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recs.
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911 (fox)
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free!
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a/n: and she lives đłđł ermmmmmm im so sorry guys for like disappearing with no new posts ive started my summer term of uni so i got really busy and caught up in all that sooooo here we are đŁđŁđŁ i dont know when ill have the time to make full fledged smaus again but i have small drafts/ideas here and there so you never know!! anyways enjoy this scrap i made after months đĽ
oh nothing, just rocky being so intrigued by ryland and you kissing
âphysical human connection. purpose?â
grace practically leaps away from you, where youâre pressed against a lab table (forgotten taomeba scattered across various microscopes and slates, pushed aside to make way for the â admittedly, quite sexy â make-out that you and ryland were currently locked in on).
ârocky! jesus-!â
you slap your hands to your mouth (the mouth which a certain dr ryland grace was ravishing just seconds previously) and feel your cheeks go hot.
âoh my god.â you canât seem to say anything else.
âdisplay of affection, question? crew bond, question?â
grace blushing and you quickly butting in with a âoh- no⌠umâŚâ
âcourting gesture, question?â
ryland and you make eye contact. something heated flashes across his gaze, something which rocky canât see, and you flush a deeper maroon. his mouth crooks into a lopsided smile, and you instantly look away (if you maintain eye contact, you would be in a lot of trouble. and probably wouldnât sleep the rest of the night.)
of course heâd do that when youâre not in private.
his gaze not drifting from you, ryland grins. âyeah, something like that, bud.â
and uhm if you think ryland is whipped for you. that man did not stand a chance once you guys had your baby girl.
he reads to her every night. even as a newborn and she canât understand what heâs even saying heâs reading to her every night. âweâre in a literary crisis! i want her to be well versed.â he whisper-yells one night when you ask, hoping not to wake her up.
sheâs such a daddyâs girl. you bottle feed her, and she only ever wants ryland to feed her. âyou know i make the milk that feeds her,â you pout, sitting across from ryland as you pump. âmaybe she just wants you to take a break.â he makes little faces at her while holding her bottle. your baby smiles and laughs looking at him. and you admit your heart does swell watching them.
of course, her first word is âdadaâ and ryland cries when he hears her. you snap your head towards her. of course you wanted her first word to be mama, but youâre just as excited to hear her talk. he runs over to her, picking her up from her high chair. âcan you say it again, honey? dada. say dada.â she starts giggling and she repeats it. heâs now fully sobbing. you walk over wrapping your arms around them. âiâm so proud of you baby girl,â he says kissing her chubby cheeks. he turns to kiss your forehead, âthank you for making me her dada.â
once sheâs a toddler, she is a yapper, just like her dad. the two of them get into long conversations about everything under the sun. why the sky is blue, why does the moon follow them at night, why do trees grow so tall? and he answers every one in as much detail as she can comprehend.
when he takes her to to her first day of kindergarten, heâs a fucking mess. she keeps looking at him asking him why heâs crying and heâs just like âyouâre a big girl now sweetie. youâre daddy is so proud of you.â you have to drag him out of the the classroom, and he sobs the entire way home. âyou donât think we could home school her?â he asks, trying to wipe away his tears in the car.
when he picks her up she is so happy to see him and tell him all about the friends she made. he takes her for ice cream and asks her if sheâs sure she wants to go back the next day.
but i could also totally see him having a little boy who is basically his exact clone in every single way.
i love your writing and aesthetic so so so much!! i do need some soft morning sex with ryland on erid thoughâŚ
thank you, darling!! sweet and soft morning sex with ryland coming right up...!
Ryland has become more bold since meeting you.
It started with little things. Actually speaking up and telling the waitress that his steak was well-done when he asked for it rare, letting down his walls and holding you close in public, and even initiating intimacy. Those were things he'd never done before. But you were the kind of person to make him feel comfortableâlike he could be the realest version of himself.
Ryland had also become adventurous since you got together.
Transitioning to life on Erid hasn't halted that. In fact, you begun to believe that Ryland has lowered his inhibitions. Take today for example.
You're spread out on the beach, soft quilt beneath your skin. Ryland's hands are running down every inch of your body. They're soft caresses, reverence emanating from his eyes. His lips had trailed down your neck, your chest, your thighs, and everywhere between.
"Oh, Ry.." You murmur, nails digging into his back.
He's a wall of muscle on top of you. Despite this, everything he does is tender. The way he tucks hair behind you ear, kisses tears away, nestles his face in the crook of your neck and whispering sweet nothings. You've never felt more loved than you do now.
"Gosh, sunshine." his hips roll slowly into you, gliding through your walls. "s'good. you feel so good."
Ryland presses his lips to your neck, peppering kisses to your jaw and cheeks. Ever drag of his length through your walls feels like he's saying 'I love you.'
The biodomes artificial sunlight pours over you, bathing the two of you in golden light. Warmth envelopes you in a little ball. Like you're the only two beings in the entire universe, melding together, breathing in each other's air, and tying your souls together.
A gasp falls from your lips, eyes fluttering shut as you let yourself fall into pleasure.
"I love you." He whispers into your skin, holding you close to him.
His hand print is surely imprinted into your thigh from holding you open for him. But there's no acheâthere's only adoration. He needed all of you to cherish. Even if he's felt you beneath him a hundred times before; each time felt like the first.
Your hands thread through his dirty blonde hair, gently tugging at his roots. "Nghnâlove you, Ry."
He pulls back to look at your face. His eyes are glassy, filled to the brim with stars. There's a moment where you think he's trying to memorize every inch of your face. And maybe he is. Because thisâthis ethereal glow radiating from your skinâis one of the prettiest things he's ever seen.
Ryland's lips press against yours, veneration on his tongue.
join the taglist here! request something here or in my inbox!
ryland grace who loves missionary because he wants to watch you fall apart beneath him!
he loves being able to press sweet kisses onto your lips as heâs rolling his hips against you, swallowing down your little moans and cries when he hits that certain spot just right. encouraging you to wrap your legs around his waist and hook your feet together behind his back so he can fuck into you deeper because he knows thatâs how you like it. heâs sooo focused on you and making sure heâs pleasuring you and being good for you! âwanna make you feel good, sweetheart. you want that too, right? let me make you feel good, please, baby.â he whines, and when he sees you nodding your head in agreement he gets that big, eager smile plastered on his face. brushing your sweaty hair gently from your face with his fingers so he can caress your cheeks so tenderly with his palmsâa sharp contrast to the way heâs completely fucking you silly with his cock. he knows when youâre getting ready to cum because he can see the way your expression changes, how your eyebrows knit together and you look so fucked out you want to cry, but he just works you through it with his gentle encouragement. âcâmon, honey, let me have it.â he whispers, pressing kisses against your chin and petting at your hair until he feels the way you start to twitch underneath him, your walls clenching around him as you cum. âthere we go.â he praises, pulling back so he can see the way the tension between your brows slowly fades and is replaced by a look of pure bliss thatâs reserved only for him in these moments. âyou look so pretty like this. thank you, baby.â
thinking of ryland holding you in a headlock⌠his chest pressed to your back, the weight of him pushing you down into the mattress as he ruts into you. the sound of the mattress creaking under your shared weight and the wet slap of his sweaty skin against yours ringing out through the room. his other hand moves down to grab onto the flesh of your hip while he groans into your ear, one particularly deep thrust makes you swear that you can feel him in your throat. feeling the way his arm flexes around your neck juuust enough to where you start to feel that lightheadedness creep in that youâve grown to crave when heâs not holding you in this position. how your eyes lose their focus, vision blurring ever so slightly in the corners with each passing second.
ryland loves how soft and pliant you are when he has you like this, the way you melt under him and how easily he slips in and out of you with no resistance. his eyes are closed, but when his eyelids flutter open he sees the way your cheeks have grown red from the pressure and your eyes have turned glossy. he canât help the way his lips curl up in the corners at the sight of you, such a pretty thing underneath him. he eases his grip around your throat, allowing the pressure to slowly dissipate. âbreathe, baby. youâre doing so good for me.â he hums, leaning in to press a kiss against your sticky cheekbone as he continues the brutal pace of his deep strokes.
do you think ryland is gentle at first and then gets rougher as he fucks you OHMYGOOOOODDD
yes yes YES
my hand may be injured so excuse the grammar, i am on phone atm, not proofread
nsfw under the cut ;)
ryland is so painfully gentle at first it almost hurts. heâs never done this before, his relationships being few and far between, and you can feel how hard heâs trying, how much he wants to be good for you.
his hands are shaking when he cups your face, thumbs brushing your cheeks like youâre made of glass.
is this okay?
tell me if itâs too much, please
we dont have to if you dont want
he kisses you so soft it makes your chest ache, slow rolls of his hips. you can feel every tremble in his arms where theyâre braced beside your head, the way his breath stutters hot against your ear.
you feel⌠god, you feel incredible.
all sweet, pressing these tiny little kisses along your jaw while he pushes in slowly, letting you adjust, forehead dropped to yours as he tells you how well you are doing.
but the second you moan and roll your hips up to meet him?
ask him for more?
tell him that you want to feel him tomorrow?
it's game over.
he blames it on biology taking over, his eyes squeezing shut as he processes what youre asking, that sweet boyish expression twisting into something desperate. he lets out this broken, wrecked sound and suddenly heâs driving into you hard, hips snapping forward with zero warning
heâs fucking you like heâs starving for it now, deep and rough, the slap of skin on skin loud and filthy in the room. he feels bad for how little control he has, it's been far too long since he has touched someone like this.
touched someone, and loved them like this.
sweetheartâgod, l'm sorry, you justâ
it makes his movements sloppy as he can't get enough, he needs to take you over and over and over til neither of you can forget this feeling
shaky hands gripping your thighs hard enough to bruise as he folds you practically in half. heâs panting into your neck, sweat dripping from his messy hair onto your skin, every thrust punching the air out of you as he apologises against your skin, but he needs this, he needs you.
eyes wet and wild, his cock is so deep and heâs hitting that spot over and over like he was made for it. the gentle boy from five minutes ago is gone; now itâs just him completely lost in you, muttering filthy broken praises between gritted teeth:
babyâi'm sorry, godâjust feel so goodâ
and the best part? he never actually stops apologising⌠even while heâs pounding you into the mattress
I kovw your writing!! I'd love to see a smutty pt2 to good girl
good girl II - Ryland Grace
ryland grace x reader
part one - part two
warnings: smut
i love my men whimpering and needy with a little bit of worshipping on the side
word count: 6,1k
requests are open!
The ship had transitioned into its designated night cycle, plunging the corridors of the Hail Mary into a deep, moody blue. The ambient, heavy thrum of the centrifuge spin drive vibrated up through the floorboards, pulling a steady, comforting artificial gravity down on everything inside the hull.
You were in the laboratory, sitting at one of the workstations, idly reviewing some atmospheric data on your monitor. Or, at least, pretending to. In reality, you were just waiting.
You knew him well enough by now to know that Dr. Ryland Grace could not leave an anomaly unexamined. He also couldn't let a social faux pas go un-agonized over. It was only a matter of time before he tried to 'fix' it.
Right on cue, the soft hiss of the lab doors sliding open broke the quiet.
You didn't turn around immediately, letting the rustle of his jumpsuit and the soft, hesitant thud of his sneakers against the metal floor grating announce his arrival. He walked into the lab, stopping a safe, meticulously calculated four feet away from your chair.
