sucks harder, harder, until the pleasure has a sting to it. You tug at his hair. He relents, pulling away only to replace his mouth with his hand, his thumb, back and forth as he laughs into your neck.

“You’re so,” he starts, then pauses to press his hips more firmly into you, then huffs out another laugh, low and disbelieving. “The sounds you make.”

Your face heats up. “Sorry,” you mumble into the side of his head.

“No. Don’t you dare. They’re great sounds. Excellent sounds. Very helpful.” You throb against him at that, and he must feel it, because his next laugh chokes off. “Can I—are you—inside?”

“Inside,” you agree, a little breathlessly. You lift your hips just enough to line him up to you, and there’s a genuine pang in your chest from how badly you want to kiss him—

—but then he’s inside you, and inside you and inside you and inside you, taking up so much space that you don’t have any left for silly things like regret.

His mouth is back on your chest, your collar, pushing down your dress on the other side. You’re struck with—something. Jealousy, maybe. Your hands loosen from their death grip on his shoulders to grab at his shirt, the buttons, greedy, frantic. “Can I—”

You’re clumsy with the buttons, so he comes to your rescue. He’s somehow even worse. Between the two of you, you manage to fumble a few open, and having those few inches of chest-to-chest contact when you bury your head back in his neck feels nothing short of religious. 

Aside from minute adjustments of the hips, and a twitch inside you, he’s trying very hard to be still. You can tell its an effort because, when you finally move, lifting up slowly on shaky legs, his fingers tighten on your hips. You sink back onto him with a slow, intentional breath.

“Good?” he asks into your jugular. “It doesn’t hurt?”

“No.”

It does. But it’s a low, quiet ache, a base note of soreness that only intensifies the pleasure, until your thighs give out and you lower yourself back down more quickly than planned, and the hit of him against your cervix makes you yelp. “A little,” you amend.

“Sorry!” He sounds panicked, which is so endearing it almost makes you forget about the pain. His hands visit lower on your hips, cupping your ass, helping you lift up a little as he presses his hips down and away from you, and a sound escapes you that has nothing to do with pain or soreness and everything to do with the drag of him inside you. “Sorry, sorry. Is that—we should stop. Let’s stop.”

Now it’s your turn to panic. “No. No stopping.”

“I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t. It’s all right if you do.”

“It is absolutely not all right, that’s—”

“I like it,” you admit, and when he looks up you force yourself not to close your eyes or look away. Whatever sentence he was in the middle of dies on his lips. You need to stop looking at his lips.

“Oh,” he says.

“It feels good.” You watch him watching you. “I want to be a little sore. I want to be able to remember you were inside me.”

That last part slips out on accident, and you have a front row seat to watch it land.

His eyes are bright behind the glasses (crooked, smudged, a little foggy), but there’s a stillness to his expression overall, like he’s trying very carefully not to scare off an endangered animal, except for a tiny little twitch at the corner of his mouth, and you want to kiss the corner of his mouth so now you do have to close your eyes.

The next two seconds feel like they last about an hour.

“Okay,” he says, like he’s still thinking it over as he says it, and then, more resolutely: “Okay.”

Something unties in your chest. You open your eyes, and see him looking at you like—like—you can’t examine that expression too closely, actually. If you think about that expression too much you are going to start having all kinds of other thoughts you aren’t allowed to have. “Okay?”

“But we go slow.”

“Slow is good.”

“And if it starts to—if it hurts in a way that doesn’t feel good, we stop. Tell me right away, and we’ll stop.”

“I will,” you agree, already shifting your hips a bit in his hands to press back against him. You don’t take him all the way down to the hilt. Almost, but not quite. You feel him press against the back of you, and you let yourself sink down just a millimeter more, earning that bit of pain, the sweet ache, before nodding. “There.” Your eyes flutter shut, your head tipping down. “Until there is good.”

He nods. His forehead is pressed to yours—not on purpose, you think, that’s just how your head fell, that’s out of your control—and you’re breathing the same air, and you honestly deserve a Nobel for not closing those last few centimeters.

“Good.” His voice has dropped about an octave.

You clench around him, and you feel his thighs flex, under yours, through his pants, as he presumably fights the urge to thrust up into you.

“Sorry,” he says, which confirms it. You feel the tip of his nose travel up across your forehead, followed by his lips, ending at your hairline. “We’re going slow. I want to go slow. It’s good that we’re going slow. I can kiss you here?”

“Yes.” He presses his mouth more firmly against your head, and you angle your face into his neck. “We don’t actually have to go that slow.”

“It’s good,” he repeats, like he’s trying to convince himself, “that we’re going slow.”

“But your food. It’ll get cold. It’s probably already cold.”

“I have a microwave. A great one.”

“Mmhm.”

“Actually it’s just okay, you remember, it’s the same one, I think it’s probably been here since the Cold War—” You laugh again, which makes you pulse around him again, and he lets out a shaky exhale. “Have I mentioned how glad I am that we’re going slow.”

“Once or twice.”

“Great, great. Good. Just wanted to make sure you got that. On the record. In your records. One of them. Both. Either. And it doesn’t hurt.”

“Not in any way I don’t like.”

He makes a sound into your hair that could best be described as tortured. His fingers are tight on your hips, digging. You know that it’s just practical, that he’s mostly doing it to help support your weight so that you don’t move too fast, don’t hurt yourself again. You are still hopeful of bruises tomorrow. You are also hopeful that he’ll fuck you properly sometime in the next ten seconds, because if he doesn’t you might die.

“You don’t have to hold back” you say. “I mean it. As fast as you need. As hard as you need.”

A pause. Then he guides your hips forward—not deeper, but closer, flush against him, and the pressure takes you by surprise, and you whimper.

“You get to feel good too,” he says. “You said whatever I need, right? Anything I want?”

“Mmhm.” He moves you, and you let him. “Mmhm.”

“Right. Not too deep,” His mouth finds its way back to your neck, just below your ear, and you keep rocking against him in that heavy, unrushed rhythm, your clit pressed back and forth against his stomach where his shirt has ridden up. “Not running anywhere, just this, just—” You pulse around him, and his voice breaks. “— just like that. Need to hear you make those pretty noises while you squeeze down on me.”

“Ry—”

“You want me to fill you up, right, you want me to put a baby in you, that’s the whole point, and I want to, I’m going to, I just—then I need to feel you—need you to feel good. Need you to come again.”

“Ryland.”

“You can do that for me, right, you can, you can, it’s only fair.”

You don’t know how long you stay like this. It’s slower than you wanted, but exactly as fast as you need, and he is patient, steady, even as the monologue runs away from him and he begins babbling nonsense into your ear. Or maybe he’s making perfect sense. You think you hear your name a few times, but who even knows anymore. You’re pretty sure you’ve lost the ability to process language.

He lets go of your hips on one side to get a hand back on your chest, gentle, rolling your nipple between forefinger and thumb. You bury your face in his neck, and then make some effort to lift it back up, until you are practically cheek to cheek.

“It’s only fair, you have your rule, I have mine,” he says. You don’t even know what he’s talking about. You’re not sure he does, either. His mouth is next to your mouth, level, along the same plane, and it would be so easy, nothing at all, to turn your head and—

And then his mouth moves higher, to your eyes, next to your eyes, and he’s saying, “Here, is here okay, can I kiss you here, can I please kiss you here.”

You make some sort of noise of agreement, so far past words you don’t know if you could produce a full sentence if you tried.

The moment he has your permission, he turns his head just the slightest bit to properly press his mouth against your temple, and he keeps it there while he crushes you to his chest with one arm around your waist, keeping the pressure of his pelvis against your clit,  and every sound he makes vibrates through your skull as he finishes inside you.

Neither of you moves for a long, long time. Your chest is pressed to his. You could almost swear you feel his heart beat through it, a little faster than yours, a little out of rhythm. 

“Your food is definitely cold,” is the first thing you manage.

“It is,” he agrees. “Because I put it in the fridge.”

“Oh.” The freckles do go down to his shoulders, you see now. You run your finger between them, tracing constellations, up until the place where they disappear under his shirt where you pushed it back. “Wow. When did you do that?”

“Before. After. Between. I told you that. I said it out loud.”

“I forgot.” The comfortable silence returns. You feel his hand, slow up and down your back, and the other in your hair, still, his thumb against your temple. “I probably need to lay down again,” you finally say. “For twenty minutes. I think that’s the rule.”

“Sure. Just one more second.”

“Okay.”

You let several minutes pass.

“I don’t even know why twenty minutes. It seems like an arbitrary amount of time”

“Yeah?” He kisses your temple again—slow, like he’s committing it to memory—and then your jaw, and then your collarbone, and then your neck again, and it tickles and you giggle and while you giggle he finally turns, careful, and lowers you back down to the couch. He pulls out of you, soft, and you’d protest but you are honestly too satisfied down to your bones to do anything but let him. “I thought you did all that research.”

“I did. Nobody on Reddit could agree on a number.”

“You did not just use research and Reddit in the same sentence,” he says, walking back to the kitchen. The sink goes, and then stops. The fridge opens. A bag crinkles on the counter. The chiming of silverware in a drawer, the one to the right of the sink, next to the junk drawer. Your heart feels so full it could burst. Here’s to the things that last.

“Cool it, doc. We can’t all have a fancy degree.”

“You want fried rice, or white?”

“Both.”

“On it. And you literally have a J.D. Juris doctor.”

“Yes, but that doesn’t make me a researcher, it just means I get paid twice as much to do half the work of one.”

“Mean,” he says. You stick a tongue out at him, even though you know he can’t see it. “But fair.”

The microwave goes. You lie back, having pulled his boxers back on, and you update your mental profile of him, this man you’ve known for the better part of thirty-four years.

Ryland Grace is not the kind of guy who has sex and then kicks you out within fifteen minutes.

Ryland Grace is also not the kind of guy who lets you leak in misery on the couch.

Ryland Grace is smart but not obnoxious about it.

“You want something other than water? I guess it’s late for coffee. Or is that one of those things you can’t have? Like alcohol? I did—I haven’t done, like, research, that’s a completely different thing, but I was reading about…”

Ryland Grace is smart but mostly not obnoxious about it.

Ryland Grace prints things out at the library if he’s afraid they’re inappropriate for the school printer

Ryland Grace is the kind of guy who agrees to donate sperm to an old friend without question.

He is tall, and brilliant, and sweet, and funny, and has a great head of hair, and is also built to a crazy degree for someone whose primary form of exercise seems to be biking places.

He’s farsighted, but that means he keeps the glasses on during sex and that honestly has to count as a pro.

He is good in bed, and you get to keep on sleeping with him for as long as it takes for you to get pregnant.

That last part makes you pause.

The as long as it takes part. The part where there’s a guaranteed end date.

Which is your fault, of course, and also entirely by design. Help me have a baby is a very different context than help me have a baby and also we should date. It’s completely different than help me have a baby and also remember that time sixteen years ago when I poured my heart out to you and you—

“There.” He places a coaster on the coffee table, and a steaming plate on top of it. “You don’t have to sit up yet, it’s pretty hot. I just put a little of everything. And it’s definitely a no on the coffee, unless you want decaf, but then I remembered you hate coffee so I just brought more water.”

You take the fork he offers you. “Thanks, Ryland,” you say.

It comes out softer than you meant for it to. He doesn’t notice. He just smiles, and goes back to the kitchen to make himself a plate. You watch him go, and you think:

Ryland Grace is the perfect person for you to have fun with, have a baby with, and then forget about completely.

You can do that. You can totally do that. You just don’t know how you’re going to do that.

But then he comes back with a steaming plate of food of his own, and jokes about burning his tongue, and then immediately burns his tongue, and you laugh at it like a friend would. And, once you’re satisfied that you’ve been on your back enough to be relatively leak-proof, you sit up and race him to see who can finish their noodles the fastest (he lets you win, like he used to when you were kids), and every time you offer to leave he finds some excuse or some question that requires you to stay, until he actually has to leave to avoid being late for work, and you drive home and you shower and you go to sleep in your own bed. And you wake up only thinking about him a little.

And that feels like a good place to start.

[sipofchai]

deciding you're sick of dating and just want to do the single mom thing, except sperm is expensive (and you're slightly terrified at the idea of not knowing the person whose dna you're about to combine with yours) so you ask your longtime friend and crush ryland grace if he'll donate. and instead if saying no he makes a joke about what, with a turkey baster? and you joke back, sure. or the old fashioned way, to which he replies that he's always been a sucker for tradition, and this goes on for a little bit until you realize maybe neither of you is joking anymore.

[antichemrita]

SOMEONE WRITE THIS!!!