"Hey," he said. His voice was a little too loud for the dim lighting, tightly wound with nervous energy.
You pushed your chair back slightly and turned to face him, keeping your feet planted on the floor. "Hey, Ryland."
He was clutching a digital tablet to his chest like a ballistic shield. His hair was slightly ruffled, and that betraying flush was still lingering high on his cheekbones.
"So. I've been doing some thinking," he started, launching immediately into his rehearsed speech before his courage could fail him. His words came out in a rapid-fire, heavily academic clip. "And some reading. I reviewed the ship's psychological medical files regarding long-term, deep-space isolation, and I think it's really important that we contextualize what happened in the control room."
You raised an eyebrow, staying perfectly still. "Contextualize it."
"Yes!" He tapped the tablet, not looking at you, his eyes locked desperately on the screen. "You see, in an environment devoid of external stimuli, the human endocrine system begins to aggressively seek out serotonin and dopamine. Furthermore, forced proximity combined with high-stress situations can cause an artificial spike in oxytocin, leading the brain to misinterpret standard platonic attachment as a... as a romantic imperative."
He finally looked up from the tablet, offering a tight, panic-laced smile. "So, the slip-up earlier, the vocabulary choice... it was just a neurochemical misfire. Entirely clinical. We can just log it as a symptom of space madness and completely forget it ever happened. Right?"
Instead of answering, you stood up.
The gravity felt heavy and grounding as you closed the four feet of empty space separating you with slow, deliberate steps. He took a sudden, panicked step backward until his shoulders hit the cool metal of the bulkhead with a soft thud.
You didn't stop. You stepped completely into his personal space, so close that the toes of your shoes bumped gently against his sneakers. Because of the height difference, you had to tilt your head back to look at him. The proximity forced him to look down, his posture stiffening as he tried to press himself as flat against the wall as physically possible.
"Clinical," you repeated, keeping your voice low and soft.
"Y-yes," he stammered. His eyes were wide, darting nervously across your face before dropping to your lips and quickly snapping back up to the ceiling. He swallowed so hard you saw the apple of his throat bob. "Very clinical. Textbook."
You let a small, teasing smile touch your lips. You reached up, lightly resting your palm flat against the center of his chest.
Ryland made a sound that was half-whimper, half-squeak. Beneath the thin fabric of his jumpsuit, you could feel his heart hammering a frantic, erratic rhythm against your palm. His fingers went completely slack. The digital tablet slipped from his grasp, hitting the metal floor grating with a sharp, loud clack.
"So, the isolation made you do it," you murmured, lightly tracing the zipper line of his jumpsuit with your fingertips. "The oxytocin made you call me a good girl in that exact tone of voice."
"Please don't say it back to me," he whispered miserably. He squeezed his eyes shut, letting his head thump back against the bulkhead. "I'm going to die. My heart is going to give out before we even reach Tau Ceti."
"I don't know, Dr. Grace," you murmured, stepping just a fraction of an inch closer. Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Your heart feels pretty strong right now. It's practically beating out of your chest. Is that the oxytocin, too?"
"It's the... the adrenaline," he choked out, opening his eyes. He was trying so desperately to keep his composure, but his gaze immediately dropped to your mouth again. "Flight or... or fight response."
"And which one are you doing?" you teased gently. "Because you're backed against a wall, Ryland, and you're definitely not fighting me."
"I..." His voice cracked completely. "I'm trying very hard to be professional."
You waited for a moment, letting your hand rest against his chest, giving him the chance to drop the act. But he just stood there, frozen in place, his breathing shallow and his eyes wide behind his glasses, completely paralyzed by his own over-analytical brain.
You let out a soft, slightly resigned sigh. You let your hand drop from his chest, taking a slow step backward.
"Okay," you said quietly. The teasing edge completely left your voice, leaving behind something far more gentle and a little sad. "I can give you space to be professional, if that's what you really want. Goodnight, Ryland."
You turned away from him, your sneakers scuffing softly against the floor grating as you started to walk back toward the lab doors.
You only made it two steps.
"Wait."
His voice wasn't a stammer this time; it was slightly raspy, sudden, and urgent.
Before you could fully turn around, his hand caught yours. His long fingers wrapped around your hand, halting your momentum instantly. The grip wasn't painful, but it was incredibly firm - the grounding, desperate hold of someone who had just realized exactly what they were about to lose.
You paused, looking back over your shoulder.
Ryland wasn't pressed against the wall anymore. He had taken a sudden step forward, closing the distance you had just tried to put between you. The panic was still there in his eyes, but the hesitation was gone, overridden by the sheer terror of watching you walk away.
"Don't," he breathed. He tugged gently on your hand, pulling you back around to face him. "Please don't go."
"Ryland..."
"I'm not trying to be professional," he confessed, the words tumbling out of him in a rushed, breathless whisper. He stepped closer, using his grip on your hand to gently pull you back into his space. "I'm just... I'm terrified. I don't know what I'm doing, and you're so incredible, and my brain is just short-circuiting because I can't believe this is actually happening."
He lifted your hand, pressing the back of your knuckles softly against his chest, right over his racing heart.
"The data is flawed," he murmured, a shaky, self-deprecating smile finally touching his lips as he looked down at you. "It's not oxytocin."
He didn't give his brain another second to overthink it. He let go of your hand, only so his arms could encircle you. He bowed his head, his shoulders hunching slightly to accommodate the height difference, and finally pressed his mouth to yours.
The kiss wasn't perfectly smooth or practiced, but it was overwhelmingly sweet, dizzyingly eager, and completely unguarded. He kissed you like a man who had been starving for years and had suddenly been handed a feast. You felt his rigid posture give way entirely as he let out a soft, shuddering sigh against your lips. His arms wrapped securely around your back, holding you close, his warmth chasing away the chill of the lab. You slid your hands up to his shoulders, tangling your fingers gently in the hair at the nape of his neck.
When you finally broke apart to breathe, he didn't pull away. Instead, he just let his forehead drop to rest heavily on your shoulder, hiding his face in the crook of your neck. His chest heaved against yours as he tried to catch his breath, and you could feel the furious heat radiating off his cheeks.
"So," you whispered into his ruffled hair, a tiny smile playing on your lips as you rubbed soothing circles into his back. "Still think it was just a neurochemical misfire?"
Ryland let out a breathless, muffled groan against your shoulder. He held you a little tighter, completely abandoning any remaining pretense of being 'just colleagues'.
"Okay," he mumbled into your collarbone, refusing to lift his head and face his own mortification just yet. "Okay, fine. I admit it. My hypothesis was completely wrong."
You let out a soft laugh, resting your cheek against the top of his head. The tension that had been suffocating the ship for hours finally broke, replaced by a warm, comfortable domesticity.
"I'm glad to hear it," you murmured.
He stayed hidden in the crook of your neck for a long moment, just breathing you in, letting his nervous system finally catch up to the reality that you weren't going to reject him. When he finally lifted his head, the furious blush had faded to a soft, warm pink across his cheekbones. His glasses were slightly askew, and his hair was an absolute mess. He looked incredibly handsome.
He didn't pull away. Instead, his hands slid from your waist around to the small of your back, resting there as he looked down at you. The panic in his eyes was entirely gone, replaced by a deep, overwhelming affection that made your breath hitch.
"You're going to get a crick in your neck," he murmured softly, his thumb gently stroking the fabric of your jumpsuit at your spine.
Before you could ask what he meant, he took a half-step forward. With a surprising, quiet strength, he gripped your waist, lifted you effortlessly, and set you down on the edge of the metal lab counter behind you.
The change in elevation brought you perfectly eye-to-eye.
Ryland let out a small, satisfied sigh at the new arrangement. He stepped between your knees, stepping completely flush against the counter. He reached up, his hands gently framing your face. His thumbs lightly brushed across your cheekbones, tracing the line of your jaw with a reverence that made your heart ache.
"Much better," he whispered.
This time, when he kissed you, there was no hesitation. The desperate, frantic energy of his first kiss smoothed out into something slow, deliberate, and dizzyingly intimate. He tasted like the bitter ship's coffee and the minty toothpaste from the washroom, a bizarrely comforting combination. You wrapped your arms around his neck, tangling your fingers into the soft hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer.
He let out a low, rough sound in the back of his throat, his hands sliding down from your face to trace the line of your neck, his fingers lightly brushing against your collarbone - a deliberate, lingering echo of the touch that had started this entire cascade. His lips trailed softly to the corner of your mouth, down to your jaw, pressing open-mouthed, heated kisses against your skin that sent a searing jolt straight down your spine. He wasn't dominant or aggressive; he was thorough, attentive, and incredibly observant, learning exactly what made you gasp and immediately repeating it.
The cool, sterile air of the laboratory seemed to evaporate, replaced by a heavy, suffocating heat. You tilted your head back, letting your eyes fall shut as his lips moved to the sensitive skin just below your ear.
"Ryland..." you breathed out, your voice slightly wrecked.
He paused, resting his forehead against your temple, his chest heaving as he tried to steady his breathing. "Am I doing okay?" he whispered, his voice incredibly rough, still carrying that adorkable need for positive reinforcement.
"You're doing amazing," you managed to say, pulling him back in.
He smiled against your lips, a bright, genuine thing, and leaned in to kiss you again-
Beep.
The sharp, electronic chime of the PA system echoed through the quiet lab, instantly shattering the heavy silence.
"Observation. Human biological monitors are registering unprecedented spikes."
The deadpan, robotic monotone of the translation software blared from the ceiling speakers. Ryland froze instantly, his lips hovering a millimeter above yours.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," Ryland groaned, his forehead dropping heavily onto your shoulder.
"Heart rates are highly elevated," Rocky's voice continued mercilessly. "Body temperatures have increased by zero-point-eight degrees Celsius. Respiratory rates indicate lack of oxygen. Are you experiencing a medical emergency, question? Or is this the continuation of the mating ritual, question?"
You pressed your face into Ryland's shoulder, your shoulders shaking with silent, uncontrollable laughter. Ryland let out a long, long sigh, resting his weight against you for a moment before reluctantly pulling back.
"I forgot about him," he muttered, adjusting his glasses. "I completely forgot about the very smart, very nosy alien spider who has complete access to our biometric data."
You hopped down from the counter, smoothing out your jumpsuit while still biting your lip to suppress a grin. "We have to answer him, Ryland, or he's going to roll in here to administer first aid."
Ryland dragged a hand down his face, looking up at the nearest security camera. He hit the comms button on the lab console.
"We are not having a medical emergency, Rocky," Ryland said, trying to inject as much calm, teacher-like authority into his voice as possible. "We are... we are fine."
"Understood," the robotic voice replied. "Then it is the mating ritual. Does Earth biology require privacy for mating, question?"
Ryland's entire face burned a spectacular shade of crimson. He looked at you, utterly mortified, but you just nodded encouragingly, gesturing for him to continue.
"Yes," Ryland said, his voice cracking slightly. "Yes, Rocky. Human... human bonding requires a high degree of privacy. It is a very strict cultural imperative."
"Fascinating. Eridanians sleep in large piles to maintain temperature and security. Isolation is illogical. But I will respect Earth customs."
A series of musical chords filtered through the speakers, the raw audio of Rocky humming to himself, before the translator kicked back in.
"I have disabled the biometric alerts and audio-visual feeds for the human sleeping quarters. I will remain in the engineering bay. Have a good mating ritual. Words of encouragement.â
The comms clicked off, plunging the lab back into the low hum of the centrifuge drive.
You stared at the speaker for a moment, letting the sheer absurdity of the conversation wash over you, before you finally let out a loud, genuine laugh.
Ryland buried his face in his hands, shaking his head. "I am a respected scientist," he mumbled into his palms. "I have published papers. And I just asked an alien for permission to have privacy with my crewmate."
You walked over, gently prying his hands away from his face. His eyes were crinkled at the corners, a sheepish, hopelessly fond smile breaking through his embarrassment.
"Well," you said softly, linking your fingers through his. "He did turn off the cameras in the sleeping quarters."
Ryland looked down at your joined hands, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. The nervous energy was entirely gone now, replaced by a quiet, deep anticipation. He looked back up at you, the dark intensity returning to his eyes.
"He did," Ryland agreed, his voice dropping back down into that low, quiet register. He gave your hand a gentle tug, pulling you toward the lab doors. "We should probably go verify that his modifications to the security system are fully functional."
"Very clinical of you, Dr. Grace."
"Extremely," he murmured, a completely smitten smile on his face as he led you out into the blue-lit corridor.
The walk down the corridor was a study in sensory overload.
After months of navigating the Hail Mary with careful, professional distance, the simple act of holding his hand felt completely grounding. His palm was warm and slightly calloused, his long fingers interwoven tightly with yours. The shipâs night cycle bathed the narrow hallway in a deep, sapphire glow, and the only sound was the steady, heavy thrum of the centrifuge and the quiet scuff of your shoes against the floor grating.
When you reached the door to your quarters, the keypad glowed a soft green. The door slid open with a quiet hiss, and you stepped inside, the door automatically sealing shut behind you.
The sleeping quarters were not designed for romance. They were small, utilitarian, and dominated by the narrow bunk built securely into the bulkhead. The air in here always felt a little cooler, stripped of the residual heat from the laboratory equipment.
But as the door clicked into its lock, isolating the two of you completely from the rest of the ship - and from the universe at large - the sterile room suddenly felt incredibly small, and incredibly charged.
Ryland let go of your hand, only to reach up and gently cup your face again. In the dim light of the cabin, without his glasses slipping or his scientific brain frantically trying to categorize his emotions, he looked incredibly soft. The adorkable, frantic microbiologist was still there, but beneath it was a man who was looking at you with a reverence that stole the breath right out of your lungs.
"I can't believe we're actually doing this," he whispered, his thumb tracing the line of your cheekbone. It wasn't a question of hesitation, but a statement of pure, unadulterated awe. "I've spent the last months terrified that if I looked at you for too long, you'd figure it out."
"Figure what out?" you asked softly, leaning into his touch.
"That you are the absolute center of my gravity right now," he breathed, his voice rough and incredibly earnest. "And we are currently in a one-g spin."
You let out a shaky, quiet laugh, your hands coming up to rest on his chest. "That was a terrible physics pun, Dr. Grace."
"I'm a desperate man," he murmured, a smile curving against your lips just before he kissed you.
The gentle, tentative exploration from the lab vanished, replaced by a deep, aching certainty. He stepped fully into your space, backing you slowly until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the mattress. His hands slid down from your face, moving with a careful, deliberate focus to the heavy, industrial zipper at the collar of your standard-issue jumpsuit.
His fingers worked the zipper down, the metal teeth separating with a soft, rhythmic rasp. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the small cabin, punctuated only by the low thrum of the centrifuge and the quick, shallow rhythm of his breathing.
You could feel him trembling - just slightly - as he pushed the jumpsuit off your shoulders, letting the fabric fall and pool at your feet. The cool air of the cabin raised goosebumps along your arms, but the heat radiating off his body, pressed so close to yours, quickly chased the chill away.
"You're shaking," you whispered, your hands coming up to rest on his bare forearms.
"I know." He didn't deny it. His eyes met yours, dark and earnest in the dim blue light, his glasses slightly askew. "I know I'm not- I haven't- It's been a very long time, and I want this to be good for you. I want you."
You pulled him closer, your fingers working at the zipper of his own jumpsuit now. "So stop trying to hypothesize and just ask me what I like."
A shaky exhale escaped him. "What do you like?"
"This," you said, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "And this." Another kiss, softer, to his jaw. "And when you're confident. When you stop second-guessing and just take what you want."
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then lower, tracing the line of your throat, the curve of your breasts beneath the thin tank top you wore underneath your jumpsuit.
He reached for the hem of your tank top, his knuckles brushing against your stomach as he bunched the fabric in his hands. You lifted your arms, and he pulled it over your head, discarding it somewhere on the floor. His breath caught audibly as his eyes traveled over you - your bare skin, the way your chest rose and fell with quickening breaths, the flush spreading across your collarbone.
"God," he breathed, the word barely audible. "You're so beautiful. I've imagined this - l've tried not to imagine this, because it felt invasive, but-" He swallowed hard, his hands hovering just above your hips, not quite touching. "Can I-"
"Yes," you said, pulling him closer. "Ryland, yes."
His hands finally made contact, sliding around your waist, spanning the curve of your hips. His palms were warm, slightly rough, and they left trails of fire in their wake as they traveled upward, tracing the sides of your ribs, the underside of your breasts. He was looking at you like you were the answer to every question he'd ever asked.
You reached up, your fingers gently removing his glasses and folding them carefully, setting them on the small shelf beside the bunk before tangling your fingers in his hair and pulling his mouth down to yours.
The kiss was deeper now, hungrier. His tongue slid against yours, and you tasted the desperation there, the months of suppressed longing finally unleashed. His hands grew bolder, cupping your breasts, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. You gasped against his mouth, arching into his touch, and he made a low, rough sound in response.
"Bed," he managed, his voice wrecked.
"We should - the bed is right there-"
You nodded, letting him guide you backward until your knees hit the edge of the narrow bunk. You sat down on the thin mattress, looking up at him as he stood over you, chest heaving, his pupils blown wide.
"You're wearing too many clothes," you observed.
A shaky laugh escaped him. "Working on it."
He reached for the zipper or his jumpsuit, pulling it down with a steady hand that belied his nervousness. The fabric parted, and he shrugged it off his shoulders, letting it fall to the floor. Underneath, he wore a black t-shirt-and across the front, in block letters, it read:
I had potential.
You burst out laughing. "You wore that. Under your uniform. On a mission to save humanity."
His cheeks flushed crimson, but he was grinning. "It was a gift from my students. It's lucky."
"It's terrible."
"And yet," he said, tugging the hem of the shirt, "you're smiling."
He pulled the t-shirt over his head, and the laughter died in your throat.
Because beneath the nerdy exterior, Ryland Grace was jacked.
There was no other word for it. His chest was broad and sculpted, pectorals so defined they looked carved from stone. His shoulders were massive, capped with muscle. His arms were thick, biceps straining against nothing, veins tracing along his forearms.
His abdominal muscles were a ridged, symmetrical washboard, the kind you saw on fitness magazines, not on microbiologists. And trailing down from his navel was a dark line of hair that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers, drawing your gaze exactly where he clearly wanted it to go.
You stared. You couldn't help it.
He caught you looking and his flush deepened, but something else flickered in his eyes. Confidence. Heat. He flexed slightly - unconsciously, or maybe not - and his pecs shifted.
"See something you like?" he asked, his voice lower now.
"You've been hiding that under a baggy jumpsuit for months?"
He shrugged, and the movement made his shoulders roll impressively. "Didn't seem professional to walk around shirtless."
You reached out, trailing a finger down the center of his chest, tracing the line between his pectorals, then down each ridge of his abs. He shivered under your touch, his breath catching.
"Definitely not professional," you murmured. "Definitely a problem."
"I can put the shirt back on-"
"Don't you dare."
He hooked his thumbs into the waistband of his boxers and pushed them down, stepping out of them with an awkward haste that made you smile. He was hard - clearly, obviously hard - and the sight of him, completely bare and utterly vulnerable in the dim blue light, sent a pulse of heat straight between your legs.
"Your turn," he said, his voice dropping into that lower register that made your stomach flip. He knelt in front of you, his hands finding the waistband of your underwear.
"Can I-"
"Yes. Please."
He tugged them down your legs, his knuckles brushing against your thighs, your knees, your calves. He paused when you were bare, his hands resting on your knees, his eyes fixed on the apex of your thighs. His breath came in short, uneven bursts.
"You have no idea," he whispered, "how many times I've thought about this. About you. About what you would sound like. What you would taste like."
"Then stop thinking," you said softly, reaching down to cup his face, tilting his chin up so his eyes met yours. "And find out."
He needed no further encouragement.
He leaned forward, his hands sliding up your thighs, parting them gently. You let your knees fall open, making space for him, and he settled between them with a quiet sigh of relief - like he'd finally found where he belonged.
His first kiss was pressed to the inside of your knee. Then higher, to your thigh. Then higher still, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, his breath hot and damp against you. You shivered, your fingers tangling in his hair, and he let out a low hum of approval.
"You're so responsive," he murmured against your skin. "I love that. I love that I can feel you react to every single thing I do."
His mouth found you - finally, finally - and your head fell back, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. His tongue was tentative at first, exploratory, the same careful, methodical attention he gave to every experiment. But he learned fast. He always did.
He learned exactly how much pressure to apply, exactly where to focus, exactly when to circle his tongue and when to suck gently. He learned the sounds you made - the little whimpers, the sharp intakes of breath, the way you moaned his name when he did something particularly devastating. And every time he discovered something that made you gasp, he did it again, and again, until you were trembling beneath him, your thighs shaking around his shoulders.
"Ryland," you breathed, tugging at his hair.
"Ryland, I'm close-"
He didn't stop. If anything, he doubled down, his hands gripping your hips, holding you steady as his tongue worked you through the rising tide of sensation. Your back arched off the mattress, a broken cry escaping your lips as the wave crashed over you, white-hot and overwhelming, your entire body shuddering through the release.
He stayed with you through it, gentling his touch as you came down, pressing soft kisses to your inner thighs, your hip bones, the curve of your stomach. When you finally opened your eyes, he was looking up at you with an expression of pure, unguarded wonder.
"That," he said, his voice rough and raw, "was the single most incredible thing I have ever experienced. And l've seen a supernova."
A breathless laugh escaped you. "You're ridiculous."
"I'm honest." He crawled up your body, bracing himself above you, his forearms planted on either side of your head. His hair was a disaster, his lips were slick, and his eyes were burning with a heat that made your heart stutter. "I want to be inside you," he said quietly, no stammer, no hesitation.
"Is that okay?"
You reached up, cupping his face in your hands, pulling him down so your foreheads touched. "Yes. Ryland, yes."
He reached down between your bodies, positioning himself at your entrance. You could feel him there - hot, hard, pressing against you - and the anticipation alone made your thighs clench around his hips.
"Tell me if I hurt you," he said. "Tell me if you want to stop."
"I want this." You reached up, cupping his face in your hands. "I want you, Ryland. Every overthinking, beautiful, brilliant inch of you. Now stop talking and fuck me."
The word hit him like a physical blow. His hips jerked against you, and a sound escaped him - half laugh, half moan - that vibrated through your chest.
"Yes ma'am," he breathed. He didn't push in immediately. Instead, he rocked against you, teasing, letting the friction build until you were arching up beneath him, nails digging into his shoulders.
"Ryland, please-"
He pushed inside you slowly - agonizingly slowly - inch by inch, his jaw clenched, a low groan vibrating through his chest. The stretch was exquisite, a fullness that made your eyes flutter shut and your nails dig into his shoulders.