[fullagracefullaswag]

HI I LOVED YOUR SHORT DRABBLE ABOUT CHAOTIC READER, could you do some more headcannons/one shot/ anything bout them! i’m in love 🥹 ok also im new here but i quite like your blog a lot ok bye 😁

hi! i’m also very new to posting here so to hear that you enjoy what i’m doing is so lovely, thank you from the bottom of my heart 🥹

i’ve got a one shot in the works but i can’t say exactly when it’ll be coming out! i need to lock in and get writing asap

but… here’s some headcannons for you guys in the mean time:

SFW & NSFW

ryland grace who never knows whether you’ll show up late or early. there are days you stroll in an hour before class, usually when you don’t have the morning shift at work, and fool around with him until you need to find your seat. but, there are also days where you rush in half an hour after class has started. you tumble through the door juggling textbooks, coffee, and your battered phone that is extremely outdated.

chaotic!reader who has the most shaky hands ever. from all the caffeine you digest, it’s only reasonable that it takes a toll on your body. so, every movement is jittery and quick. your classmates start to ask if you’re experiencing an earthquake inside. once ryland notices how you can’t seem to be still, he makes an effort to hold your hands and rub your shoulders when he can. it grounds you, and even if only for a moment, it seems to make you slow down a little.

ryland grace who gets extremely jealous when frat boys talk to you. you tell him constantly that they only mess with you and never have any… romantic intentions, but he disagrees. because you’re beautiful, and although you are strange, people can’t deny your looks. so, even though you believe that the only reason boys talk to you is to make fun of you, ryland knows better. and when he finally gets you to himself, he makes sure that you know that no college boy could ever make you feel how he makes you feel.

chaotic!reader who’s only place of relaxation is the couch is ryland’s office. your dorm is full of unfinished assignments and empty coffee cups, and everytime you look around your bedroom you feel a wave of anxiety rush through you. so, you started finding ryland in his office between lectures and lying on his couch when you talked to him. gradually, lying on the couch became napping on it. and he doesn’t have the heart to tell you that is inappropriate in his work place, so he just watches you sleep peacefully.

ryland grace who makes sure you relax after a stressful shift. he’ll place you on top of his desk in the lecture hall, and kiss you until your brain is already mushy. he’ll push you back gently so that your back is on the wood, and spread your legs to make room for himself. his pace is always ruthless when you need a stress reliever, because he only wants you thinking about how he feels inside of you. not the rude customers at rush hour, or how your coworker “accidentally” dropped a latte on you when pushing past. only on how hard he thrusts into you, and all the sweet praise he whispers into your ear as he does so.

chaotic!reader who likes to corner ryland after class. early on into your relationship, he’d emphasise how terrible he was for doing this to you, and how easy it would be for him to lose his job if someone found out. so, there were days where he would turn you away and tell you to go back to your dorm and finish assignments. but when there’s too much tension and stress inside of you, you need to find a way to release it. which means you’d have to corner him at his desk, begging and demanding that he finishes what he started. every single time, it ended with him unbuttoning his jeans and pulling you into his lap, saying “this is the last time, okay?”

ryland grace and chaotic!reader who have a thread of emails that seem professional on his end. if a staff member were to read through them, they’d most likely think that Dr Grace was just dealing with a student who overshares. but in reality, you and ryland have come up with some kind of formal flirting through email. you like to tease him, emailing at ungodly hours about personal things while he forgets to breathe on the other side of the screen. you’re too risky for his liking, but he’ll always reply with something that encourages you. for example…

reader: could i stay after class today?

grace: what for?

reader: the reproductive system

grace: that’s not on the curriculum. why should i teach you about that?

reader: you already taught me, professor. i thought maybe i could do a presentation for you.

meanwhile ryland has already decided to cut class short today just to make time for you.

this is not proof read

requests are open! any and all questions or ideas are welcome. i’d love to hear from you guys.

[antichemrita]

“This is the last time okay?”

IM GOING WILD omg…

[ivyinkveil]

just thinking about riding grace’s nose…. 18+

ryland grace is DEFINITELY a muncher whose beard only gets lighter the more he eats you out because he just needs you to sit on his face.

you would straddle his face one night after he got home from work too late, hands tugging onto his hair as you grind.

he would groan, whining as he laps you up with his tongue while you unknowingly started grinding on his nose.

“oh yeah, come on suffocate me babe— ngh— oh yeah,”

“can feel you’re close babe, just continue riding, good girl,”

“mmn you’re tightening around my tongue hon”

you would blush profusely, embarrassed as you slowed down, realising how much you have been grinding on his face.

and grace is nottt having it.

“why are you slowing down babe?” he looks up at you as he still continues to slurp on your clit.

you whine as your eyes starts to lock with his.

“i’ve just been using your nose the whole time… that’s so embarrassing—

“no, sit, now.” grace’s hands would tighten their grip on your thighs, forcing your hips to plant back down to his mouth, smothering him as he continues to lap at your arousal.

“ohh fuck!!—“ your hips had a mind of its own and started grinding at a faster pace again, making grace moan and whine as he takes pleasure in your desperation.

his hands would sometimes go up to grab at your ass, leaving light smacks before pulling at the flesh, motioning you to continue grinding on his face.

before you knew it, you could feel your thighs trembling and your eyes rolling back.

grace realising you’re slowing down and shivering all over, grips your hips and makes you grind on his mouth, your clit tugging onto his sharp nose which makes you moan out loud every time.

“f-fuck grace!!!— oh i’m gonna— f-fuck!!—“ you couldn’t even warn him as your vision started whitening and you felt like your nerves were on fire.

you lean your head against your arm on the wall, your other fingers gripping his hair locks.

he was groaning, loudly moaning all over as if he was the one feeling the pleasure when he is slobbering and slurping up all of your juices like a starved man.

and suddenly, your thighs violently trembled as that band in your abdomen breaks.

“grace!!—“ you couldn’t warn him on time as your eyes rolled back and you gasped, feeling your release hit you all in one go.

grace groans loudly again, shaking his head side to side as he slurps you up, sucking and whining as he feels you squirting and pulsing all around his tongue.

and as you tried to steady your breathing, you could feel grace’s hands moulding your ass like its dough while he lazily continues to suck at your clit which makes your hips tremble from sensitivity.

looking down, your eyes tried to adjust as your hands are now lightly scratching grace’s scalp.

when your eyes finally adjusted, you swear that grace is smirking at you even as he sucks all over your folds.

“that was so hot babe,”

he smugly said as you whine from his relentless sucking on your clit, making you lift your hips up completely. just to see his face drenched, and his beard somehow a bit more lighter than before….

you looked away in embarrassment as he chuckles, leaving a small peck on your inner thigh.

[diehlsource]

[antichemrita]

Oh my god

[s4turn3st]

I got inspired by this tweet I saw. Shout out these guys 😋

Anyways here’s a little drabble :3

-

Grading was the last thing on Rylands mind. He had stayed late to try and at least achieve some sort of dent in the pile of students lab assignments on his desk, but it seems you had other plans for this late Friday evening.

Rylands hands are gripping tightly on the shelves around you both, panting against the palm of your hand. His hips jerk forward, stuttering and barely able to keep his knees from buckling underneath himself. He lets out a whimper from underneath your hand, eyes rolling back at the pleasure you’re giving him. You shush him softly, feeling the breath from his nostrils on the tops of your fingers.

Behind him, you rest your chin on his shoulder, whispering into his ear, “C’mon Mr. Grace….you would want anyone to hear you, would you?”

A quick little whine in response is muffled from beneath your hand. The only other sound filling the small, cramped janitors closet you had pulled him into being the slick sound of your other hand jerking him off. His pants were only unzipped far enough for you to pull his cock out, so both of you were still fully clothed.

You both knew that at this time of day at the middle school it would just be you two, as most of the cleaning staff had also gone home at this point. But, the idea of someone catching you seemed to really get Ryland going. You had pulled him in by his tie, tugging him into the janitors closet the moment he walked past.

You pause your motions to run your thumb across the sensitive red tip of his cock, spreading the pre-cum that had continued to spill. This elicits yet another muffled whimper from the man as he tries to buck up into your hand, desperate for you to continue jerking him off.

You tsk at him, leaning your head to the side to whisper into his ear. “You’re being so good for me Ry…such a good boy…” you say, breathing hot air against his ear. The sensation of it weakens his knees and he lets out another whimper at the sudden increased movement from your hand, slick with pre-cum.

With your chin back on his shoulder, you can see his face. His hair is a mess, sticking up on random spot. Sweat beads along his forehead, daring to drip down onto his flushed cheeks. His glasses sit askew, almost falling off if it weren’t for your hand right beneath his nose. His eyes are slightly open and rolled back, relishing in the pleasure you’re providing. He looked absolutely delicious.

His dick throbbed within your grasp, twitching as he got closer and closer to his climax. Additionally, he got more fidgety, hand moving from a death grip on the shelf to hold onto the arm over his mouth. His knees threatened to give out from beneath himself, leaning back into you for support.

His muffled moans and whimpers ramped up, getting louder and more frequent the closer he got.

Finally, he lets out the loudest groan yet, shuffling and twitching beneath you as ropes of white cover the back of the janitor door and your hand. His hips buck up into you at the slight overstimulation as you work him through his orgasm. His chest heaves, out of breath, slowly coming back from his arousal-driven haze.

You finally quit your ministrations the moment he begins to whine from the overstimulation. You take your hand off of his mouth and he pants breathlessly, satisfied to be able to breath properly.

His hands grip onto the shelves once again to hold himself up, and he lets out a long, shaky breath, shoving his limp cock back into his pants.

You look around the closet and find some paper towels to clean off your hand. Once he catches his breath, he turns around and faces you. His mouth covered with drool from when your hand covered his mouth.

“…I…I might need those too…” He states softly, motioning towards his mouth and the few drops that spilt onto what were his favorite pants, which hopefully wouldn’t stain.

You let out a chuckle, using a paper towel and wiping his face off. He lets out an embarrassed smile and take the paper towel from you once your done and wiping his pants off.

“We are definitely doing this again, just so you know.” You say reaching around him to wipe down the door.

His dick throbs at the notion, slowly hardening once more as an idea comes to mind.

“Are you free tonight?”

[antichemrita]

I literally saw this tweet and immediately ran to tumblr. Gods work.

[somethinginyourbones]

something something Ryland Grace holding you in place on his desk with his stupidly strong arms as he eats you out. It’s in the Bible trust me

The dry erase marker squeaked, loud and crudely. Your hand was flying across the white board, but it lacked conviction, your usual confidence in writing out equations. Just as Ryland walked back in through the door with coffee for the both of you, you stopped abruptly, hand and marker hovering. With a genuine growl and another obnoxious squeak of the marker, you swipe through your work, erasing bits, scratching through others.

“Hey, hey,” Dr. Grace exclaims softly, occupied hands raised. He sets the coffees down, wearing a worried expression. Your free times had aligned and he was gracious enough to let you use his classroom to work on your thesis, and help as much as he could.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” you sigh, bringing your palms to your eyes and pressing in. It’d been a long week. Late nights, too many exams, and something extra. Something that lingered.

“What’s wrong? If this is about your thesis, you’re doing perfectly fi—.”

“It’s not. It’s not the work.”

You’d cut him off. You didn’t mean to sound so snappy, so irritable. It wasn’t your work that was the problem. You knew. God, you knew what was, and you sure as hell couldn’t tell your professor.

“Well, then what is it?”

You turn to finally look at Ryland Grace, his hip pressed into the corner of his desk, arms folded. He’d ditched the blazer and rolled up his sleeves a while ago. The tie he wore was still there though, if not a little loosened.

He was stubborn. As sweet as Dr. Grace was, he didn’t have the reputation that he did for nothing. He looked insistent, eyes locked on yours over his glasses. He looked good. The light in the classroom was low, bathed in a soft burnt orange from the setting sun outside. The glow of the projector casted light and shadows over the room as well.

You laugh gently, leaning down to pick up the marker, to find something to do with your hands. Shaking your head you tell him the only thing you can, “It’s nothing. Just something I’ve been…having trouble with.”

“Doesn’t sound like nothing. I mean, I’ve been watching you all week. You’re here but you’re not. You’ve been quiet during lectures, unfocused.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

You try to apologize, try to explain and brush it all away. Ryland Grace doesn’t stop though. He keeps talking, and he starts walking closer, stepping right into the glow of the projector with you, your back to the board.

“You’ve been frustrated. You’ve missed questions that are like child’s play for you. You’re taking it out on my whiteboard,” he rambles, huffing a little laugh.

You know he means well, know he’s not trying to be an asshole, but it pushes you, that hair trigger you’ve been so quick to pull all week. It doesn’t help that he’s so close now. The way he looks, the way he smells, that pushes you too.

“I can’t come.”

Your words are blunt, and heavy. They’re immediately followed by the sound of Ryland choking. His eyes widen, in part confusion, part shock. When he realizes he didn’t mishear you, his cheeks turn pink and you fully expect that to be the end of it. You’d laugh if you weren’t so pent up, maybe even find his flustered state cute if it didn’t add to the pressure wedged between your hip bones.

“What? What do you…mean?”

You don’t expect it. The follow up question, the way his voice drops a little, to a soft whisper between you both. You don’t think it’s meant to be sexy, but rather…inquisitive? He’s not being suave. He’s not making a move. He’s gentle, albeit a little awkward.

The frustration kicks off again. It’s like when you said it, it took the lid off, and now you can’t put it back on. You grumble, voice raising slightly, falling into a ramble, “What I said. I can’t fucking come! All week, no matter what I do, what I’ve tried, I can’t get there and it’s driving me absolutely insane!”

“Hey, hey,” Ryland says again, even softer this time, sweeter. He rushes closer to you, his body dipping down to your height, trying to catch your gaze, but you’re frantic at this point. He unlatched the gate and now you’re twisting and turning on your feet, your fingers tangled in your hair. Ryland’s hands land on your shoulders, planting you still in one place. You keep talking though, hot tears starting to sting your waterline.