"You're so tight," he breathed, his voice cracking. "God, you feel- I can't- fuck-"
"More," you demanded.
He gave you more. Another inch, then another, until he was buried to the hilt, his body pressed flush against yours. He stayed there for a moment, trembling, his face buried in the crook of your neck.
"You feel..." He couldn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.
You clenched around him experimentally, and he swore - a sharp, bitten-off curse that would have made his academic colleagues blush.
"Move," you whispered against his ear.
He did.
The first thrust was tentative, almost shy.
The second was deeper, harder. By the third, he had found a rhythm - slow and deep, each stroke dragging against that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes.
"That's it," you breathed, your legs tightening around his waist, pulling him deeper. "Right there. Don't stop."
He didn't stop.
His hips snapped against yours, the rhythm deepening, quickening, each thrust driving him impossibly farther inside you.
"Like that?" he gasped, his forehead pressed to yours, sweat-slick and trembling. "Is this- fuck- is this what you wanted?"
"Yes," you managed, your voice breaking on the word. Your hands clawed at his back, nails raking across his shoulder blades, and he groaned - a raw, guttural sound that seemed to come from somewhere deeper than his chest.
His hips never stopped moving, but the frantic edge softened into something deeper, more deliberate. He was making love to you now, not just fucking, and the shift made your chest ache.
"I'm not going to last," he admitted, his voice muffled against your skin. "You feel- God, you feel incredible- and l've been imagining this for so long, and I can't-" His voice broke, his hips stuttering as he fought for control. His forehead pressed hard against yours, eyes squeezed shut, every muscle in his body pulled taut like a wire about to snap.
"Don't stop," you commanded, your voice breathless but firm. Your legs locked tighter around his waist, heels digging into the small of his back. "I'm close too. Don't you dare stop."
His eyes flew open. "You're-"
"Yes. So close. Please, Ryland-"
Something shifted in his expression. The desperate scramble for his own release transformed into fierce, focused determination. He wanted this for you.
Needed it.
"Okay," he breathed, adjusting his angle.
"Okay, tell me what you need."
"Harder. Right there-"
He obeyed. His hips snapped against yours with renewed purpose, each thrust deliberate, aimed, hitting that spot inside you that made stars burst behind your eyes. His breathing turned ragged, his control clearly fraying, but he held on. For you.
"That's it," you gasped, your nails raking down his back. "Don't stop, don't stop, don't-"
The pressure inside you coiled tighter and tighter, a spring winding toward its breaking point. He was trembling above you, sweat dripping from his temple, his jaw clenched so hard you could see the muscle jumping.
"I can feel you," he groaned, his voice wrecked. "I can feel you squeezing me- fuck, you're so close-"
And then his voice dropped. Lower. Darker.
That tone - the one that had started this whole thing back in the control room.
"Come for me," he murmured against your ear, his hips never slowing. "That's it. Be a good girl and come for me."
There.
The words hit you like a live wire. Your back arched off the mattress, a broken cry tearing from your throat as the orgasm crashed through you - white, hot and all-consuming, radiating from your core to your fingertips. Your inner walls clenched around him in pulsing waves, and the sensation of you coming undone around him, triggered by those two words, was the final thread holding his control together.
"God-" he choked out.
His hips snapped twice more, three times, and then he buried himself to the hilt and shattered. A raw, broken sound escaped him - half your name, half a sob-as he spilled inside you, his body shuddering through wave after wave of release. His forehead dropped to your shoulder, his entire weight pressing you into the thin mattress, and he gasped against your skin like a drowning man finally breaking the surface.
For a long moment, neither of you moved.
The ship hummed around you. The centrifuge spun. Somewhere in the engineering bay, an alien politely pretended not to have heard any of this.
Ryland's breathing slowly steadied. His heart hammered against your chest, wild and out of sync with your own. You could feel the dampness of sweat on his back, the fine tremor still running through his thighs.
"That was..." He lifted his head, looking down at you with glassy, adoring eyes. His hair was a disaster, his lips swollen. He looked utterly wrecked. And utterly happy.
"Clinical?" you offered, a teasing smile tugging at your lips.
He snorted, burying his face in the crook of your neck again. "If I ever use that word to describe this, you have my permission to space me."
You laughed softly, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his sweat-damp back.
"Noted."
He shifted, pulling out of you with a gentle slowness that made you both wince. The loss of him left you feeling strangely empty, but he didn't go far. He rolled onto his side, pulling you with him, rearranging your bodies until you were curled against his chest, your head tucked under his chin.
"We should probably clean up," he murmured, his hand stroking up and down your spine.
"Probably," you agreed, making no move to get up.
He was quiet for a moment, his thumb tracing the curve of your hip. Then, softly, almost hesitantly: "I meant what I said. About you being the center of my gravity. That wasn't- I wasn't just trying to be clever."
You tilted your head back, looking up at him. In the dim blue light, his face was open, vulnerable.
"I know," you said softly. "You're terrible at lying, Ryland. It's one of the things I like about you."
His lips twitched. "One of the things?"
"There are many things," you allowed. "We have a long flight to Tau Ceti. I'm sure I'II discover more."
He pulled you closer, pressing a kiss to the top of your head. "We have a few years," he said quietly. "Give or take."
"Plenty of time for research."
A laugh rumbled through his chest. "Is that what we're calling it now? Research?"
"Very rigorous research," you confirmed, your hand splaying across his heart. It was still beating fast, a steady thrum beneath your palm. "Peer-reviewed, even."
He propped himself on an elbow to look down at you, his nose brushing affectionately against yours. In the dim blue light, the earlier panic was completely gone, replaced by something steady, warm, and profoundly certain.
"Well, as a man of science," he whispered, a bright, hopelessly fond smile breaking across his face, "I'm going to need to replicate the results. Multiple times. Just to be absolutely sure the data is sound."
"Get some rest, Dr. Grace," you murmured against his lips. "We will still be here tomorrow."
He let out a soft, contented sigh, settling his weight back down beside you and wrapping his arms securely around your waist. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his breathing finally falling into a slow, even rhythm.
The ship hummed around you, the centrifuge spinning you both toward a star you might never reach. But as you laid there in the dark, surrounded by his warmth and the steady beat of his heart against yours, the vast, empty expanse of space didn't feel quite so lonely anymore.
oh, you're not...! â coltland x reader (separate) ft. coltland twins au
summary: your boyfriend has an identical twin, and while you can easily tell them apart by now, you've had your mix-up moments in the beginning.
.⌠ÝË colt seavers
as much as you try to stretch out your sleep, avoiding getting up up until the last minute, you somehow manage to get up earlier than ryland at times.
there are days where his schedule allows even the slightest flexibility, letting him get some much needed sleep, and while you're only slightly jealous of the sight of him curled up all cosy under the covers, you can't help feeling happy for him.
not bothering to cover your mouth when you yawn, you put some water in the kettle, setting out two thermoses you prepared last night on the counter before sluggishly making your way to the bathroom.
you might have taken some time going through your usual routine, sleepiness applying a speed decrease debuff to your movements, but it still comes as a surprise when you step back into the kitchen once you're fully dressed, only to see ryland's broad back hunched over the table, nursing a cup of coffee, the fox print of his signature cardigan across his back making your lips stretch in a smile.
he does get up earlier than needs to occasionally, just to see you off, which is the sweetest thing ever.
"morning, baby," you call, placing your bag by the doorway to pick it up on your way out, "i made you some turmeric tea," you pour the now boiling water in the kettle to the thermos containing said tea concoction, "i promise it tastes nowhere near as bad as you think it does! in fact it's really good for digestion, which you really need to supplement considering how inconsistently you eat. i'll have you know, i got colt's number and i will snitch on you if you keep skipping meals â and no, popping a handful of almonds in your mouth does not count as one."
a beat of silence passes, and you worry he might've fallen asleep on his cup of coffee. approaching him from behind, gently cupping his chin in your palm, you lift his face up so you can press a soft kiss on his cheek.
.... funny. did he forget to shave? his beard scratches your lips moreso than usual.
pulling back to ask, rather, tease him about it, you're met with the wide eyes of... not your boyfriend.
"oh my god!!" both your hands fly to your face to cover your mouth, the fact that you let go of your thermos not even registering, "colt?! i'm so sorryâ!!"
colt's hand juts out the moment you let go of the thermos, effortlessly grabbing it and putting it on the table without even breaking eye contact, a stupefied, silly grin on his face.
"all good," he wheezes, though it does nothing for the mortification swallowing you whole.
"i didn't realise you spent the nightâ" you spit the words out at light speed. you weren't even expecting him to be around, thinking he's left the night before.
colt nods with understanding, supplying; "you did go to sleep before we did..." though you don't even register the words, wildly gesturing around, and not even prostrating yourself feels good enough for an apology.
"the cardigan, i though you were rylandâ!!"
"all good, sweetheart," colt repeats, waves you off with a smile and a thumbs up, "i thought ry was behind you or something, didn't realise you were talkin' to me." then, shrugging, "then again, you thought you were talking to ry, and my back was turned while wearing his goofy fox cardigan, so." he pats your shoulder reassuringly, "not exactly how i envision starting my morning, but no harm done."
"stillâ"
"you're gonna be lateee," he drawls, chuckling at the situation still, "go. i'll make sure he gets the tea and drinks it." he places your thermos back in your hands, shooing you to the door. "call me any time he gives you trouble, especially regarding taking care of himself. he's been like that since his academia days, as if pushing the human limits of sleep deprivation and lack of proper nutrition itself was an academic accomplishment. i can hold him down while you feed him something proper."
"thanks," your murmur, hurriedly wearing your shoes, scrambling to get your bag, "thank you. sorry againâ"
"stop acting like you stabbed me half to death! t'was nothing, now shoo!"
patting down your pockets for your keys, you nod, giving him an awkward wave before setting off.
"..... hey, stuntman. why the fudge are you shooing my girlfriend out of our apartment?" ryland is leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, squinting at his twin, and not just from having been woken up from his peaceful sleep.
"gracie, ry, my bestest little bro! ok, so, funny thingâ"
.⌠ÝË ryland grace
waking up to an empty bed is nothing new when colt is in shooting season.
unfortunately, you senses aren't so keen as to tell apart the half-awake midnight kisses coming from a half-awake burst of affection from the good morning or have a good day kisses he places on your skin when he has to leave before your alarm is not even close to going off.
slamming your hand against his pillow, you're kind of mad his face is not here in the first place. fisting the memory foam like a stress ball, you pull it towards yourself, if only to get a whiff of his shampoo before it fades completely.
you should get up. rolling around in bed feels less meaningful when your limbs aren't tangled with his.
getting yourself a good, warm beverage should help lift your mood a little. you can even stare wistfully out of the window like a victorian woman waiting for her husband to return from the war while you take tiny sips.
one step into the kitchen, one step out. you lean back on your heels, stretching your head to get a better look at the figure standing in the middle of the room.
so you managed to catch colt before he left, after all! what's next, the tooth fairy being real? your somber mood instantly vanishes.
he's wearing one of his beaten, stretched out shirts, the colour dull from having been thrown in the wash haphazardly many times, regardless of whether it was a load of colours or not.
there's the silhouette of the massage device he uses for physical therapy under the shirt, moving the fabric ever so slightly while vibrating. the sight itself is nothing special, colt uses it all the time, but the way he takes care of himself even when you're not looking makes you happy in a way that you don't have to worry as much.
it's not like you can help it, though. he does look a bit smaller compared to what you're used to. is it for the new role? what kind of a character was ryder playing again? you can't really imagine that manchild put in any kind of effort to shape his body according to a role, since he's used to everything being catered to him instead.
colt takes the remote and stops the massager just as you draw near, hand reaching behind to remove it, though you're faster; and it's resting on the coffee table within seconds, finally allowing you to wrap your hands around his torso, burying your face in his neckâ
with a startled squawk, he flinches violently in your arms.
for a second, your heart lurches to your throat, thinking you've hurt him somehow.