“I mean, I just can’t relax and my brain, my brain won’t shut up, and I get all tense and shaky and my chest starts hurting, and then I get anxious…I feel like I’m broken.”

Something in Ryland’s chest squeezes when you say that last part, when your glassy eyes finally find his. The words are out and you seem to deflate now that they’re gone. You lean back against the whiteboard, his hands still firm on the upper, outer part of your shoulders.

Grace softens his voice, tries to find the perfect tone so that you’ll hear him. His thumbs move gently, back and forth, soothing when he speaks.

“You are not broken. A lot of people…struggle with that. You’re young. You’re figuring out what you like, what you don’t. God, even outside the classroom, you’re so hard on yourself. Stop doing that.”

You just stare up at him, feeling defeated, exhausted, and the next thing you do is definitely blame worthy. You blame on it your lack of sleep, lack of sanity, and orgasms. You’ll blame it on a million other things too once you got home tonight.

None of that stops you from leaning in though, from pushing off the whiteboard, the tiptoes of your shoes scuffing against the floor. Your lips press against his. Warm, gentle, closed mouthed. Ryland doesn’t move. From nerves, shock, or if he’s just trying not to hurt your feelings. You’re unsure.

It’s not until you move again, relaxing your jaw and leaning in harder, your lips actually parting his, that he pulls away.

“Help me,” you whisper, cutting him off before he can say anything. His grip tightens on your shoulders, fingers flexing. You reach out and grab his tie, gently. Your voice wavers again, “I can’t fix it on my own, Dr. Grace. Please. Help me.”

You’re kissing him again. Small kisses, pressed to his lips, the corner of his mouth, his nose. They’re peppered between your broken words, your pretty pleases and his name. His fucking name. You pull on his tie, needy, pathetic. He can’t stop himself.

Your back collides with the whiteboard, his larger fingers coming up to frame your jaw. You have no choice but to open up for him, his thumb pressing in at the hinge, spit pooling across your tongue. The kiss is consuming. Not in a dominant way, or an aggressive way, but like he’s trying to breathe you in.

It’s slow, and deep. The sweep of his tongue against yours pulls a whine from your chest. He groans in response, almost standing to his full height, his grip still on your face, making you scramble farther up onto your toes. You bow off the whiteboard, and then slam back into it with a thud when he pushes you back again.

It trips something inside you, the way he handles you. That hunger, that need you’ve felt all week. You feel desperate, reaching out to grasp at his other arm. You pull at him, tugging, your fingers clasped tight around his wrist, shoving it down towards the hem of your jeans.

He rips his mouth from yours, and halts your rushed movements. His hands slip into your hair, pushing back the flyaways, and he shakes his head, forehead pressed to yours.

“Slow,” he whispers, “we go slow.”

You know he’s right. It’s been part of your issue. The longer your problem kept persisting, the more your impatience built. Your movements every night turned too fast, too much, chasing instead of feeling.

Dr. Grace doesn’t give you a chance to agree. You’re pulled into another kiss, and pulled, and pulled, across the tiles of the floor. Eventually you feel the edge of his desk, bumping into it. He lifts you, stepping between your knees.

His voice is low and broken, “Tell me. Tell me what you’ve tried. Hmm? How’d you try to make yourself come?”

You physically shiver at the question, your mind spinning at the reality of having this conversation with your professor. Ryland. Dr. Grace, who’s standing between your legs, whose desk you’re currently sitting on. You take a deep breath, “Um, my fingers, and then…toys. They didn’t…work either.”

“Fuck,” he breathes. “What kinda toys?”

You whimper, your cheeks burning. “A vibrator, and a…a dildo.”

Embarrassment floods you, every limb. Your skin feels too hot. You let out a groan. You swear you can feel him physically shake where he leans into you, and you wonder if he’s picturing it, you using it on yourself.

His mouth is on yours again, slow and prying, licking deeply inside. He pulls away, his voice sounding like gravel, his chest heaving. “And what do you want from me?”

“I want you to make me come,” you whine.

He squeezes your cheeks between his fingers. “No. What do you want? How?”

You freeze, swallowing hard. You hadn’t thought that far ahead, your brain too foggy, mind racing too fast. This was your problem. You felt stuck. Overwhelmed.

You feel the tap of his thumb against your jaw, your eyes refocusing. He was looking at you, hard and gentle all at once. “Don’t do that. Wherever you just went…don’t. Focus on me.”

He kisses you again. Softer this time, like he’s just trying to give you a moment to settle. You can’t help but stare when he pulls away. His lips are kiss bitten, and red. You reach up, trailing the tips of your fingers over his bottom lip. You don’t expect it, when he leans in and takes the three of them into his mouth. It’s so warm, and wet. The feeling of his tongue swirling around each one makes your eyes start to roll back.

He has an honest to god smirk on his face, watching you like he’s not the one sucking on your fingers. He looks so sexy, so dirty. He pulls off your fingers with a pop. “Is that what you want? My mouth?”

“Oh god…yes, please.”

He only hums. You hear the hooking sound of his shoe catching the desk chair, pulling it towards him. He sits.

The height difference is intimate. He’s close. Your legs are spread wide for the chair, his arms around your waist, your hands in his hair. You remember from earlier. Slow. Slow is better. So you don’t try to rush him. His face is level with your chest, and he just leans in, breathing deep, nuzzling.

His glasses slip down his face, and then he’s kissing your chest through your shirt. It feels so juvenile, but not. Not really. It feels good. So good. You just want his mouth for real, not the teasing.

He rubs his face across your chest again, over the top swell of your boob, and then he sinks his teeth in. Hard. You gasp, curling the fingers you have buried in his hair. He moans when you tug at the strands a second time. It spurs him on, but not enough to give up teasing you. He reaches up to yank your bralette down beneath your shirt, still keeping you covered.

You’re confused, until he pinches one of your nipples through the fabric. He keeps teasing, rolling them and tugging. Eventually you feel the warmth of his mouth, still through your shirt, but your pussy clenches anyway. He sucks on your nipple, soaking the fabric with his spit.

It’s not until you hiccup, your arms shaking, unsure if you wanna push his mouth away or pull him in, that he finally relents. He shoves your shirt up, and starts all over again.

His mouth is hot, and wet against the bare skin of your chest. He doesn’t rush. Grace uses every part of his mouth to torture you. His teeth, his lips, his tongue. When he’s not sucking dark marks into the fatty parts, he sucks on your nipples, so slowly, and softly you think you might scream. It’s like he’s savoring it.

“Dr. Grace. Dr. Grace, oh fuck, please. Please. I need more,” you cry, your voice actually wavering as you claw at him.

The next few minutes are filled with soft shuffling, a foot precariously balanced here and there as Dr. Grace pulls your jeans off. All your nerves float to the very top, painting your skin in little goosebumps. He notices. Of course he does. How couldn’t he with the way you’re sitting awkwardly on the edge of his desk still.

With a soft smug smile, he places a hand to the certain of your chest, and pushes you to lie back. You catch yourself on your elbows, keeping your knees pressed together.

Dr. Grace gives you a look, an amused one, his eyebrows quirked. He simply leans back himself, unbothered. He settles into the chair, and drops his voice. “Show me.”

Your cheeks burn, and Ryland only gives you those puppy dog eyes in return. “C’mon, baby. How can I make it feel better if you don’t show me?…Show me your pussy.”

It’s startling. Not just the sound of his voice, but hearing those words come from his mouth. Dr. Ryland Grace’s mouth. The professor that wears glasses and cardigans, and converse sneakers. He just told you to show him your pussy, so he could make it feel better. It’s filthy. It makes your nipples harden, and somewhere between your legs pulse.

Slowly your knees start to part, and all the cockiness slips from Grace’s face. You swear his eyes darken. Along with his cheeks. The cool air hits your pussy, and you can feel how wet you are. Dr. Grace must see it, with the way he reaches down to squeeze himself through his pants. His eyes flutter shut, and a soft, “fuccck,” leaves his mouth.

“Dr. Grace, please…please make it feel better,” you beg.

And that’s all he lets you say before he’s grabbing you, dragging your bare ass to the edge of his desk. He slips your legs over his shoulders and lowers his face.

You almost ask him to put his glasses back on, the mental image of him eating you out while wearing them popping into your head. You don’t get the chance though, before his mouth is on your pussy, and it’s like he knew. Your thighs instantly clench around his head, your back bowing, muscles tightening. You would’ve crushed his frames.

Any and all teasing Dr. Grace had in him was gone. He eats like he’s starving, his face buried, jaw working. The burn of his stubble is just on the right side of painful, dragging up and down your pussy as he licks you open. His lips wraps around your clit, sucking it into his mouth.

It’s not too long before you feel it. That pressure in your back. It feels off though, like it has all week. It’s too heavy, too hard. The muscles in your legs start to burn, and not in a good way. You feel the sole of your left foot start to cramp, but it’s still close. It’s still something. So you push towards it. You hold your breath.

Ryland feels it, all of it, and pulls away.

“Uh-uh. Breathe,” he pants softly against your pussy, “breathe for me baby.”

You gasp, growl, and then whimper. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry...”

A frustrated groan bleeds from you. You feel like crying again, the tears stinging your eyes. It’s Ryland’s hands that ground you, that slide up from your hips, up and over your belly, your ribs. The feeling of his hands on your body helps, some of the tension melting away.

He does it until your legs fall open again, a little more, a little easier. It’s so intimate. Ryland’s just there, his head resting on the inside of your thigh, face inches away from your bare pussy. His eyes are on yours though.

“You are trying too hard,” he says softly. He brings his thumb to your pussy, spreading the wetness all around, circling your clit lightly. “Don’t chase it. Let me give it to you.”

His hands don’t stop. They run up and down your body, his fingers finding your nipples again, playing with them gently. His mouth comes back to your pussy, slower this time. He kisses it so messily, his face soaked, his tongue running through you, nose brushing your clit repeatedly.

He zeros in on it, drawing these tiny figure eights with the tip of his tongue. Over and over again. You feel it then. Your hips lift, pushing up into his mouth. Ryland’s arms come down immediately, folding over your hips and your tummy, not hard, just there. He keeps the pace. His tongue swirling, and swirling.

That spark, the right one. It catches, and you feel like you could cry. You actually do. It’s a choked out sob. Broken and pathetic. “R-Rylan—.”

Your fingers slide through his hair, and you try, you do. You try so hard to keep your hips down, to not tense up. It’s building fast though. A warm heat right where Ryland’s mouth is, and at the base of your spine. You can’t help it.

Your thighs tighten around his head, and your hips start raising off the table…only for Ryland to slam you back down. His arms lock like steal across your hips, pinning you.

That’s what sends you over the edge.

Your brain gives you one crucial piece of cognitive advice. Don’t scream. You’re on campus property, currently getting your pussy eaten by your professor, and coming harder than you ever have before. Do not scream.

You don’t. Scream out loud that is. Your orgasm rips through you though, hard and deep. You feel it in the bottom of your feet, tingling, your toes curling. Your eyes roll back.

It feels like an instant high. Your limps go all floaty, and heavy. You’re trying to remember how to start breathing again while Ryland’s mouth is still working between your legs. Softer now but he keeps going, licking you through it, cleaning you.

It’s not until you cry out again and tug at his hair that he pulls away, slowly standing from the chair and draping himself across your body.

You kiss him. His face wet with spit, and your juices, your come. It’s so fucking hot. You lick into Ryland’s mouth, chasing the taste. He groans deeply, his voice wrecked.

“Yeah? You like the way your pussy taste, baby?”

You moan, letting your head fall back against the desk. He laughs. You do too. He kisses all over your face, your neck, while you slowly come back to him. Your eyes are still a little fuzzy when he says, “I wanna make you come again…can I?”

You run your fingers through his hair gently. That’s when you feel him for the first time. He’s hard, and still wearing his jeans completely buttoned. You swallow, and press your knee up into his cock. His breath catches, head falling to your shoulder.

“Together. I wanna come with you.”

—

(Might do a pt.2 where they fuck. 🫶🏼)

[antichemrita]

This is insane. I love it

[suspiriuums]

thinking about a service!top Ryland tbh ...

Him weakly humping the mattress when he eats you out, like. Whimpering about how well you're doing for him and how you're almost there and how he's just gotta keep going. How he's gonna make sure you feel Soooo good after this and if you don't, don't worry! Sit on his face, he can take care of you like that. Like no time to tease, just solely focused on making you cum and feel good.Or something...

(no idea if this is coherent I'm crazy horny right now)

-🌸

service dom!ryland is the way to go. that’s the key. that’s the man who just wants to please the people around him and make it known that he’s capable and useful. the type to chase down kisses from you while trying to plead. it’s lips clashing imperfectly and him whining “please. please. you have to let me do this for you.” he catches an open spot on your neck and dives in for a taste. “i can’t get your pussy off of my mind. wanna see her again. make her cum on my tongue. alllll over my tongue, sweetheart.” god he’s fucking STARVINNNGGGGG

[mensbestfriend]

people coming from fucking tiktok to hate on authors just because they don’t like what they write is honesty pissing me off

fucking death threats are we serious?

calling their work “mischaracterization”??? just because >you< don’t agree??

honestly how old even are you? did you just get out of elementary school to be this level of immature and childish? did you start reading fanfics yesterday?? can you not understand the concept of fiction??