"did i hurt you, honey?" grip loosening, you try to mask the devastated look before you lean forward, "are you okay?"
.... a pair of wire rim glasses sit crooked under his jaw.
"holy shitâ!!" the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them, "ohmigosh, ryland!! i'm so sorryâ"
said twin raises a hand to pacify you like you're some kind of pterodactyl as he doubles over with muted coughs, likely choking on his spit from the sudden inhale, and it works, funnily enough.
"'sskay," he chokes, and you can do nothing but purse your lips as you pat his back from a safe distance away, heat creeping up your face from embarrassment. "...gimme'inuteâ"
".... uh, does he need cpr or something?"
colt stands on the doorway, sweatpants loosely hanging on his waist, a damp compression shirt sticking to his skin.
... oh. he was probably doing his morning workout.
it's also funny how his first reaction seeing his brother choking is stand where he is and point at him. makes you wonder if this kind of thing happened a lot in their childhood for him to be so unbothered.
"nnoughâ" ryland protests, swatting at colt's direction sharply, face as red as yours probably from the lack of air, shaking with laughter.
"wanna fill me in on what's going on?" colt turns his attention to you, thoroughly entertained even without the context.
closing your eyes in surrender, you open your mouth to explain, though ryland beats you to it.
"i'm the favourite twin in all universes," he smirks, having pulled himself together enough to stand upright.
colt plays along, clutching his pearls, though ryland doesn't let you suffer long.
"i was trying your massager for my back, the one you said would help with the tension," he takes off his glasses which were barely hanging onto his face by a thread, and places them on top of his head instead. anywhere but his eyes, apparently. "she thought i was you and greeted me as such, that's all."
"that's such an amateur mistake, baby," colt coos, eyes crinkling with mirth, "were you so sleep deprived that you gave my brother good morning privileges before me?"
"i just hugged him!!" you whine, crossing your arms, "i was even worried your back was acting up, or you lost weight because of ryder or somethingâ"
colt is quick to take on the opportunity and point an accusatory finger at his brother, "hah, scrawny!"
"not all of us jump off of buildings for a living. get off my back, stunt guy."
âYou look nice,â Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
âI uh,â You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.Â
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.Â
Eat take out once a week, maximum. Read one book a month, minimum. Sleep more. Stop turning down social invites
The last one is what leaves you particularly perturbed, as your lunch goes lukewarm and your thumb flicks about on the social media profile.
âI just⌠I canât say no.â You lament. âIt would be weird.â
âWeirder than going?â Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. Itâs also leftovers, but slices of impeccably cooked roast with what looks to be red wine sauce and vegetables- no doubt made by her smokeshow of a house husband (he just works from home, she insists. Youâre pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man âworks from homeâ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
âI donât know. Maybe.â You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.Â
âWhatâs weird?â Ryland asks, sitting down in the chair across from you.
The staff room of E-Block is near abandoned. Of the ten-odd teachers with rooms in the little block of aging brick, most tended to eat in their classrooms. Save for you, Margot and Ryland. Occasionally there will be another visitor, but most days, it is just the three of you.Â
âWedding.â Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. Sheâs older, somewhere in her early fifties, and still manages to approach the job with the same level of discipline as before ipads made their invasion into the classroom.Â
Ryland frowns. âYouâre already married.â
Heâs⌠well, Ryland's⌠actually youâre not sure how to put him into words, which is saying a lot considering the literature degree collecting mildew in the filing cabinet of your apartment.Â
Heâs in the same boat as you in terms of finding yourselves with a teaching career. Studied something else first, got your passion and love for it soured by morons and went back to college for a second round, dishing out more cash for a masters in teaching that has you trying to tame fourteen year olds all day. Delightful, truly. Although, Ryland had certainly lasted a lot longer with that first degree than you had. A doctorate. He hates the kids knowing that though. A handful of them had called him âDoctor Graceâ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.Â
âMr Graceâ as he is now known, is awkward. A little socially inept at times, but not enough to come across as anything other than endearing. Now is one such time, as he looks over the frames of his glasses at Margo, the stack of pop quizzes heâd brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.Â
âMm mm.â She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
âYouâre not getting married.â Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like itâs a scientific fact, one heâs so assured of.Â
âThanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.â You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.Â
His gaze flickers, a little less sure as the corner of his lips fall and, like he had with Margot, settles his eyes on your hands. Your lack of a ring. âYou arenât, are you?â
âNo. My ex is, though.â You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.Â
âOh. That sucks.â He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. âHappens to the best of us.â
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like itâs happened to him. Rylandâs not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margotâs. Heâs never mentioned past romances, you donât think heâs been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. Itâs such a bizarre glimpse at his life, that he doesn't even seem to register what he's revealed, marking as he waits for the boiling water to cook another lunch of instant ramen.Â
You sit up a little straighter in your chair, weary of knocking your shoes against where his long legs sprawl under the small table. The staff room is meant for ten but is cramped even with the three of you, nothing more than a little kitchenette and big whiteboard in the corner. Thereâs a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. Thereâs a long window the length of the wall on the doorâs other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, itâs why they opt to eat in their classrooms, not keen on the kids' eyes on them when it is supposed to be one of the fleeting breaks during their day.
Thank god the door is closed- if the kids heard you whining about this, a wedding, theyâd never let up. âIâm considering the pros and cons of skipping it.â
âYou were invited?â He baulks, dropping his pen.
You try not to smile, focusing on your self pity instead of the three shoddy attempts Ryland takes to catch his pen from dropping out of his hand, rolling off the stack of paper then off the table. âI already said Iâd go too.â
âWhy?â Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time youâd caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.Â
âItâs complicated.â You say, biting at your cheek.Â
âBullshit.â Margot aptly calls. Looking over with the same expression she used to call students on their bullshit. You're not a big fan of having it directed at you.Â
âWe went out for maybe two months in college.â You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. âHeâs engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. Weâre⌠friends.â
Margot watches. âWith your ex or the sorority girl?â
âSorority girl. Daisy.â That's the better option of the two at least. You think it is, not that there is much left to save you from the impending train wreck of discussing the relationship woes of your late teens and early twenties with the only two coworkers who care to eat lunch in a communal space. The company is nice, Ryalnd had said once, when youâd asked, gets me out of the classroom.Â
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.Â
âYou were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.Â
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. âI⌠Yeah? Thatâs the interesting part?â
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where theyâre slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. âNo, I just canât picture it.â
You purse your lips, consider pulling up some photos from your sorority days, then remember the kind of outfits the lot of you wore and think better of it. âWell Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. Sheâs nice. Works in PR now.â
âBut sheâs marrying your ex?â Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.Â
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. âI mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think itâs a little weird. I donât even know why I said Iâd go. Itâs going to be embarrassing.â
Margot tuts twice, done with her lovingly made lunch that symbolises how successful she has been in the department of marriage when you have all but failed so far. âWhy is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.â
âI was a little head over heels for this guy.â You admit, sheepish.Â
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. âYeah? How so?â
His back is to you, as he peels the lid off his cup ramen and wrestles with the flavour packet. You come to the conclusion itâs easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. âI was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.â
âHot?â Margot asks, always straightforward.
You feel a blush rise on your cheeks as you remember the early days of your sorority experience, flopped back on the bed as you made little love sick sighs at your ceiling. âGod, his jawline. And his hair- it was so⌠ugh!âÂ
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. âI donât even know why I said Iâd go. Itâs dumb.â
You hate how you sound- petulant like the kids you prod for not searching for better words in their assignments, moping like your world is ending over something so trivial. Itâs not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. Youâd agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that youâd have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.Â
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVPâd for yourself in the first place. Itâs one thing to watch your college friend and ex-sort-of-boyfriend exchange vows alone, and a whole other monster to do it with a pointed empty seat beside you.Â
All of it tumbles out your lips in a hurried hurl of word vomit, followed by a few moments of silence that has you cautiously raising your head to peek over the wall of your forearms. Ryland is staring at you, cup noodles steaming in his hands where it hovers over the sink, like heâd been about to pour out the excess water. Margot is looking at you with a frown, the same one she wears when teaching senior mathematics and the children have drawn up an equation for her to solve with the foolish belief they could stump her for more than ten seconds.Â
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. âThen find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.â
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, âAre you trying to pimp your husband out to me?â
âOnly for aesthetic reasons, of course. Itâd be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.â
It would sting more if it wasnât so true. There were very few options and with the wedding only two weeks away, that was certainly not enough time to squeeze in enough dates with someone to justify taking them to a damn wedding.Â
âI mean, how good is his jawline?â Ryland finally says, walking over with his little cutlery box, plastic chopsticks he washes and reuses almost everyday, to set his lunch down on the table and settle back in across from you. âAre we aiming high?â
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that theyâve both decided to put their two cents in. You concede with another sigh and reach for your phone, arms and chin still on the table as you fish about Instagram for a photo. Itâs the one that had reminded you of this awful upcoming event, posted by Daisy. You all but toss your phone on the table between your coworkers, sinking a little lower into your folded arms, awaiting judgement.Â
The photos must be from a walk though of the venue, the pair of them posed together between some old marble arch where they were having the ceremony at. She was laughing, hand on his chest, showing off the ring on her finger while he looked at her, besotted. The caption made it worse. Only two weeks left till I get to marry my man on these very steps.
You like them both, you really do, but the thought of showing up by yourself, as the lonely friend whoâd never found âitâ, your own version of the love they were celebrating, well it was just nauseating.
Margot looks the photo over critically before humming in a sort of so-so tone. âYou can do better.â
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. âThis is your type?â
As if to emphasise the point, he lifts the phone up and turns it around to show you the image you were already being haunted by. âThis is the hair that had you allâŚâ
He doesn't find the words, just waves the hand with his chopsticks around in a messy motion, looks at you critically over the rims of his glasses.
âHe slicks it back now. It used to be⌠I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.â He scoffs a little to himself, dissatisfied maybe with your excuse.
The only forgiving factor is that the photo does highlight the sharp cut of his jaw, which even Ryland concedes to. âHe does have a good jawline...â
Yours is better, you want to say. Immediate and impulsive, because it kind of is. Especially when the shadow of his stubble stretches a few extra days between shaves. Your ex is clean shaven- you used to think that was sexy, at least sexier than the patchy beards boys in college had back then. Now youâre kind of obsessed with the so-called â5-oâclock shadowâ Ryland sports on Fridays.Â
Itâs not something youâre likely to tell him though, especially not when you glance at the clock and realise you have a duty across campus in three minutes. Saved by the bell maybe, either way youâre able to liberate your phone from the pair of them and their conspiratory whispers, bin the scraps of your lunch and haul ass out of there.Â
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of âprofessional developmentâ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly youâre devastated about it all.Â
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bellâs long gone, as are the students. Heâs dressed like heâs on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. Youâre halfway through explaining your plan and the wording youâre going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.Â
âIâll go with you.â
Heâs a little breathless with it, like heâd been saving up all his oxygen to get the words out, leaving him in one big rush as they topple though the doorway of your classroom and splatter onto the linoleum floor between you both.Â
âI know that Iâm not Margotâs husband with a âbetter jawline and better hairâ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If heâs a lawyer itâs gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you donât have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.â Rylandâs big speech is as flawed as it is heartwarming
Because he does have a better jawline and better hair. And Margot looks between you both during lunch hours and staff meetings like youâre her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.Â
But the wedding food will be good, your ex will shill out for the best and Daisy has always had a taste for the finer things in life. Ryland is the best company you can think of to have by your side and he knows you well enough to understand how guilty lying about something makes you feel, how it churns your gut.Â
âYeah. Okay.â You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.Â
His eyes donât move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. âYeah?â
âYeah.â
It isnât a hard thought to come around to, taking Ryland to a wedding. As a date is something that goes unsaid between the pair of you, not sure whether it could be classed as such for real, or if this is simply a favour between friends-slash-coworkers. It is certainly a date for show, to the many college friends youâre about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack whoâs obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who youâd told years ago to âgo for it, heâs a nice guyâ working under the assumption that sheâd only last a few months by his side too.Â
Youâre not sure which answer youâd prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.Â
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what youâre going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. Itâs sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.Â
âOkay, Iâll show you. Wait, hold on.â You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.Â
âItâs a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.â Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.Â
âHa ha.â You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.Â
Heâs up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what youâre wearing too so he can match. The inviteâs dress code called for formal attire in âdark coloursâ. On the facebook page sheâd made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how sheâd love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering thereâs some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated youâd slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.Â
So navy it was.Â
Youâd sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out âwoeâ- it had felt fitting when youâd stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasnât satisfied though.Â
Even your attempts to describe the dress youâd bought didnât work well enough.
âI mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from âfloor length' means?â he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. âI need all the data.â
âOh listen to you, Mr. Science,â You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. Itâs too long to hang from a door knob so you have to stretch up on your tip toes to hang the coat hook over the curtain rod of your bedroom window.Â
âI was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, donât you think?â He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.Â
Rylandâs dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on âCasual Fridaysâ as it is called in staff meetings. This oneâs dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. Youâve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though itâs not in frame. I wear this shirt periodically. He finds an extra layer in humor that the shirt is factually correct as well, that he does in fact, wear the shirt in regular intervals as heâd explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.Â
Heâs at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. Youâve not actually been to Rylandâs apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.Â
Itâs just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but heâs stuck a desk there instead, his bed thatâs almost always unmade with a tv wall mounted across from it, and a balcony. Like this, you can see the expanse of it behind him. The stacks of paper piled up on his desk, the extra monitors and little trinkets gifted from students, the sage green sheets of his bed, peeled back on one side, sun shining in through his big glass balcony doors. Honesty, you kind of want to see the view from his apartment in person, heâs a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.Â
Rylandâs not brushed his hair, itâs all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug heâs been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though itâs just past ten. Heâs blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.Â
âIâm sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.â You can imagine it, the staff badge, the name on his board in fun bubble writing where it would stay untouched for a whole school term.Â
You flip the camera, showing him the dress heâs been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.Â
Itâs cute, how his head tilts and he leans towards his phone for a second before just picking it up and holding it close enough so his eyes and forehead are just about all that is in frame. âIs that velvet?â
âItâs fake satin. I think.â
âFake satin?â He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friendâs wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. Itâs got a fitted bodice, but there fabric is a little drapey, looks like it pools over the chest and down towards the fluid skirt. "Wasn't expensive enough to be real satin.â
âOkay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.â That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like theyâre about to break?, swearing that the shit he was googling was just not helping the mental image considering there were about six different results for everything. Â
âYeah, and here, the lace up back.â You say, stepping up to twist the dress away from where it sat flush against the curtains to show the corset style back, with thin cord lace just a little thinner than the straps.Â
âIsnât that going to be a nightmare to put on?â He asks, squinting still.
âThereâs a zip.â You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. âSo itâs fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.â
You fumble a little trying to get the zip back up but eventually just conceded to leave out like that until you put the dress away. When you glance down at your phone, Ryland has moved, no longer sitting down and if you had to guess, is now walking the length of his apartment instead. He looks a little distressed.Â
âCome on, youâve got the easy part.â You try, a little concerned heâs about to say he shouldnât go. âYou just have to put on a suit.â
âI canât just âput on a suitâ.â He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. âIâm supposed to be like, your big âfuck youâ to the girl who got with your ex. Iâm supposed to look good with you. I donât know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.â
âRyland. Itâs not about saying âfuck youâ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didnât want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.â You canât really help the little breathy laugh that weaves its way though his name, because he sounds like you did four days ago acting like the world was about to end, face down on the lunch table. âYou donât have to come.â
âNo, Iâm coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.â Heâs cute, you decide, in a round-about sort of way. The determination to play this self elected role well, to perfect it and give it his all, like he does with everything else in his life. The whole situation was elevating your âaesthetic appreciationâ of Ryland that youâd been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.Â
You flop down on your own bed, roll over on your side and let him derail the conversation towards lesson planning, listen to him talk about the plans he has for the next weeks worth of classes, a couple of activities heâs got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.Â
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When heâd first arrived, youâd assumed he would be a little pretentious, with his Phd and professional experience beyond the classroom. You weren't expecting him to be so awkward. The children took to him so quickly, and Ryland had told you time and time again that he doesn't understand why they think heâs cool.Â
Over the years youâve found that he can be cocky, in certain bouts of confidence seemingly appearing via divine-intervention. A local bar had run trivia nights for some six odd months, and it had unleashed a beast within him.
On Monday afternoon he sent you a photo. A little black bag with a logo youâd googled, realising it was a menswear store before the second photo had come though. A tie, sleek navy like your dress, rolled up neatly with a matching pocket square beside it, both nestled in a box that screamed expensive. Youâd sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, heâd left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shopâs online store offered, considering what would match best to your dress.
It makes you a little giddy, to be honest, has you dreaming of a situation where youâd asked him to come to the wedding, or where youâd already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.Â
Neither of you mention it during school hours, not keen on the kids hearing whispers of you and Ryland doing anything outside work hours- students will take anything and run with it.
But he messages you about it constantly. Makes a plan; heâd come to your apartment and you would uber from there to the venue, it was a sunset ceremony and evening reception. He lived close enough that it was a brisk walk or quick bus trip. He pointedly mentions that he would not be cycling- âIn a suit? God, neverâ- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and heâd walk home or take another separate uber.Â
Thereâs talk about your âbackstoryâ, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him itâs not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends youâd not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.Â
âWe obviously would have met at school.â He says, like itâs a given. Ryland is laid out on the reading rug at the back of your classroom, staring at the ceiling. And the fake clouds that are actually just a hobby-fill glue gunned to paper and taped to the ceiling, heâd turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before heâd decided the floor was his resting place. âMaybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.â
âWe did like trivia.â You agree, pointedly.Â
Itâs almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that youâre sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.Â
Heâs got a button down on, some pale blue that looks nice under his grey wool blazer. The pale wash jeans and white converse are a bit more casual, but he wears the combination well. Too well. Laid out like this, with one knee up, he looks far too attractive for you to swallow. Glasses pulled down to hang off his jaw, sitting there catching the afternoon light as it came through the windows, casting rainbow refractions onto the back wall.Â
âMaybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?â
âIf youâd asked me to trivia as a date?â You glance up. Heâs already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
âYeah.â You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.Â
Ryland sounds⌠nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night youâd gone to. Heâd been dressed similarly there, you remember thinking he looked nice, polished up a little more than he did in the school day with dress shoes and what smelt like cologne. Handsome where he waited by the entrance, backlit by the barâs warm lighting. Heâd been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.Â
With the way heâs looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario thatâs beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, youâre starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.Â
âEnjoyed it, probably.â
âReally?â He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.Â
You smile at him, thinking about how nice it would have been to kiss him in that bar with a sweet cocktail on your lips, dizzy from his flattery about your trivia skills. You hum, nodding a little as you look at the folders and sheets spread out over your desk, feeling a flush rise to your own cheeks.