Im not even a writer myself, but I really appreciate the work and dedication of every writer and every piece in here no matter if it’s my liking or not, because only the authors know how much time and dedication they put into their work and guess what? they gain nothing from it, they’re here entertaining your unemployed ass for free so the next time you don’t like something, please do us a favor and just keep your mouth shut, thanks!

[antichemrita]

There’s so much normalised hate for fanfic writers now it’s insane. If I don’t like it I just scroll why should you comment?!!!!!

[project-hail-ryland]

lonely people - ryland grace x fem!crewmate!reader - 18+ smut

interrupted masturbation, handjob, oral (m!receiving), gender neutral reader

₊˚⊹☆

you could say ryland woke up with a bit of an issue this morning.

he was so hard he thought he was going to explode.

you were still asleep in the other bed in the shared dormitory with your back to him.

you had kicked off some of the blankets in the middle of the night after complaining that you were too hot. now, your half dressed body is perfectly silhouetted beneath the thin white sheet.

ryland flops onto his back and bites back a groan as he lightly applies some pressure to his throbbing cock with the palm of his hand.

he's straining against the thin fabric, blood rushing to his tip, urging him to take care of the issue.

it’s been a long time since he’s gotten off, and over the past few weeks he’s grown very fond of you, much to his dismay.

it's not that you are not absolutely perfect, it’s just not exactly ideal to be sexually attracted to the only other person within 11.9 light years of you.

he finds himself thinking of you constantly as of late.

he doesn't even remember the last time he had feelings for anyone else, let alone a boner.

he applies more pressure through the thin fabric of his briefs and his back arches off the mattress as he allows himself to feel good for the first time in a long time.

he's cautious. quietly rolling his hips, steadily grinding up into his palm. he lets his eyes close, head still tipped back as he starts to wrap his hand around his shaft through his briefs.

he pictures your smile and the way your nose crinkles when you laugh.

then his mind wanders to the way you look up at him when he towers over you while you're in the pilot's seat.

then to the way your ass looks in your jumpsuit when you bend over.

he's embarrassed to have noticed it at all, even just thinking about it makes him feel like a massive pervert.

he knows he needs to just jerk off and get it out of his system, surely that will keep his mind off of his crew mate.

he also knows needs to get up and go to the bathroom or somewhere, anywhere else, afraid you may wake up to him fisting his cock to thoughts of you.

he glances up over at the clock, 5:47am. you should be asleep for at least another hour and some change.

his bed is so warm and comfortable, he just can't bring himself to relocate.

so he slips one hand under the hem of his briefs and wraps it around his length, thumb gently swiping over his tip to gather precum.

he lets out a soft sigh, then bites his lip to keep quiet as he slowly strokes himself beneath the covers.

a bead of sweat rolls down his temple, tears of relief prick at the corners of his eyes as he slowly jerks himself off.

he turns his face to glance over at you, expecting to see you still lying on your side beneath the thin sheet.

instead, he finds you seated at the edge of the bed, watching him with your legs dangling.

his heart lurches, hand immediately flying out of his boxers as he sits up.

he covers his face in his hands and shakes his head, embarrassment and shame and frustration filling his body from head to toe.

"i-" but that's all he can muster up the courage to say.

"ryland, it's okay," you coo, standing to walk over to him.

he still has his head in his hands, unwilling to look at you.

you gently grab one of his hands and pull it off of his face, tilting your head to examine his face.

his cheeks are hot and there's evidence of a stray tear or two beneath the eye that you can see.

you hold the hand you pulled off of his face tenderly in your own and begin to reach for his other one.

"ryland, please look at me," you whisper, moving to hold both of his hands in your own as you stand in front of him.

he shakes his head, his eyes tightly closed.

"relax, grace. it's not like i haven't done the same," you finally say.

that does it. he opens his eyes and cranes his neck to look up at you.

"what?!" he asks, shocked at your honesty.

you nod earnestly.

"you...you have...touched yourself in here?" he asks.

you nod again.

blood rushes straight back to his erection at your admission. the thought of you touching yourself just mere feet from him lighting a fire inside of him.

"it's natural, grace. we have been starved for touch for a long time. why am i explaining this to you? you're the biologist," you tease.

"when do you do it? when i'm...in here?" he asks, body tensing and heating back up.

you nod, "sometimes after you fall asleep, sometimes if i wake up first. other times i go elsewhere so as not to disturb you."

he's shocked now, eyebrow raised.

"do you want me to...help you out?" you ask, moving your eyes down his body, which is concealed by the blankets.

you expect him to say no or get embarrassed and flustered, but instead he squeaks out a yes.

your mouth drops open, shock tracing your features as you take in his answer.

"okay, lie back," you order.

he scoots over to make room for you on his bed, then lies back against the pillow. you kneel next to his torso and begin pulling the layers of sheets and blankets off of him.

"is this okay?" you ask.

"mmhmm," he mumbles, eyes squinted, watching you intently.

you move to palm him through his briefs, admiring the wet patch that has formed on the front. he sighs quietly, pushing his hips up into your touch.

"so hard, ryland," you observe. "what were you thinking about?"

he shakes his head, unwilling to tell you.

"you better tell me if you want me to keep going."

you slowly wrap your hand around him, working him through his underwear. he gasps again, rocking his hips in time with your movements.

you pull your hand away.

"no...please, please keep going," he whines, blue eyes sparkling as he gazes up at you.

"tell me, ryland. what were you thinking about?"

he purses his lips together, wondering how he can tell you that he was thinking of you without sounding like a perv.

"you," is all he says.

you're satisfied with that. you move to slide his boxers off, tracing ryland's face with your eyes to make sure it's okay.

his cock springs free to slap against his stomach and you swear your mouth starts to water just looking at him.

you spit in your hand and take him by the base, wrapping your hand around him firmly.

"oh, jesus, please i need it so bad," he babbles.

you take mercy on him, he is so hard you can feel him pulsating in your hand.

you lean down to take his tip in your mouth

"wait!" ryland gasps.

you pull off and release him, hands in the air as you look down at him, unsure of what went wrong.

"i want to see you, i need my glasses."

you gasp out a laugh, "what the hell! i thought i did something wrong. you are a dork."

he reaches behind him and finds his glasses, then he quickly puts them on.

"okay, i am ready now."

you roll your eyes and move back down to take all of him in your mouth.

he shudders out a moan as you take him all the way into your mouth, a strangled gag escaping as he prods the back of your throat.

you do it over and over again, coming up to swirl your tongue around his tip then hollowing your cheeks to take him all the way back in.

ryland is starting to lose all the composure he has left. he’s gasping and writhing beneath you.

one of his hands is gripping the edge of the mattress while the other one rests on the back of your head.

you reach down to squeeze his balls and he finally tilts his hips up and shoves his cock all the way down your throat.

“im sorry…im so sorry,” he groans, head thrown back even further into the pillows.

you watch his adam’s apple bob as he swallows another moan.

you pull your mouth off of him, “you can fuck my throat, let me take care of you. i can take it.”

you stare directly at his face, your hand stroking his length in the meantime.

he shakes his head, “don’t...don't wanna hurt you.”

“you won’t hurt me, ryland. i can take it. use me, let me make you feel good, yea?”

he nods now, his hand on your head moves to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear.

you move your mouth back to his length and take him all the way in, tip kissing the back of your throat once again.

he takes it as his cue and pushes your head down just a little further, watching your face for any hesitation. when he finds none, he finally starts to move his hips.

“oh gosh…feels so good. thank you, thank you, thank you,” he moans in time with his thrusts.

he lets his eyes fall closed as he imagines you touching yourself just a few feet away in your bed just like you said you do.

he’s growing whinier now, little gasps flying off of his lips as he thrusts up into your mouth.

you pull up, sucking his tip again and wrapping your hand back around his base. the hair there is so soft, much like the hair on his head.

he opens his eyes to watch you and groans at the sight of you, sitting there on your knees beside him with your thighs clenched, clearly enjoying yourself while getting him off.

that does him in.

“jesus fucking christ…i’m gonna…i…i can’t”

your eyes blow wide in surprise, you’ve not heard him say a single bad word in the years you’ve known him.

you don’t have much time to be surprised as he quickly starts cumming in your mouth.

his thighs are quivering as he loses control, his toned abs are clenching and you can see them where his shirt has ridden up.

he's rambling random strings of gibberish, something about how beautiful you are and how good you are to him. then he's silent, just panting.

you look up at him when he’s finally done, his hands are back over his face again, his chest is rising and falling quickly as he tries to catch his breath.

his neck is glistening with sweat, hair a ruffled mess from where he was rolling his head all over the pillow.

he came so much, your mouth is so full of it. you swallow it down and smile, waiting for him to meet your gaze.

after what feels like an eternity, he leans up onto his elbows to look at you.

"do you feel better?" you ask gently.

he nods his head.

"thank you."

you move to stand up, but he grabs you by the arm and pulls you down to lay with him.

"nobody has...done that for me in a very long time," he whispers. "i forgot how good it feels. i forgot what it feels like to even be touched...intimately...at all"

you nod, agreeing.

"let me repay the favor."

you cock an eyebrow, not expecting him to be serious. but before you can say anything, he's rolling on top of you, bright eyes peering down into your soul.

and he repays you very well.

₊˚⊹☆

happy thursday - thanks for reading! send me requests!!

[antichemrita]

THIS IS SO FREAKJNG GOOD!! oh my god yes. Yes yes. The glasses part 🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞🤞

[sinner-as-saint]

Ryland Grace | NSFW

I've been thinking about Dr. Ryland Grace at a fancy sex club.

Normally he's a gentleman. He's well-mannered, he's soft-spoken, a total gentleman towards all women.

But at this club, he simply cannot help but be a simping pervert every time he interacts with his favourite girl...

"Dr. Grace. Back again?" You lean closer, placing your hands on his shoulder and chest. You liked feeling how his breathing deepened. How he chuckled nervously each time you pressed your body to his. "You missed me?"

He sure did. And you sure caught the way his hand lingered a little too much on your exposed waist, shifting downward by the second, trying to touch your ass. Always trying to grab, and look guilty while doing it. But he grabs, doesn't he?

Your waist, your thigh, your tits... he caresses wherever he can touch you. He pulls you close anytime he wants, but he always has that look on his face. The lost puppy dog eyes. Like he's not sure how to do this, how to move forward, he's just so lost fuck he needs you to show him how.

He can't keep his hands off you, can he? He always wants to be touching you. Likes it when you touch him. His hands shake sometimes when you get bold with other club members around and palm him through his jeans.

His stifled sighs, his muffled moans...

"All that for me, Dr. Grace?" You tease, fully grabbing his hard on and he almost spills his drink all over both of you. His cheeks getting rosy, as he avoids eye contact because honestly he cannot look away from his lap. Your hand just grabbing his cock like that?

Dr. Ryland Grace whose brain short-circuits everytime you touch his bare skin so he just mumbles nonsense most of the time while your fingers linger on his chest.

"You're so beautiful." He whispers into your ear.

"Can I touch you here?" With his fingertips just hovering over your exposed inner thigh.

"Kiss me, please." He begs, as you wrap your hand around his leaking cock.

His eyes, shamelessly, remain fixed on your cleavage at any given time. Even when you talk to him. He's not listening. He's never listening. How can he? He's busy dreaming of things he'd be too shy to do to you in real life. He's not that bold.

Dr. Ryland Grace who is too far gone to worry about how pathetic he sounds, with his loud moans and gasps, his pink lips parted, as his eyes roll back when you take him into your mouth.

He's so touch-starved he nearly comes the very moment you lick him. He grips the satin sheets, bites his lower lip, think about his research, his lab, fuck anything, anything that might make him hold back from coming too soon.

But he can't hold back, can he? Your mouth is warm, your tongue is teasing him in ways he didn't know was possible...

Dr. Ryland Grace who's a whimpering mess when you ride him, in one of the many private rooms at this fancy club.

"Fuckkk... please, please, please-" His own moans cut him off as he comes without any warning, his glasses almost falling off his face as he gasps for air, coming all over your thighs and his stomach just making a mess.

Dr. Ryland Grace who begs to eat your pussy almost every time you two get together.

"Please. I need to taste you. Please."

And his whimpers, and moans, and nonsense mumblings would be incessant while he eats you out.

"You taste so good. So. Fucking. Good."

His hips moving instinctively, humping the bed while he eats you out.

"Oh fuck, gonna come." His muffled whimpers is the only warning you get. He zones out while eating pussy, definitely. Aiming to make you moan louder and louder, as each moan or each time you tug on his hair makes him dry hump the bed faster, and faster, and poor thing comes in his pants just by how good it felt to taste you.

Dr. Ryland Grace who keeps his glasses on while he has you sit on his face. His hair is a mess. Your thighs caging his head. His arms wrapped around your thighs. His glasses fogging up and getting covered in fluids but he just can't stop, can he? He probably came in his pants the moment you sat in his face, but this is heaven to him. And he can't stop, he wants more, and more, and more...

[antichemrita]

Going crazy for this man- it’s like his dirty secret he hates but he can’t stop. His well composed self in his glasses, and his books and his shirts and tied, and then when things get too stressful he comes to see you. Damn. Good stuff.

[somethinginyourbones]

pretty pls.

[antichemrita]

IM FERAL. Someone write this!!!

[velvrei]

colt seavers talking you through it. (ik he would not be able to shut up)

colt was in your bed and on top of you, in the missionary position as his cock pounded relentlessly into you. his head was buried into your neck, whispering whatever nasty praise came to mind.

“atta girl. taking my cock so well, fuck.” his curse sent shivers down your spine. his words were falling onto your neck and making it difficult to even make out what he was saying.

your head falls back onto the pillow, your eyes scrunched shut before but you finally open them, watching your boyfriends head bob as he kisses down your beautiful body, then catching sight of him sliding in and out of you.

“that’s my girl. yeah? you like when i fuck you like this? you know no other guy could hit these spots like i do, huh? ain’t that right, sugar?”

you moaned in response, however wasn’t enough for colt.

“yeah speak up, huh? use your fucking words.”

you cursed, “fuck, yes! only you, colt.” his aggression made your hole throb around him, and he felt it.

“oh you liked that? you like when i boss you around? take control of you? you’re so fucking tiny compared to me, so pretty, so gorgeous. so pathetic.”

“yes, colt!” was all you could shout. you shivered.

“holy fuck, say that again.” he whined into your neck, his voice at a higher pitched than he intended.

“yes, colt, make me feel good.”

“fuckkk, i love it when you say my name like that, sugar. gonna fuck you so good. being such a good girl for me.”

[iwritefanfictionsnottragedies]

Ryland Grace would stop you mid-blowjob so that he can put his glasses on and watch you properly WHO SAID THAT

[sinner-as-saint]

the only game that i like to lose

Professor!Ryland Grace x Student!Reader 

Summary: When you and Ryland began your secret relationship, he had no idea how much of a troublemaker you were gonna be. He adored you dearly, but gods, you could be such a brat sometimes. Randomly pouting and sulking for no reason, always demanding his attention, always so needy for him. But he was always there dealing with your tantrums because like everything else, he loved your bratty side as well. Most of all, he loved how easily you melted under his touch. Before you, Ryland never knew he could be so good at taming brats. 

Themes: professor x student, taboo romance, age gap, smut, explicit language, bratty!reader, brat tamer!ryland, mild bondage, mild degrading kink, some fluff

a/n: Yk that scene with the “two rings of eight” and Ryland says he hopes it’s not handcuffs?? Yeah, that got me thinking totally pure thoughts. Utterly pure thoughts. Also, this fic can be read as a sequel to this one.

There it was again. That bored, dramatic, deliberate sigh. 

Ryland had been counting. This was the fifth sigh– 

Oh. Another one. 

Sixth sigh in the last ten minutes from you. 

He could already tell what was on your mind. He always did. He could read his girl like an open book after all. But sometimes you’d get into these moods he couldn’t quite figure out. And he never knew when they were coming so it messed with him even more. As someone who had the habit of just figuring things out, it both bothered and amazed him how your moods could switch up so quickly. One moment you were his sweet, darling girl and the next you were a defiant, brooding brat. 

But fuck, did he love it all. 

He kept an eye on you while he worked. Nothing out of the ordinary. It was a laid back, chill evening. You were lounging on his bed with a book, pretending to read. Wearing one of his many t-shirts and a pair of those tiny, tiny sleeping shorts. 

Such a tease. 

He was on a sofa in the corner of the bedroom, on his computer, reading and correcting the mountain of assignments his students had submitted recently. 

Silence was always comfortable between you two. Unless of course, disturbed by loud sighs from you. 

Ryland looked at you and finally asked, gently, “What is it now?” 

You finally looked up from your book and found Ryland staring at you. The laptop screen illuminating his face. You could tell he was tired from having stared at that screen for the past few hours. And that was your problem. Hours he’d been working, reading, correcting. Hours spent without a drop of attention from your man. But you would never tell him that, would you? 

“Nothing.” You mumbled, barely audible. 

“What was that?” He asked mindlessly before turning his attention back to his screen. 

You sighed again. “I said nothing.” You said in a tone you normally never use. Unless you were up to no good. 

That caught his attention immediately. “Okay.” He lowered the laptop screen, not fully shutting it yet. “What is this? Huh? What are we– what are we doing here?” He looked at you from above the frame of his glasses. 

Gods, you always loved it when he did that.

“Nothing, like I said.” You repeated, focusing on the same page of your book which you’d been staring at for the past many minutes. 

“You’re pouting? Really?” Ryland muttered something under his breath and tried again, “Baby, do you need something?” 

“No.” 

“Then?” He waited. 

“Nothing.” You said, looking at him. “Carry on working, Dr. Grace.” You said in a bratty tone. 

Ryland let out a dry chuckle. “Oh wow.” He said in disbelief. He always did take offense whenever you called him that. Especially in that tone. “Come here.” He finally said. 

And while that voice of his gave you that fluttery feeling in your stomach, you did not move an inch. “No.” You said. “I’m very comfortable where I am.” 

“Baby.” He called out again, tapping his thigh. “Will you please come here?” 

You rolled your eyes at him. “I don’t want to. I’m really comfortable here.” 

Ryland groaned as he got up from the sofa and walked over to where you lay in bed. He crossed his arms over his chest as he looked down at you. The action made his biceps pop, even more so because his silly t-shirt was just one size too small so it was extra tight around the biceps. 

Stupid biceps. Stupid tight t-shirt. God damn it. You’d fold under zero pressure if he keeps this up. 

“What is it?” He asked. “Was it something I did? Is that why you’re over here being dramatic? Huffing and puffing for no reason, hmm?” He sounded stern, but still playful. “Come on, stop pretending to read your book and talk to me. What’s going on?” 

You looked up at him in silence. 

He finally sighed himself, then bent down to your eye level. Placing his fists on the bed as he leaned on them, he said, “Look, baby. I don’t mind a brat. But if I’m gonna take care of you, you have to tell me what’s going on. What’s making you so upset, huh?” His voice was soft and gentle as he spoke. But you could see that look in his eyes. 

The calm before the storm. The hidden wild side. 

You knelt on the bed, hooking your finger to the waistband of his sweatpants as you tried to pull him closer. Ryland stood up straight again and carefully pushed your hand away. “Hey, no.” He warned. “We’re gonna talk first and then– stop trying to grab me. Listen. Hey,” He pushed your hand away again, “Look at me.” 

You looked at him, but still tried to grab him. Reaching for his waist, his shirt, pawing at him while he pushed your hands away each time. With that defiant look in your eyes and the smirk, Ryland knew it was pointless to try and talk to you. It was always a losing game whenever you got into this mood. 

“Can you focus please?” He asked, reaching to wrap his hand around your throat. Not squeezing yet, just keeping you in place. Pulling you towards him just barely. “Don’t make me bring out the handcuffs.” Ryland watched as your eyes widened in excitement. He chuckled, cocky and smug now. “Oh, this is hopeless.” He shook his head. “You needy little thing.” He muttered under his breath as he took a step back and reached into his nightstand, opening the little drawer and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. 

Pale pink leather, the chain connecting the straps was silver metal. It was a beautiful thing, but you could barely pay any attention to it. No, all your attention was on him. Those arms, all that glorious skin. He was making you salivate and he wasn’t even undressed yet. 

“Up.” He instructed. 

You obeyed immediately, getting out of bed and standing in front of him in the blink of an eye. You couldn’t even hide your excitement anymore. 

“You know what to do.” 

Of course you did. You turned around and put your hands behind your back so he could cuff your wrists together. Once your hands were tied, you turned back to face him, breathing slightly heavier. 

“Now will you listen? Hmm? Are we gonna talk now or– oh okay. Here we go again.” Ryland pretended to be annoyed as you leaned in and kissed his neck. Once. Twice. “You always get your way, huh? Too spoiled.” He complained knowing damn well he was the one doing the spoiling. He knew he didn’t stand a chance. So he gave in. “Fine then.” He pulled your face away from his neck and said, “You want to play?” He asked. When you nodded, he said, “Kneel.” 

Without another word said and while still holding his stare, you sank down to your knees in front of him. Your hands were tied, otherwise you’d have his cock in your mouth already. But since you finally got what you wanted – his attention – you didn’t mind waiting.  

“So obedient all of a sudden, huh?” Ryland kept his eyes on you as he took his time, put on a show almost, as he slowly lowered the waistband of his sweatpants and underwear to free his hard cock. 

The mere sight of him like this had you whining with need. He towered above you, tall, lean muscles, and that look in his eyes. Smug. Confident. He was such a sweetheart to you all the time, so on rare occasions when he got into moods like these, or more like, when you made him get into moods like these, it would drive you crazy. 

You leaned in, with your tongue out already, desperate for a taste. But Ryland pulled away. “Ah. Stay.” He warned. He waited until you stopped fidgeting, then said, “See? It didn’t have to be like this. We could’ve had a nice conversation. We could’ve talked things out. You could’ve told me exactly what you wanted and I would’ve given it to you.” Ryland explained, mindlessly stroking his cock right in your face. 

You were almost whimpering just looking at how smoothly his fist moved up and down. 

Ryland continued, “But no. You needed this, didn’t you? You like it when I treat you like this. Don’t you, baby?” 

You clenched your thighs together at the sound of that raspy voice, and nodded at what he said. 

He smirked. “Will you talk now? Are you gonna tell me what’s going on with you? Use your words, baby. Tell me.” 

“I just want you.” You whispered. “You’ve barely paid any attention to me all day.” 

“Wow.” Ryland chuckled. “And what was that this morning then, huh?” 

Oh. Oh. Yeah, this morning… 

You woke up feeling… funny. You opened your eyes and found that Ryland wasn’t in his usual spot beside you on the bed. Instead he was busy down there, between your legs. 

You lifted the soft covers and found him looking up at you with nothing but desire and trouble in his eyes. You let out a soft moan when he held your stare while kissing your clit, and sucking on it before letting go. 

“Morning, baby.” He whispered, then got back to eating you out like he was starving. 

You threw the covers off and slid your fingers into his ridiculously soft hair instead, “Ryland…” You whined, the pleasure taking over you. “I’m gonna be late for classes.” You mumbled, already feeling yourself getting to the edge. “I have work later this afternoon, you know? I have papers to write, and tests…” You gasped, forgetting what the hell you were talking about in the first place once he began fucking you gently with his tongue. 

Damn his tongue and soft lips. Ryland chuckled, a cocky look in his eyes when he pulled away and asked, “Papers and what, baby?” 

“Don’t be a tease,” You groaned, using your grip on his hair and shoving his mouth back to where you wanted him. 

He chuckled before working his tongue against your wet slit, his fingers slowly sliding in and out of you until you came with a soft cry. But he wasn’t done yet… 

Ryland smirked as he looked down at you, surely thinking about the same scene from this morning. 

“Oh, so you remember now?” He teased you, stepping closer and gently tapping the tip of his cock to your lips. You opened your mouth so fast he chuckled again. “Yeah? Is this what you want?” 

You didn’t answer. You just placed your mouth on his tip, your tongue slowly circling his tip in that deliberate way you knew drove him insane. 

Ryland slid his hand till he cupped the back of your neck, pulling your head forward and slowly pushed himself deeper into your mouth. “Fuck me. That mouth of yours…” He hissed. 

And oh he loved it every time when he saw your facial expression change as he hit the back of your throat. That little frown of yours, the way your eyes immediately began watering, the hungry little whimpers… he could come just from that. Fuck. 

You kept your eyes on his perfect face as you sucked on his cock. He closed his eyes momentarily, lips parted and gasping as he tilted his head back, exposing his very biteable throat. And honestly, he looked majestic. 

“Fuck…” he moaned, voice lower in pitch as you quickened your pace. He looked down as he thrust his hips forward gently into your mouth, and loved the sight of your spit coating his cock. You looked magnificent on your knees, hands behind your back, taking him perfectly.

The groans and gasps which escaped his lips made you squirm and it only added to the dampness which was forming in your underwear. And his foul mouth and his dirty words… oh. 

“You look so pretty on your knees, baby.” 

“Come on, show me how badly you wanted this.”

“This is all you wanted, huh? Just some cock in your mouth?” 

“Look at you. You don’t even stop to breathe, huh?” 

He quickened the pace at which he moved in and out of you, eager to chase his orgasm but also wanting to keep toying with you. He swore under his breath as you dragged your tongue over the slit on his tip lazily. 

He looked down at you with a warning in his eyes behind those damned glasses. “Don’t tease me, brat.” 

And that was all it took for you to take him back into your mouth and suck on his cock until he came undone all over your tongue. He came with a moan and a sigh, closing his eyes and relishing the warmth of your mouth wrapped around him. You swallowed all of him, licked him clean, then waited. 

Ryland looked down at you, his fingers caressing your cheek softly. “You okay?” He asked. As always, just as caring as he was wild. 

You nodded quickly. He laughed at how you were still licking at the corners of your mouth. 

“Come on. Up.” 

He cupped your face in his large hands as you stood up. He stared deep into your eyes while one of his hands wrapped around your throat, while his other hand reached down, slid into your sleeping shorts and cupped your dripping wet pussy. 