He knocks when youâre halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Rylandâs not been to your apartment before, something youâd failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if youâd have to buzz him in.Â
He was appalled to find out the front door to your building was sporting a broken lock and had been tied back with a length of rope for the last two months while the landlords procrastinated fixing it.Â
âSee,â You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. âMy door locks.â
âStill one less lock that youâre supposed to have.â he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.Â
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.Â
âYou look nice,â he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.Â
âI uh,â You pause, swallowing thickly.Â
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. Itâs the only thought spinning around your head. Itâs a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie heâd sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than youâve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.Â
Suddenly youâre reminded of all those times heâd complained about all the formal conferences and charity galaâs heâd attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.Â
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when youâd asked. The watch on his wrist that you thought looked like some practical sporty thing but found out was actually worth three months rent when youâd googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when heâs in his classroom, or tiny apartment.Â
Dressed in such a nice suit, here in you apartment definitely wearing cologne- the same from that very first trivia night, something a little warm, woodsy like oaky bourbon, sharp and contrary to the fresh nothingness he smelt like at work- Ryland seemed so far beyond you.Â
âYou look good.â You manage, letting the door slip shut and dropping the lace of your dress, it loses its tension a little but stays in the same spot for the most part, to run a hand over the lapel of his blazer. âHow long have you had this?â
âAges. Dug it out of the back of my closet. A little tighter than when I last wore it, but it will do the trick. Right?â He tacks that last bit on, like heâs waiting with baited breath for your approval.Â
âIâll say.â You slide your hand down the lapel a little bit, down over the press of his chest. The tightness just shows the subtlety of his build, lean muscle that comes from idle exercise and good diet, maybe even a splash of genetics. Heâs tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure itâs the same length, no doubt. Ryalndâs still got his glasses on, you were a little worried he might have opted for contacts and are very relieved you get to see this outfit complete with the lenses that frame his face so well.Â
With a realisation you might be getting a little lost in your head, you drop your hand, turning to walk further into your apartment, towards the couch where your shoes for the night sat on the floor. âRight, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.â
âDo you need a hand?â Ryland asks, and youâre about to turn, ask him, âwith whatâ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, heâs cold. From the outside air, where as youâve been nice and cosy with the heat on while youâd done your hair and make up.Â
Goosebumps rise under his hands as they gather the ties for the back of your dress. Something low swoops in your gut, like the dip of a roller coaster, free falling as he chuckles a little behind you. âSorry, cold fingers.â
You swallow. âItâs.. itâs okay.â
âHow tight?â He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.Â
âBit tighter.â You manage, as he presses a flat palm against the small of your back, over the criss-crossing cord, and gathers both ties in one hand to pull slow and firm. It tugs you back into his hand, a steadier hold than youâd expected.Â
âThere?â He questions when the dress is pulled in to sit flush with your skin but not dig in. You get the feeling he might have done some research, when he plucks at each string to even them out and make sure none of them are too tight, on how these dresses are supposed to sit.Â
âYeah, perfect.â It leaves you like a sigh, as his palm dips, brushes where the zipper sits before pulling back to tie a neat bow, tugging the cords out carefully so both loops are even.Â
All of it has you lightheaded, directing more effort than necessary to get yourself to the couch and pull your heels on, black mary janes that are comfortable enough to walk in. As you fiddle with the buckles, you eye him.Â
Rylandâs hair is tousled, intentionally a little messy, not combed or slicked back. Looks like it would be nice to run your fingers though, and you find yourself wondering if thatâs why heâd opted for the style, if heâs here, dressed up as the guy with âbetter hair and a better jawlineâ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who heâs trying to be.Â
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. âWow, full gentleman experience.â
âI told you, I can't just âput on a suitâ. Itâs more than that.â He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didnât realise this was an option.Â
He opens the door for you- the car door, the door into the building door tied back by a rope (he glares at it when you pass it)- then rounds the back of the little toyota thatâs polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You donât talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.Â
Itâs nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road thatâs already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
âYou can just let us out here.â Ryland says to the uber driver, unbuckling his seatbelt to hop out, then rounding the car again to open your door, hand held out like itâs necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.Â
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since youâve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. Heâs got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. âI like these.â
He smiles, something a little smothered like heâs trying to stamp it down from a grin as he threads his arm though yours again, beginning the small walk to the venue's front steps. âWell I like your dress, so I think weâre even.â
Itâs a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, youâd seen some lovely shots on the venueâs website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, heâs always suited it, even if the cityâs never had much to offer.Â
âNot too much for our first date?â You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. âFirst date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.â
You flush, crowding a little closer to his side to make it through the entryway without shoulder checking anyone. Had you been? It was so long ago you could hardly remember anything other than jeans, tight ones that dug into your waist when you sat down- tight jeans hardly felt like being underdressed, they probably meant you wanted him to stare at your ass. Either way you let him have the win, as minute as it is.Â
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when youâve got him like this now.Â
Together you sit about halfway down on the brideâs side, the pewâs nearly empty, only someone on the other end you donât know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's youâd guess extended family.Â
âSo whyâd you like this guy so much?â Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. Heâs glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where heâs talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.Â
âWhat?â
âHim,â Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. âWhat had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.â
âThey do.â You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where itâs dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Rylandâs eyes settle on you, like thereâs nothing else to look at. âHe made me feel like the only girl in the world.â
âThatâs a cliche.â He refutes. âAnd a song lyric.â
You smile. âIâm serious. Heâs like that with every girl he went out with. Heâs like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.â
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, itâs almost as if heâs scared what he might find. âWhat'd he do? To make you feel like that?â
Itâs cute, how nervous he is, despite the fact it feels as though all week, the pair of you have been laying this ground work, a path to follow that will lead you somewhere inevitable, like a trivia date, or the messy sprawled sage green sheets or Rylandâs bed. You smile at him, wondering if heâs thought about you in them. You wonder if he knows how easily you could be, that you might just follow him to the edge of the universe.Â
Still, you answer his question, offering a peek into your brain, the way you used to operate when teenage giddiness was closer than adult yearning. "Took me dancing. Kissed me slowly, cared about how I wanted things to go. It was like he just couldnât stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.â
âI canât.â Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and heâs looking at you like youâve already kissed him breathless just by being here. You let your leg shift to press the length of your thigh against his, warm even through the layers of fabric.Â
You breathe in deep through your nose, the scent of his cologne sticking dizzyingly to the air, a scent you think is enough to get drunk on even without the assistance of wedding champagne. "Can't what?â
âStop looking at you.â He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. âI can do the other things though.â
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. âYeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?â
âIf itâs with you.â He amends.Â
âAnd slow kissing? You like that too?â
âYeah I do.â Heâs not even trying to hide it now, gaze settled on the dusty pink line of your lips, his own a little slick with spit when he darts his tongue out to trace one quick line along them.Â
You almost asked him to prove it, but in your peripherals, down the aisle and pausing at the sight of you, was Macey, another one of your college friends, smiling. So you place a hand on Ryland's thigh, just above his knee. âGood. Really good.â
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like itâs all rushed straight to his head.Â
âHey Macey, good to see you.â You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.Â
âOh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasnât it?â She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and itâs good to see someone after so long, to look at them and remember times when things were simpler and you were allowed to be a little stupid, a little dangerous. Itâs nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Maceyâs always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Rylandâs been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.Â
âIâm Macey, nice to meet you.â She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.Â
Thereâs a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a âcoming soon to a theatre near youâ caption under it.Â
âI suppose it will be your wedding next then,â You tease, âWhereâs Jamie?â
âOh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.â Macey waves off. Her and her fiance met on some film set, both camera operators, at the time, although you faintly recall reading something about Jamieâs name working its way up to director for some upcoming project, amongst the throws of social media posts from people who once knew everything about you and now you only see once every few years.Â
âSo Ryland,â Macey starts with a glimmer in her eyes, something evil and mischievous that throws you back to seeing her in the living room with a bottle of tequila and monopoly board. âHowâd you two meet?â
âWe teach at the same school,â He grins, a hand sliding to your knee, just along the inside of it, where your dress fabric hangs low with slack, enough for his palm to press there, thumb drawing slow lines back and forth. âA little cliche but I donât mind.â
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like thatâs just soooo romantic. âWhat do you teach?â
âScience, opposites attract I guess.â
âPlease tell me you used that line.â She practically swoons.Â
Ryland huffs a little laugh. âNo, the kids threw that one at me actually.â
âReally?â You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory heâd been cooking up all week.
âOh yeah. You should hear them. âMr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. Theyâre relentless, I swear.â
He pitches his voice a little, lazy tones and improper grammar leaking out in the way it did when he did impressions of your students and you canât help but giggle a little.Â
âTheir heads might explode when they find out.â Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. âGod- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.âÂ
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. âOh my god, I forgot about that.â
âProfessors of yours?â Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
âYeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!â Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.Â
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. âA car wash fundraiser?âÂ
Macey smirks, always too good at picking things up from others' words and you kind of want to stomp your heel over her toes to tell her off before you remember how this evening had been going so far. âOh? Donât you know? We were a little wild in college.â
You scoff. âA little?â
âOkay, a lot.â She corrects. âThe car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. Thereâs definitely pictures. I have pictures.â
âMacey.â You scold, mostly joking.Â
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. âHey- Iâm just reminiscing on good times. Donât you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-â
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesnât do anything but laugh to herself.Â
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like heâs on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?â
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Rylandâs chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. âTell you about it later, handsome.â
He ducks his head a little close to you, a tiny little movement that stops as soon as it starts. His cheeks are the reddest youâd ever seen, looking a lot like heâs about to kiss you now, when thereâs a music cue somewhere further up the aisle and a hush falls over everyone. He doesn't look away at first, eyes glued to yours for a long second before he bites his lower lip, to stop himself saying something and reaches a hand up to lace his fingers together with yours over his chest. He pulls it gently to his lap, smothering it in between his warm palms, fiddling with your fingers as the ceremony starts.Â
Itâs beautiful, truly. The light lowered through the stained glass windows, reflecting and casting colour across the whole room, gentle music and teary vows. Picturesque really, and it reminded you of that time youâd all made âvision boardsâ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life sheâd like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. Youâre happy sheâs finally arrived there, that she has a man whoâs willing to give her everything sheâd dreamed of.Â
You tell her as much, when you catch the pair of them in the reception hall. A warm hug for each of them and a firm hand shake between Jack and Ryland. Itâs a lot less daunting than you had thought it would be, seeing them with the knot tied, no bad blood lingering or awkwardness about what once was. Just contentedness, with where your lives had led you each.Â
The food is good and the atmosphere is better, seeing people from a previous life chapter all reunited, laughing and catching up. The reception is held in a ball room, with gorgeous polished hard wood floors and lovely low lighting that hangs from the ceiling in delicate chandeliers. Thereâs a classical band, a memento board for people to take polaroids and write well wishes on them, a corner with photos from Both Daisy and Jackâs lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of itâs beautiful.Â
Itâs heading into the later part of the night, when some people have excused themselves and cake has been cut, a hefty supply of the champagne depleted, that a nice slow song comes on.
You arenât really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. âCare to dance?â
Something warm spreads over your face, a flush probably, as you lay a hand in his and he ever so gently pulls you to your feet, right in close to him. He leans down again, lips pressing feather-light to your temple before he leads you towards the dance floor.Â
Itâs littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.Â
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Rylandâs shoulder as his palm slides around your waist, fingers slowing around the lace up back of your dress, pressing into your skin with gentle intent. Heâs warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. âI know this isnât the kind of dancing you meant, but itâs the best I can do for now.â
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you werenât even aware he knew. âI think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.â
Rylandâs lips tick up into a smile. âYeah?â
He looks as good in the warm lamp light as he does in sunlight, kissing across his tanned skin and stubble, showing off the highlights of his hair. You want to run your hands through it, press a kiss to the scruff of his jaw. You settle on talking instead, worried heâs not one for such public displays of affection. âLeft my wild nights behind in college.â
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. âA shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.â
You purse your lips, lifting the hand from his shoulder to cup his jaw, tilting his head back up a little, the pad of your thumb pressing his glasses back up to where they're supposed to sit. âMight do a private showing. Just for you.â
âYou going to wash my car?â He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.Â
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, âYou donât have a car.â
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly werenât speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. âGuess weâll have to go with the kissing booth then.â
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where heâs smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. âOh, what a shame.â
The drawl has him crack a grin, cheeks flushed as he looks away. Fingers dancing slowly along the skin of your back, between the cords heâd tied up so perfectly for you.Â
For you, all of it. His nice suit heâd dug out from the back of his closet, the smart shoes nudging against yours with every step of the waltz. Ryland would do a lot for you, the realisation comes a little late, considering everything. You lean forwards a little, resting your cheek on his chest, as the song slows right down, indulgent.Â
âYou got plans after this?â You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once itâs left your lips.Â
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Rylandâs voice. âThought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?â
âThink I can manage it,â You murmur, listening to the final few chords echo about the ball room, basking in the way his voice had rippled and rumbled through his chest, low against your cheek.
He lingers for a few seconds in the quiet, holding you close against his chest. You wonder if he, too, is basking in it. The closeness, the idea of having something that youâve both been pretending couldnât happen, wasnât there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.Â
When he pulls back, there is nothing but adoration in his eyes, hand that holds yours falling low, but not releasing it, palm soft against your waist, almost as if he doesn't want to let you go just yet. âWanna get out of here?â
âBit forward, Ryland,â You tease, âweâve not even taken photos yet.â
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before heâs pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.Â
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, thereâs a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.Â
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while youâre grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.Â
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as youâre preparing to smile, something a little sweet and knowing, he gets one hand around the small of your back, knocks one of those very smart shoes against your heel and tilts you into a dip. It leaves you a little breathless, as he smiles, nose almost touching yours, shutter flashing off to the side.Â
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. âWhichever one you donât put up there, Iâm keeping.â
You look a little silly in both, at least you think as much, caught off guard, and laughing a little out of breath. Ryland insists you look amazing in both. Something a bit selfish pulls at your gut, as you apprise both photos, and eventually, hand the one of you and Ryland to him- liking the idea of getting to see it again, of having a physical reminder of the night you two have spent together.Â
He grins like heâs won something, pulling his wallet out from his jacket pocket- a crisp brown leather that looks worn but well cared for- and to your mortification, tucks the photo into the clear slot. The one most people put their licences, or photos of loved ones, like heart-shaped lockets back in the old days. Ryland says nothing on the matter and he folds his wallet back up and slides it back into his pocket, waiting for you to write your message on the other polaroidâs back.Â
You scrawl some comment about happy endings and humble crazy beginnings, Signing your name on the bottom under the image of your laughter, and tack it up on the board next to the one Maceyâs left.Â
Rylandâs got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.Â
You manage to catch Daisy by the bar on your way out, and give her a tight hug, telling her again how beautiful the wedding has been, how happy you were for her.Â
The night air is crisp and the second youâre outside, waiting for the uber thatâs just a few minutes away, Ryland strips off his suit jacket, draping it over your shoulders with a lack of hesitation that makes it seems as if heâs been waiting to do it all night.Â
You look at him and raise a brow, but donât say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. Itâs almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.Â
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that youâre not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalndâs phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the tripâs destination.Â
âPresumptious.â You smile.