You whimpered at his touch. He didn’t move his hand, he just kept it there to mess with you. “Aww baby, it’s so wet. Is that all for me?” he asked, softly, lips brushing against your flushed cheek. His stubble brushed against your skin. The feeling was familiar, and he was warm. And you wanted more. 

You nodded. “Please, Ry…” 

He chuckled quietly in your ear. “Oh I bet it’s throbbing, isn’t it?” He asked again, very delicately tightening his grip around your throat. 

You nodded again, whimpering. He smirked against your skin. 

Ryland pulled his hands away, and stepped back to admire your desperate state, whimpering, breathing heavily and clearly, dripping wet for him. He smirked again. 

“Come on.” He simply said and grabbed you by the shoulders to move you. Before he pushed you down on his bed, he undid the handcuffs briefly. Massaging your wrists a little before handcuffing you again, with your hands in front of you this time. 

“Is this still necessary?” You whined. “I want to touch you.” 

Ryland shrugged. “Well next time use your words and tell me that. Don’t just be a brat about it. You understand?” His tone was gentle, but stern. 

You nodded, holding back from rolling your eyes at him. 

Next thing you knew, he had you naked and pinned you down on his bed by your throat while he stared down at you like he was famished. “Now tell me, are you gonna keep being bratty?” He spoke while his other hand parted your legs. “Or are you gonna be my good girl?” He slid inside of you without a warning. 

Your soft whimpers only fueled his desire. His hand was around your throat and his cock buried so deep inside of you that he doubted you could even think straight. 

“I’ll be whatever you want, please Ry…” You whispered, feeling like you were so close to passing out because he felt so fucking good inside you and he’d barely even fucked you yet. 

“Just like that, huh?” He taunted through gritted teeth as he dug his knees into the mattress before fucking into you hard and fast. “Just like that and you’re the sweetest girl in the world. So polite too.” 

There was nothing gentle about him, fucking you like there’s no tomorrow. He tightened his grip around your throat as he sped up into you, moaning right into your ear. 

You were a complete mess under him as his other hand grabbed your cuffed wrists and pinned it above your head, making your back arch into him. 

“Is this what my brat wanted?” He hissed in your ear, speeding up again. “Hmm? Some attention? Did you get what you wanted, baby? Is this good enough for you?” 

The way his body moved perfectly on top of yours. You were bare but he wasn’t. The fabric of his t-shirt rubbed against your sensitive nipples and it was all too overwhelming, his voice, his words, his warmth, his weight on top of you, his cock thrusting in and out of you. 

You whimpered desperately, wanting so badly to touch him. Touch his face, grab his hair. Anything. But the cuffs wouldn’t let you, also his grip on your wrists tightened. So you whined even more in pleasure, and annoyance. 

Ryland sped up into you, mumbling, “You just want this all the time, don’t you, baby? All my time, all my attention. It all has to belong just to you, huh? You don’t care that I have work to do. That I have research to do that’s driving me insane. That I have lectures to plan, papers to mark, none of that. You just want this. All day. Everyday. ” He whispered in your ear, in a daze as he pounded into you. “You just wanna be fucked, and used, and– god damn it!” He cursed as he felt you tighten around him, your walls squeezing his cock in a way that messed with his brain. 

He was done taunting you now. He needed to make you both feel good. So Ryland released your throat and placed his hand on your abdomen, pressing down on your front so he could feel himself inside you with each thrust. 

He stared deep into your eyes, his glasses fogging up a little, while he sped up into you again. “You feel that, baby? Yeah, that’s me. That’s where you always want me, huh?” He groaned as he fucked deeper into you. “All you have to do is ask. No need to be a brat about it.” He chuckled to himself, and said, “Although I do love a brat.” 

“Ry…” You hissed, your body squirming under him, your back arching off the bed. He was mean, and rough but your body craved him even more. 

He pressed his lips to yours, swallowing all your moans before he pulled out abruptly, ignoring your pleas as he flipped you around and pulled you onto your knees, your cuffed wrists above your head as he pushed into you again from behind. 

You moaned out loud, unable to hold back as you surrendered to him completely. Your body bending for him however he wanted it to. “Fuck…” Your moans were muffled, your face pushed into the soft mattress as Ryland gripped your hips and slammed in and out of you incessantly, moaning and grunting in the process. 

“Oh stop complaining.” He hissed upon hearing your muffled pleas. He leaned over you, pressing your wrists even deeper into the mattress as he whispered into your ear, “You wanted this, didn’t you? Been a brat about it all evening. So take it how I give it to you.” 

Tears escaped your eyes as the pleasure became too much to handle, and you felt that familiar pressure forming at your base again. His tight grip on your hips would surely leave a bruise, but he didn’t care. Honestly, neither did you. 

You whimpered as both his hands gripped your waist, pulling you into him harshly each time. 

Your voice was strained and hoarse as you moaned, and whimpered under him. The mattress soft against your heated face, a complete contrast to how he was handling you. His thrusts hard and fast. Brutal. But fuck he felt good inside you. 

“That’s right, moan for me…” He growled as his throbbing cock touched you in all the right places, making you come in no time. “My perfect little brat.” He growled again as he came right after you, finally. 

You were barely able to process anything, but as you were shaking and gasping for air as you came down from your high, you felt him pull his cock out of you and a moment later, he slipped his fingers back into you. 

You let out a surprised moan as he fingered his cum into you again, making you arch your back and whine in pleasure even louder than before. 

“Please…” you whined, unsure if you wanted him to stop playing with your body or if you wanted him to make you come again. “Ry, please.” 

“Look at that, huh? You’re still greedy.” He didn’t care about how sensitive you were. He carried on toying with you, pumping his fingers in and out of you until you came again. Crying and gasping for him. 

“There we go, baby.” He uncuffed your wrists before pulling you into a warm embrace, wrapping his arms around you as he spooned you from behind, both of you too tired to move and clean up just yet. “Are you okay?” He asked, kissing the side of your face and you melted into him. 

When the trembling subsided, you twisted in his arms and shoved your face into his neck, whispering, “Thank you.” 

He chuckled, rubbing his hand aimlessly up and down your thigh. “Anytime, baby. You know I’ll always take care of you. Even when you’re being brat.”

[antichemrita]

Omg I am loving the Ryland professor fics

[beskarrd]

EXTRA CREDIT

Pairing: Professor!Ryland Grace x Student!Reader

Summary: Ryland Grace is your both your professor and your doctoral academic advisor. You are his student. Which meant that being anything more than that was soooo off limits. …Right?

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: 18+! SMUT! MDNI! P in V sex; inappropriate use of a microscope; also inappropriate use of biology terms (i definitely got something wrong); shameless use of the professor x student trope through reader is a grad student and very much of consenting age; the glasses stay ON during sex!!

GIF from owenhcrper

“Come on, guys. The final exam is next week and I really don’t want to have to fail anyone this time around…again. So let’s show a little more initiative! Yay, cellular anatomy!” 

He lightly pumped his fists in the air in an almost convincing cheer. You think it was meant to be encouraging but, looking around at your classmates, they didn’t seem to get the hint. They returned your dorky professor’s enthusiasm with glazed over expressions and the occasional monotonous click of laptop keys signifying they were likely working on another task all together instead of paying attention. 

You couldn’t exactly blame them. Dr. Ryland Grace’s courses were among the hardest in the university’s advanced molecular biology track. Rumor has it that his exams have made students literally drop out of the program before. It wasn’t exactly his fault, the subject was enough to melt anyone’s brain on its own, but Dr. Grace made up for it by being an amazing professor. 

He was always incredibly engaged, exceptionally witty, and, overall, just seemed to genuinely care for the material. You couldn’t deny that you definitely felt the insurmountable pressure of the high expectations he placed on his students, but something about his passion just…spoke to you. It was like he breathed life back into the subject that you chose to make your career all those years ago. 

Admittedly, you had been a fan of Dr. Grace’s work since you were in undergrad, opting to enroll in this university’s program for even the mere, microscopic chance, that you could study under him. As luck would have it, he was accepting new doctorate students the year you were admitted.

Pursuing a PhD in molecular biology was daunting enough, but you learned fast under Dr. Grace’s caring hand. He made it seem like you were the only student he had ever taught, with the way his eyes lit up at your ideas, doing everything his lab’s budget could afford to make them a reality. 

Over the past three years of your thesis study, you were shyly keen to admit you and Dr. Grace had grown fairly close to one another. After all, he strangely decided to stop taking students after he signed on to mentor your study, which meant that you always had his undivided attention  He was by far the best teacher you had ever had, which is why it made you feel all the more guilty that you also…had not been paying attention to his question.

“Okay.” Dr. Grace let his shoulders slump in a sigh. He looked as exasperated as his students. He ran his fingers through his messy blond strands and readjusted his glasses. “Tell you what. If someone can answer this last question correctly, I’ll let you all out early. I know it’s almost finals and my exam isn’t the only one you all have to worry about, so you guys just do me this one last favor and we can call it a day”.

Your ears, along with the rest of your classmates, perked up instantly. You heard the faint sounds of students adjusting themselves in their seats as they leaned in, eager to earn this rare reprieve from classes. Dr. Grace smirked and clapped his hands together. “Alright, signs of life! So, tell me, what are the three major types of lipids that make up cellular membranes?” 

This time, when you looked around, your classmates were deep in thought. Some of them looked like the act of searching for the information needed to answer the question physically pained them to work through. Not you though. This was something that you had already gone over with Dr. Grace for your research proposal write up. He had coached you through cellular membrane structure semesters ago. You raised your hand, albeit, hesitantly.

Dr. Grace had bitten his lip in anticipation looking around at his students in expectation. When his eyes met yours, his gaze softened. He nodded, waiting for your answer patiently. 

“Uh, I believe they are phospholipids, glycolipids, and sterols?” You knew it was the correct answer but you still held your breath, and Dr. Grace’s stare for that matter, waiting on his confirmation. Something about the intense blue of his eyes just seemed to make coherent thoughts impossible, even when it came to material that you knew inside and out. 

Dr. Grace nodded emphatically and threw up his hands. “We have a winner! Excellent work! That’s exactly right,” he exclaimed. You heard a few small cheers from your classmates in the back, who had already started backing their bags. Dr Grace retreated behind the lecturer’s stand and started to pack up his things as well. “Okay you all, a promise is a promise, you’re free to go.” The few students who had yet to pack up started doing so feverishly, as if they were afraid Dr. Grace would take back his seemingly merciful act of kindness.

Dr. Grace shouted to the back of the room as students shuffled out the door. “I will see you all bright and early next week for the final. Remember that you will need to know ALL of the protein pathways of the cell membrane to be able to answer the extra credit question! Don’t try to name only one and expect me to give you full points…” He smiled and cast his gaze down to his laptop, turning off its connection to the projector that had his meticulously detailed cell diagram thrown up on the lecture hall’s ginormous screen. 

You finished shoving your books into your bag and signaled to your classmates that you would catch up to them later. You had to ask your advisor a question about finalizing a date for your dissertation. It was a little over two weeks away and not knowing all the details was driving you insane. Or maybe it was just the thought of having to present all of your research findings to the very man that basically invented the topic you were researching. 

You had chosen to take an experimental approach to Dr. Grace’s hypothesis that life didn’t require water to survive. You had found some pretty compelling evidence in his favor among local bacterial life, but the thought of explaining his own research findings to the man himself had your stomach in knots. Or maybe it was just that Dr. Grace seemed to have your stomach in knots all on his own the last couple of months. 

You hated to admit it, but you had developed something of a schoolgirl level crush on your professor. Sure it was somewhat embarrassing, but could anybody blame you? He was unbelievably charming, so ridiculously intelligent it was almost intimidating, funny, passionate, sincere, and…yeah. 

He was pretty fucking hot too.

Everytime you walked into his lab, with him in one of those stupid science pun t-shirts that seemed to always be unfairly tight on him, leaving none of his muscular build to the imagination, you felt like your knees were going to give out from under you. Plus, he always seemed to stand right on top of you as he examined your findings through the microscope with you, which was not helpful at all. His forearms would often brush your side as he adjusted the lens settings, sending almost painful shockwaves through your body. Although, it was probably the glasses that sent you over the edge. He always seemed to look straight through your collected exterior you worked so hard to put forth when he peered at you over the rims that delicately balanced on the sharp bridge of his nose.

Who are you kidding? It was definitely the glasses that sealed your fate.

But that was inappropriate! Dr. Grace is your professor, your advisor for fuck’s sake. Nothing more!

 ……Right?

Yes, oh my god! Jesus, yes, of course he was just your professor. What were you even thinking? 

You snapped out of your thoughts and realized that you were soon to be the last student standing awkwardly in the lecture hall. With a grunt, you gathered up your bag full of textbooks and lab equipment and shakily headed up to Dr. Grace, who was still inspecting his laptop up at the lecture podium. 

He looked up from whatever he was poring over at the sound of your footsteps. He grinned at you and crossed his arms, leaning his hip onto the podium.

“Hey! There’s my favorite future doctor of microbiology. Got a nice ring to it, huh? Excellent job on that question, by the way.” He stared at you expectantly, though you know this was just another clever ruse to relieve the stress he knows he’s been putting you under. You laughed softly and cast your gaze to the floor at his praise, heat moving impossibly fast up your neck and onto your cheeks.

“You ready for the big day?” Dr. Grace asked, inquisitively, referring to your thesis presentation. His question quickly put out the flame that was building in your core and reminded you of the anxiety-inducing task you had ahead of you.

You met his eyes again. “Yeah! Totally…” you cringed, not even believing your own words. “Well, almost. I was just hoping we could talk about the dissertation date? I know you’re super busy and you’re going to have a lot of exams to grade and probably a lot of undergraduate papers too…and that I’ve technically already finished my research, really just need to finish writing the presentation slides, but I just really was..” the words seemed to spill out of you faster and faster by the second. Somewhere, in the back of your brain you willed yourself to stop babbling like an idiot but that thought never seemed to bring itself out of your subconscious and make itself useful. Dr. Grace looked at you back and forth hurriedly, trying his best to follow your words, before putting his hands on your shoulders and chuckling. 

“Woah, woah, easy tiger. Slow down.” His grip on your shoulders tightened, causing you to freeze at the sudden contact. God, his hands were firm. You eased up a bit under his touch. 

“Don’t get yourself so worked up. You are going to do fantastic. I know you are. That committee won’t even know what hit them,” Dr. Grace said. As he spoke, his thumbs worked their way up and down on your shoulders, almost as if they were trying to etch his words onto your skin so you would believe them. It did the trick though, you exhaled a bit before Dr. Grace continued.

“I know we have a couple of things to wrap up. Tell you what, I have to run to a faculty meeting in a bit but later tonight, how about you meet me in the lab and we can go over your data one last time, okay? Would that make you feel better?” Dr. Grace had sunk down on his knees a bit to be at eye level with you. His words warmly rushed over you, soothing your worried mind. With your thoughts a bit clearer, you hadn’t even noticed how close the two of you were. He was basically holding your body in place with his hands and his face was so close to yours that you could feel his breath as it fanned over your cheeks. He seemed to notice your close proximity as well as he dropped his hands from your shoulders suddenly and cleared his throat. 

You almost sighed at the loss of contact but caught yourself at the last second. Instead you said, “That would be amazing Dr. Grace, thank you.” He lightened a bit at your agreement. “Great! I’ll probably be in there at around 8:00? Feel free to drop by then.” You nodded and waved him off as he exited the hall. 

You were definitely in for a long night. 

--

You found yourself pacing outside of Dr. Grace’s lab at 8 o’clock on the dot, mentally coaching yourself to go in. Why were you so nervous, even? Dr. Grace was your advisor, you had been working with him for months, this is just an ordinary lab meeting like you’ve done with him countless times before. Before you could lose your courage, you swung open the door and immediately stopped in your tracks. 

Dr. Grace was positioned at the centermost lab table, carefully holding up a glass beaker to the glow of the moonlight that was being cast in through the lab’s window blinds. His brow was furrowed in concentration as he transferred a clear liquid into the beaker with a pipette dropper. He was in another one of his classic science t-shirts, his arm positioned almost at a perfect 90 degree angle holding up the beaker, which exposed every curve and vein of his bicep for your hungry eyes to devour. Bright, blue, latex  gloves were pulled tight over hands that were a stark contrast to his firm arms, instead, skillfully holding the beaker in place to not spill any liquid. His glasses were knocked slightly askew on his face as he wore protective goggles over his eyes, but to you, that just made him all the more endearing. 

Your eyes roved over his form, rigid and unwavering with the confidence of a man precisely in his element. Even though there was nobody else in the room except for you two, his presence seemed to demand attention. His fellow faculty members may have never paid much attention to his work outside of mindlessly recommending his lectures to their students, but, god, would you never get tired of marveling at this genius of a man. Both because he was a leading mind in your field and also because he was insanely attractive while he worked. 

Dr. Grace looked up from whatever he was studying as he heard the door close softly behind you. He greeted you with a smile. “There you are, right on time as always. I would’ve expected nothing less. I’m just about wrapped up with this. Why don’t you grab your slides from the back and get set up while I put this away and then we can get started. Okay, sweetheart?” 

Your heart felt like it dropped into your shoes. Dr. Grace had turned his back to you as he busied himself with something near the sink which gave you some time to process what you had just heard. 

Sweetheart? That was definitely a first. I mean sure, you’ve had teachers call you that before, usually just in an endearing, almost parental way when you were younger. But something about the way he said it left you reeling. It felt…charged. Almost like he was dangling the term of endearment over both of your heads, knowing that there was nothing either of you could do to act on it. You replayed his voice saying it over and over again in your head to convince yourself you didn’t imagine it, when Dr. Grace spoke again. 

“You alright over there?” He had now taken the goggles off and was wiping his regular glasses on the bottom of his t-shirt. He placed them back on carefully and put his hands on his hips, his t-shirt tightly coating his broad chest like a second skin. He raised his eyebrows at you pointedly, waiting on your answer. It was then that you finally noticed you hadn’t moved an inch. 

You choked out a laugh. “Yeah! Yeah, of course.” His eyebrows drew together in questioning. You smiled weakly and hurried to grab your slides.

--

The next two hours were full of calculations and write-ups that made your brain feel like it was leaking out of your ears. You and Dr. Grace worked silently and diligently, double and triple checking your work to make sure you were prepared for your dissertation. It was honestly impressive, the way the two of you moved in tandem, re-examining slides under the microscope and writing up the conclusions on the large whiteboard at the center of the room. You two seemed to glide in and out of your respective areas with ease, Dr. Grace stopping every so often to check in and make sure that you didn’t need help with anything. Busying yourself with your work did seem to help quiet the distracting thoughts you kept having about your professor. Instead of Dr. Grace making you dizzy, it was the goddamn microscope whose viewfinder just didn’t seem to want to work with you that had your vision spinning.

You groaned in frustration and threw your arms up onto the lab counter, dramatically flopping your head onto them with a huff. Dr. Grace spun around from his designated place at the whiteboard. Your eyes were so weak with exhaustion you could barely keep them open anymore but you were able to make out that he somehow had three different dry erase markers in his possession, one tucked into the top of his ear, one in his hand that he was currently writing with, and one clenched between his teeth. He looked downright sinful as he plucked the marker from his mouth, a few drops of saliva following his fingers from where the marker met his lips. Between the microscope, your report writing, and Dr. Grace’s incessant need to unknowingly drive you crazy with want, you were certain you wouldn’t even make it to your presentation day in one piece. 

“Aw, what’s wrong?” He chuckled softly. “Lens settings giving you trouble again?” 

“I don’t even know why they make the knobs this sensitive. It’s like the big science companies actually want to cause me anguish and despair every waking moment of my academic career,” you whined sarcastically. Dr. Grace walked over to you, tilting his head with a small smile at your frustrated state. “Do you want me to show you a trick I learned in grad school? It saved my life a couple of times when I was back in your shoes.”

You bobbed your head up and down excitedly. Anything to make your life easier right now was welcomed with open arms. Speaking of arms, your excitement almost died in your throat as you felt Dr. Grace’s hand on the small of your back, guiding you up and back to the microscope ever so gently. He positioned you in front of the microscope with his body directly behind you. There seemed to be only an inch of space between the two of you. One wrong move and your back would be flush with his chest as he caged you in.

You felt like all of the air just got punched out of your lungs.This was too much. It was one thing for you to admire Dr. Grace from afar, knowing that there wasn’t a chance in hell of anything happening between the two of you. It was another when he had you literally locked in place, his rock solid figure giving you no chance of escape.

This was real. This was painstakingly, agonizingly, undeniably real.

It felt like your world was crashing down, your thoughts empty except for your goddamn professor's frustratingly lean body behind you that almost had you wiping your salivating mouth with your shirt sleeve. I mean seriously. A microbiology professor has no business being that toned. Your breath hitched in your throat and you cast your view down to the microscope, trying desperately to focus on the task at hand. 

Except, Dr. Grace wasn’t letting you off that easily.

Dr. Grace delicately grabbed your right wrist and placed your hand on the fine adjustment knob. Except he didn’t stop there. His hand remained on yours, his fingers were ghosting your own, guiding them into exactly the right position. You felt a slight pressure in the pads of your fingers as he pressed down, swiveling the knob ever so slightly. He nudged your shoulder with his own, prompting you to take a look into the microscope. 

You moved your face down into the viewfinder, placing the bridge of your nose underneath the ocular lens. Dr. Grace followed suit, leaning his head down closer to you so that it was just next to yours. This caused the very top of his chest to connect with your shoulderblades and you tensed. This could not be happening right now. 

His words, a deep whisper that was very unlike his typical teacher voice, almost startled you as they were uttered so close to your ear. 

“You see, the key is to take two fingers,” Dr. Grace said intensely, “and slowly–”

He lifted your pointer and middle finger along with his own, placing your middle finger on the coarse adjustment knob in addition, and slid his fingers over yours so the knob rolled heavily under the both of you.

“--work both the knobs at the same time,” Dr. Grace finished. He leaned his head back and watched you carefully, making sure you understood his instructions. 

You could feel his gaze, hard and unrelenting, so you refused to look up from your slide and meet his eyes. You were almost panting with need now. The lab was usually sterile and cold, but from where you were standing it felt like you were in an inferno. You had never been this physically close to Dr. Grace before and it was setting your insides on fire. Part of you wanted to snap out of his grasp and run into the hall before you did anything you’d seriously regret. The other half of you was dying to find out what would happen if you didn’t. Pushed the boundaries a little bit. Fought fire with fire. 

You couldn’t. 

Could you?

You scolded your mind for wandering so far away from the task at hand and returned your thoughts to the microscope.Oh, would you look at that, Dr. Grace got the image of your slide looking pristine through the viewfinder on his very first try. 

You internally scowled. It also wasn’t helpful that his academic prowess was a major turn on. 

You clenched your legs together to relieve some of the pressure that had settled there, all the while, Dr. Grace still kept you in between his arms. His hands were now flat against the table, no longer guiding you. By all intents and purposes, he had absolutely no reason to still be standing so close to you but there he was, trapping you against him.

“See it now?” Dr. Grace questioned. He was referring to the absolutely gorgeous cell that was now blown up in scale through the viewfinder thanks to his help. You had to admit, you never got tired of that feeling. The feeling of staring at actual life, smaller than the tip of your pinky finger, teeming with blues and pinks and purples of the various organelles inside of it. 

“I do. It’s beautiful, Dr. Grace,” you admitted. You turned your head around on your shoulder and met his eyes. He really was close to you. Truly, you could step a quarter of a foot forward and your foreheads would be pressed together in a forbidden meeting. Something to never be seen by another’s eyes. Yet, standing here, almost fully enveloped by Dr. Grace, it didn’t feel as wrong as you thought it would. 

His gaze dropped down to your lips briefly. It was quick, but you noticed. He met your eyes again and you could have sworn you saw his pupils dilate in real time. The moonlight coming in through the windows earlier was now mixed with the soft glow of the campus lamplights that lined the walkways below the lab floor. The yellow lights mixed with Dr. Grace’s blue eyes, swirled a supernova of color around in his irises. 

And him? He looked transfixed on you, as if you had hung the stars in the sky. 

Could you do this? No. You were sleep-deprived and not thinking straight. Except your body had other ideas.You leaned in slowly, your eyes trained on Dr. Grace’s soft lips. Your hands had a mind of their own, coming up to almost cup his cheeks, like they knew you wanted this, knew you wanted to cross this boundary from which there was no coming back from. 

They were never able to reach their destination.

Dr. Grace jerked back from you suddenly and retreated into the corner of the lab, pacing, his hands thrown up in defeat, folded together to support the back of his neck as he let out a wavering breath. 

“Oh my god I-,” He started to spiral. “I wasn’t, I didn’t-”

He caught your eyes and immediately looked away, as if the simple act of looking at you was a punishable offense. You retreated into yourself, horrified that you would even think to act on your feelings. It was a dumb move, so ridiculously stupid, that you were afraid you just cost yourself your advisor, hell, your entire academic career. 

But Dr. Grace wasn’t looking at you anymore. He was running his hands through his hair feverishly. “I’m so sorry, god, I don’t know what I was doing I-”

He whispered to himself in a tone barely audible enough for you to hear. “She’s your student, Ryland, what are you thinking?”

You realized this wasn’t about you. This was about him. He was trying to keep himself in check. Not do something he would regret. The thought that he might be having the same ideas you were having, filled you with a confidence you had no business having. 

You slowly walked over to him and he flinched when he realized how close you had gotten. 

“Dr. Grace?” you whispered. 

Dr. Grace stilled as if your voice snapped some invisible thread that was holding him together. 

“Your hands are shaking–here let me help you,” you picked up his hands with your own, interlocking your fingers, half expecting him to recoil from your touch, but he didn’t. “I, I don’t know what to say,” Dr. Grace strained. “I’m so sorry, you’re my best student, I have no idea what came over me.” He sounded wrecked. Like you had stolen all of the air from his lungs. It was in that moment that you made a decision. One that was going to seal your fate either for better or for the worst. You took a deep inhale. 

In one deadly move, you surged forward and captured his lips into your own. You felt Dr. Grace tense up immediately but melt into your touch as you tangled your hands into his blond strands. His hands fell onto your hips like they were always made to be there. It was a searing kiss, with both of you putting your entire body weight into the other, as if this was the last chance that you were going to get to make this mistake. He pulled you closer to him, pressing his hands into you so hard you were sure he was going to leave a mark. 

You broke apart, breathless. Dr. Grace squeezed his eyes shut and dropped his forehead onto yours. He shook his head. “I am your professor,” Dr. Grace choked out. “I’m responsible for you, I could lose my job, my title, my reputation,” It sounded like he was trying to make a list of all of the reasons this was a bad idea but you didn’t care. The only person he was trying to convince at this point was himself. He cupped your face in his hands and scanned your expression.

“I need you to tell me to stop.” 

Silence.

“God, I am in so much trouble.” 

He drew you into another kiss and you happily reciprocated. It felt like fireworks were being lit off in your chest. Whatever you had imagined, this was a million times better. He was somehow both gentle and rough at the same time, trying to devour you like you were his last meal. He ducked his head down into your neck and took your skin between his teeth, nipping at the soft flesh.

“You have no idea what you’ve been doing to me” he breathed out. He was working his way up your neck, kissing the exposed flesh as he went. 

“Every time,” Kiss. “You talk,” Kiss. “All I can think about,” Kiss. “Is your mouth on mine.”

He walked you backwards, his mouth never leaving yours. Eventually your back hit the lab counter. It stung a bit but you didn’t care. All you could focus on was getting that t-shirt off of his frame and onto the floor. You were dying to see what was under those stupid science pun prints. 

You moaned into his mouth and tugged at the bottom of his shirt, signalling to him what you wanted. He leaned back a bit, arms still encircling your waist, and smirked. “Yeah? You want this off?” he questioned knowingly. You nodded. 

“Come on, use your words. You want my shirt off?” he asked. 

Oh, he was going to kill you. “Yes, Dr. Grace,” you answered, obediently. Dr. Grace’s eyes almost rolled into the back of his head. He groaned. “Don’t do that.”

“Don’t do what?” you asked. “That thing with your voice,” Dr. Grace said. “Calling me doctor all sweet like you do, you know you can call me Ryland.” You tugged on the hem of his shirt once more. “Okay, Ryland. Shirt. Off. Now,” you demanded. 

“Yes, ma’am,” he snickered. He made quick work of grabbing the bottom of his shirt and ripping it over his head. He made to pull you back into another kiss but you stopped him just short of contact. You pushed him back slightly, leaning back and drinking him in. You couldn’t even believe what you were seeing. Ryland was fucking ripped. 

The evening light highlighted his abs just right, where you could take in every curve and detail, as his muscles seemed to strain against absolutely nothing. You ran your hands down his stomach and he shivered. His stomach intricately curved down into a sharp V that was so defined, you had to do a double take to convince yourself it was real. “Who knew microbiology was such a grueling subject?” you joked. 

Dr. Grace laughed. “Hey, I personally think that understanding cellular adaptation and atrophy is more difficult than any workout.” You shook your head and smiled. Even when he was hot and heavy, he still took every opportunity to make a science joke. You wouldn’t have it any other way. 

This time it was you who pulled him back into a kiss. He stole your move and tugged on the bottom of your blouse. You untangled your hands from his hair and began to undo the top buttons. Ryland followed your hands with his mouth as you worked your way down the shirt. With each inch of skin that was exposed to him, Ryland placed an open-mouth kiss there, leaving wet patches along your chest. As you reached the last button, Ryland’s mouth stayed on your navel but his arms snaked up to help you abandon the offending fabric..

He looked up at you from where he was perched on his knees, his chin on your stomach, those sweet blue eyes still in awe of you. That this was happening. That you weren’t something out of his wildest dreams. His right index finger toyed with the button on your pants. “Can I take these off, sweetheart?” Your eyes widened. Ryland grinned. “I’m going to take that as a yes with your eyes, now I just need your mouth to tell me the same.” 

“Yes”, you rasped. He wasted no time pulling both your pants and your underwear down in one fell swoop, nearly knocking you off balance, but, of course, Ryland was there to catch you as you fell. He steadied you by digging both his palms into the back of your thighs, palming your flesh. He stood up, hands not leaving you for a second, meeting your lips again. 

“Jump,” he stated simply. Without a second thought you hoisted yourself up by digging your hands into his shoulders and felt his strong hands grab the underside of your thighs, lifting you onto the lab table. The coldness of the counter was a stark contrast to the heat that was coursing through your body; it almost made you wince. You made to return Ryland’s favor and undo his jeans, but he caught your hands in his.

“Not yet, I want to make you feel good first,” he said, lips now working their way up the side of your face and under your earlobe.. “Is that alright?” he asked. You shuddered as the breath of his words met your skin. His hands had left their spots on your thighs and fluttered over your torso, tracing the outline of your ribs on your skin. 

“O-okay,” you stuttered. It felt like your entire body was numb, but also so sensitive to every touch that Ryland gave you, all at once. Ryland leaned back and took your naked form in again. “Thatta girl,” the words seemed to drip off his tongue. He tapped your knees in encouragement and dropped to his knees again, parting your legs gently. He met your eyes quickly, a silent ask for permission which you readily granted.

With that, he kissed the insides of your thighs, working his way inwards from the inside of your knees. As he got closer to the spot where you needed him most, you felt the sharp edges of his glasses rims knock into your inner thighs. Ryland leaned back on his calves. “Sorry, sweetheart. Let me get these out of our way,” he plucked his glasses off of his face and made to place them on the counter before you interjected. 

“No!” you startled yourself by how quickly you responded. Ryland looked up at you, puzzled. However, he paused where he was at, glasses still in hand. You sheepishly smiled. “Keep them on. Please.” You internally grimaced, embarrassed by your begging. However, after three years of pining after your professor, you were not passing up the thought of looking down to his glasses-framed face as he fucking ate you out. 

Ryland smiled smugly. “Got a thing for the glasses, huh?” He placed them delicately back on his face. “Tell me,” he said, “Is it the daring Clark Kent vibe that gets you going or the wizened academic look that you like more?” He gestured to his face, mostly jokingly, but you could sense there was a genuine question somewhere in there. You leaned down and pushed the glasses further up his nose. “What can I say, I’ve got a thing for hot, nerdy, men,” you replied. 

He laughed. “I’ll take it.”

It felt natural, the progression. His kisses felt earned, given with adoration, and he made sure that not an inch of you went untouched. After what felt like a million light years of him paying attention to everywhere except where you wanted, he licked a long, wet, downright disrespectful stripe up your folds. You moaned instantly and threw your head back. You didn’t even have any time to recover before he dove in again, his tongue swirling around your clit and sucking gently. 

He didn’t know all of the spots to make you squirm right off the bat, but god was he a quick study. Whenever his tongue brushed a spot that tore a sound out of you, he made sure to hit that spot again. Over and over again. He seemed determined to get as many sounds out of you as he could, and you happily obliged. Not like you had much of a choice in the matter. 

Fuck, he was good, you thought.

“Yeah?” Ryland asked from between your thighs. “You think so?” 

You hadn’t realized you said that part outloud. You were too overwhelmed with bliss to even care. “Fuck yes, Ryland. You feel so fucking good, oh my-”

A finger being pushed into your folds cuts you off instantly. After that, there truly was no hope for you. He set a punishing pace, pumping his fingers in and out while using his tongue to get to all of the spots that his fingers couldn’t reach while preoccupied. You clenched around his fingers and you felt him tense as he jut his hips forward involuntarily. “Ryland,” you gasped. “I’m gonna-” You couldn’t even finish your sentence before Rylang picked up his pace further, if that was even possible. 

“Come on, sweetheart. You can do it, let go,” you heard Ryland say, even though his voice sounded muffled and far away. His mouth returned to your clit, sucking hard, and the coil in your lower stomach finally broke. A loud moan tore out of you and you bit the back of your hand to silence yourself. You were still in the campus lab after all. Euphoria washed over you, from head to toe, and your legs shook with the impact. Ryland’s hand came up to steady you as he slowed slightly and worked you through it. 

“There you go, just like that. I got you,” he coaxed gently. You moved the palm that you were biting down your face as the waves subsided. You couldn’t help it, you collapsed back on the table. Ryland resumed his ritual of kissing up your navel, to the center of your sternum, in between your collarbones, and finally, standing up, to your lips. You returned his kiss, although rather weakly. 

“You okay?” he asked. You nodded. He paused for a moment, seemingly pondering if he should speak again. He decided on another question. 

“You want more?” he asked, his voice deeper this time, lower. 

“Fuck yes,” you cursed.

His words invigorated you with a second wind. You sat up quickly, hands rushing to undo the button and zipper on his jeans as he leaned into your hair and placed kisses to your head. As you fumbled with his belt loops, you could feel his arousal underneath your palm. Just to test the waters, you palmed him slightly, earning a whimper from Ryland into your hair. You hopped down from the counter as you finished unzipping his jeans. Ryland took over from there, sliding his jeans and underwear down in one go. Your eyes immediately cast downward and you bit your lip. 

His cock sprang forward, rock hard and already leaking pre-cum. You would have never guessed in your wildest dreams that he would be this big. It made your mouth water. You slowly began to sink to your knees to show him as good of a time as he just gave you, but he stopped you with a hand to your chest. 

“Please I- I can’t wait any longer,” Ryland searched your eyes. “I need to be inside you.” 

Oh. 

His words almost made you falter. As if you hadn’t had enough life-altering experiences tonight, here was Dr. Ryland Grace, published scientist, respected research and professor, begging to fuck you. 

Ryland seemed to take your silence as a yes, as he grabbed your hips and gave you one last kiss before spinning you to face the lab counter. From your perspective, you could see out the lab’s large windows. The lab was on the second floor of the science building, so all you could see out the window was the tops of the trees on the grounds. Still, all that was running through your mind at this moment was the fact that students could be walking down below, without a clue about all of the filthy things you and your professor were doing in his lab. 

Ryland places a hand on the small of your back and pushed you forward, effectively bending you over the lab counter. Your palms hit the counter, leaving an imprint on the black tops. Ryland kissed your back and you felt words muttered onto your skin. “Is this okay?”

“Yes, Ryland, please just-” He didn’t even let you finish. As soon as the word ‘yes’ left your mouth, he was pushing inside you. His cock stretching you out slow and depraved, making you gasp. Ryland cursed behind you, his hands flying to your hips and digging his short nails into your sides. He pushed slowly inside, inch by glorious inch until he was buried completely inside you. You turned your head slightly to see Ryland’s perfect face. He had his head thrown back, eyes closed, as if the act of being inside you was something that deserved a moment of silent reverence. 

“Ryland?” 

“Hm?” he hummed without opening his eyes. 

“Move,” you demanded. 

Well, you did ask for it. He pumped in and out of you like a piston, building up a rhythm that had you sobbing. Ryland’s hands never left your hips, you think he needed to hold on to them for his own sanity at this point. “Fuck you feel, you’re-” you sputtered. “You’re so fucking tight.” 

His pace quickened as tears squeaked their way out of your eyes and onto the lab counter. You were sure that you had never felt this good in your entire life. You could feel that low simmer in your stomach that you felt earlier. You were close. “Just like that Ryland, I’m gonna cum again”, you croaked. Your voice was gone, all of the air absent from your lungs.

Ryland seemed to sense it too as his once steady rhythm faltered and failed at points. He was losing steam, and fast. “Oh my, oh my fucking god,” he growled. “Come on, cum with me, that’s my girl.” 

The praise sent you over the edge. As your second wave rocked your body, you felt Ryland following suit. His hips stuttered as he spilled inside of you with a broken moan. His head fell forward onto your back as you felt his last few strokes, slow and intimate, pushing everything he gave you back inside, not letting a drop of the evidence of both of your choices drip onto the lab floor. 

You could barely breathe. It was the best feeling in the world. Ryland stroked your hair and slowly pulled out from you, with you whining at the loss of contact. You rolled slightly on to your side, looking at your professor, a sheen of sweat gracing his gorgeous body, glasses askew on his nose. Ryland leaned back onto the lab table and brushed his fingers through his hair, a deep sigh leaving his cheeks. He turned over to you. 

“So professor,” you teased in a sultry tone. You batted your eyelashes innocently. “Does this mean I get extra credit?” 

Ryland rolled his eyes. “Don’t start with me.”

[project-hail-ryland]

Ryland slipping your panties in his pocket the first time you sleep together like a souvenir 🤐

OH YES. Now this...this is my language.

Panty raid Ryland below the cut!

Picturing Ryland with his first baddie (you) and you're wearing a thong and you are sooooo soaked. After you are done having sex, he is slipping his jeans back on and he slides your panties in his front pocket, trying to be all sly.

Once you get cleaned up and come out of his bathroom you're like, "Okay, perv, where are my panties?!"

And he's like, "Hmm, were you wearing any? I haven't seen them!" but his face is all pink and he looks all nervous.

And you slowly walk toward him, finger pointed, and as you get close enough that you poke him in the chest with your knowing finger, you reach down and grab your undies out of his pocket and shout, "AHA!"

And he's just smiling like the dork that he is, "I just wanted a souvenir!"

And of course you let him keep 'em. And eventually he wears them out, constantly fisting his cock with them in his hand, cumming all over them whilst imagining your voice, your tits, the face you make when you cum.

So he becomes a thief, constantly snagging your underwear. And soon enough, he has amassed quite an impressive collection!

This was right up my alley, THANK YEW!