He grins back, lets a warm palm wander to the curve of your knee, fingers curling around it then venturing to settle a little higher around your thigh. âHow are you going to wash my car if we donât go to my place?â
âYou donât have a car.â You repeat, curious where all this teasing confidence has come from, if perhaps your very clear signals have finally given Ryland the means to throw out all of that unnecessary nervousness and doubt.Â
âRight,â He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say âdrat, there goes that planâ. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, âWhat was the back up plan again?â
âYou are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.â
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. âMore so when I know I'm right.â
âAnd what, pray tell, are you right about?â
âThat you like-like me.â He teases, like a child on the playground and if you were a little less level-headed, you might have kissed him right there, leant across the middle seat to lock lips with him in an uber.Â
But you donât want the first time you kiss him to be viewed through a rear view mirror by a driver who looks very unimpressed by the conversation happening in the back seat. âYou gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?â
âThatâs very forwards of you.â He teases, head tipping down like he is going to kiss you.
Expect you turn your head, and his lips brush against your cheek, as you tut. âAll scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.â
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. âYouâve been seeing other scientists? Iâm heartbroken.â
âGive yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.â
âEarsdropping, huh? Didnât think you were the type.â He looks far too pleased by the idea that youâve listened to him teach, like he doesn't know that when you come for something during class hours that you linger by the door and wait for him to finish whatever heâs saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
âIâll Tell you exactly what type I am in,â You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. âfour minutes.â
He nods and you wonder if heâd get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. Itâs something you want to save for later, you decide, for private. Just for you.
Ryland manages to wait, even keep his hands to himself, once youâre both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldnât return once broken. You stand across from each other in the elevator. With both his hands braced on the bar at hip height, Ryland fixes you with a look that echoes in the space, though the mirrors surrounding you and over the idle hum of machinery. Youâre still wearing his jacket, over your shoulders, a slight barrier between the handrail and the curve of your back, as you stand with your arms crossed smiling at him.Â
The giddiness that bubbles up and about inside you, as you huddle in close behind him through the hallway, as he unlocks his door and lets you squeeze in past him, is something youâve not felt in a long time. Thereâs not much room for childish excitement in the modern dating landscape, it feels as though everyone is in a rush, trying to get where they want to be with a relationship before itâs too late.Â
Ryland though, heâs here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.Â
âSoooo,â He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like heâs suddenly nervous.Â
âSo?â You ask, taking a few steps forwards to run your hand down the plane of his chest again, feeling it under your palm just like you did when heâd turned up at your apartment that afternoon.Â
âItâs been four minutes.â He swallows, and this close you can see how his adams apple bobs. Your other hand reaches up to scratch feather light against the stubble of his jaw, hand on his chest catching on the silky soft fabric of his tie, the one heâd picked out just for you.Â
Rylands hands are slow, one moves to the dip of your waist, landing where it had during your waltz, if not a little more firm as it presses you close against him. He catches his jacket by the collar, lets it slide back off your shoulders and hang from his grip as it slides to settle on the curve of your hip.
âIt has.â You lick your lips.Â
Tuggin on his tie was not supposed to be a demanding thing, more so a gentle tease like you have been doing all night, stepping around that first move like it was a pitfall trap youâd never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.Â
Soft and still a little honeyed by the champagne, he moves slowly against you. He takes one step back, then another, pulling you with him and not letting his lips leave yours as he backs himself up against his apartment door.Â
Your teeth catch on his bottom lip, and a sharp inhale escapes him, almost a gasp, before he melts into the wood at his back, parting his lips and slipping his tongue up against yours.Â
Itâs slow kissing, itâs dizzying and itâs want. Everything heâd promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.Â
For what could be hours, you stay there, pressed up against him, kissing at his skin, until he shifts his legs, just slightly, enough to press one somewhere between yours, a soft presence halted by the fabric of your dress.Â
Breathless, you break the kiss and he lays a sweet peck against your temple, an echo of earlier, before he begins to nose at the line of your jaw, your neck. Kissing then sucking at the divot along your collar while you pant. âRyland,â
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.Â
âIs your doorway where you take all the girls?â
âThere are no other girls.â He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than youâd been prepared for.Â
âJust me?â
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. âYeah.â
Ryland leans forwards, crowds impossibly close until your feet begin to shuffle, back, back, back into his studio apartment. It passes in a blur as he presses in to kiss your lips again, glued to them until he deems itâs been enough backwards paces and presses another kiss to your jaw. Using his grip on your sides, Ryland turns you around, folds in around behind you.Â
His bedâs unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight youâve dreamed about far too many times.
Thereâs pressure there, against your ass, a hard length thatâs tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know heâs so turned on by the slow kissing youâd been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow heâd tied himself. âBeen thinking about this for too long.â
âYeah?â You shudder when his lips find their place against your neck, sucking and biting at the skin there in a way that will probably result in a lasting reminder. âSince you laced it up?â
âSince you showed me this zipper." He pulls at it and the fabric gives, parting to sit low on your hips. Ryland kisses at the juncture of your throat, biting, and nipping.Â
The dress doesnât fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but itâs a damn near thing. One of Rylandâs hands winds around your waist, dragging you back against him as he presses up with one slow grind that has him choking on a groan. His cock, still trapped in his slacks, drags between the zip and against your underwear in a tease thatâs maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.Â
You try to turn but heâs got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that itâs not plausible, so instead you reach a hand back, over your shoulder to tug at the knot of his tie, fingers slipping against the silky marital, catching in the bulk to it to tug. A particularly hard tug has him whining.Â
âOkay,â You huff out as he sucks a little harder just under your jaw that will definitely result in a hickey if you let him continue for much longer. âCome on, donât you wanna fuck me?â
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.Â
âNeed to remember this bit.â He mumbles, hand around your waist retreating to slip inside your dress from behind, curving back around so his fingers can skate over the soft skin of your stomach, tips slipping just under the waistband of your panties.Â
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet youâre beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.Â
âNext time, Ry-â He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. âRyland, come on. Need you.â
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and itâs like youâve said the magic words. Heâs turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.Â
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Rylandâs hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.Â
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so youâd gone without. You had assumed that heâd figured that one out, given how heâd both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that itâs out of the way, heâs looking at your chest like he hadnât expected to see it so quickly.Â
âYou mean it?â He manages, sounding all tongue tied as you pry the tie off, letting it fall onto the floor, blending into the puddle of your dress- a perfect shade match. âI.. I get a next time?â
âYeah.â You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. âAs many as you want.â
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Rylandâs hands move from where theyâve been gently nudging your breasts, to your wrists, snagging them gently as he pulls them back. His shoes nudged against yours, another one of those silent signals to step back that you didnât know you understood so well until tonight.Â
âLet me.â He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.Â
You land softly, mattress springing underneath you as you shuffle back, leaning on your elbows to gaze up at him as he toes off his shoes and pulls off his socks, a little off balance like the whole path from the door has altered his centre of gravity.Â
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.Â
His hairâs spiked out in six different directions, and you want to scratch at his scalp and pull at the strands all over again. He slides his glasses down his nose and sets them on the nightstand. The skin of his chest is just as tanned as his arms, a wide expanse thatâs begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.Â
The belt buckle clinks softly in the empty air as he slips it open, unbuttoning his slacks before he shrugs the black dress shirt off. God, you want to bite his shoulders.Â
Your teeth clamp down on your tongue at the thought, kind of wishing the tie was in the picture so you could pull him down on top of you. Just when youâre about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.Â
His fingers are a little clumsy as they wrap around the heel of your left shoe, pulling it up onto his bent knee as he fumbles with the buckle. Heâs gentle with it, more careful than he was with his own shoes that are certainly worth more than your cheap pair, right shoe, then the left.
Still, it has your stomach tied up in knots to witness with just how much reverence heâs treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.Â
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. âAre you⌠Can I-â
Ryland cuts himself off and that same unwarranted nervousness from before takes over his face, fingers curling tightly around your ankle, as if to ground himself. You smile at him, something that feels a little too giddy and a little too much like your 20 year-old self from college, fumbling and laughing your way to bed. âWhat is it Ry? Youâve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.â
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. âIf you say so.â
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle thatâs still gripped tightly in his palm, off his propped leg as he drops it to kneel, and hooks it over his shoulder. Ryland kisses a path up your calf and along the inside of your leg and with an overwhelming flood of realisation, you fall back against the bed, bracing for the moment where he presses a soft kiss on your clit, through the fabric of your underwear.Â
Despite his earlier hesitance, Ryland does not dilly-dally. Once he hears your shuddering breath that sounds more like a moan than anything else, he hooks a thumb though the crotch of your panties, pulls them to the side and presses another slow kiss against you.Â
Itâs maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like itâs the best thing heâs ever tasted. Heâs been teasing you long enough that when he presses two fingers along your folds, teasing the resistance of it, they sink in easily. He hooks them up, pressing up against the spongy wall and pulls another moan from your lips.Â
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but itâs got you dizzy, clenching around his fingers as he strokes them inside you, languid and slow as he lays gentle kisses over your clit. His stubble scratches against your thighs in a way youâd expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.Â
Itâs a slow build that crests with you moaning his name and clenching around his fingers as his tongue slows, your hips twitching a little with overstimulation post-orgasm. He moves his kisses to the inside of your thigh, the one not hooked over his shoulder as you catch your breath and itâs highly plausible that heâs leaving another hickey there.
When he does pull back, Ryland is just as breathless as you. Cheeks flushed and chest stuttering as he licked his lips clean. His pupils are blown wide, so much so you can hardly see the blue as he gazes up at you. âYou said I could fuck you, right?â
âYeah,â you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. âYou can.â
With your head still spinning from the attention and care heâs taking with you, itâs a moment before you realise his hands are back at your hips as he shuffles you around the bed, up until he can fit his palm behind your head and lift it onto a pillow that smells like him.Â
Rylandâs above you, propped up on one elbow and a knee to keep his weight off your body. You can feel each heavy exhale on your cheek. âLike this?â
âJust like this.â You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.Â
He leans in close, whining against your mouth as you part your legs for him to set his between and get a hand on the small of his back, pressing until he gets the hint and grinds downs. It has you both moaning and panting against each other.Â
Youâre getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, heâs still got his briefs on and youâre still wearing your underwear.Â
âOff,â You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.Â
Rylandâs head drops to the space beside yours, just above your shoulder as he reaches a hand down to pull his underwear down over his cock and down his legs, kicking them off somewhere at the end of the bed.Â
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.Â
Warm and heavy in your palm, heâs bigger than youâd expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, thereâs so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.Â
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand heâs not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.Â
âCondoms. I need-â He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. âI need a condom.âÂ
His hand slips out from your underwear and he gets his knees up either side of your hips to reach over, straining for the nightstand. You take the moment to kiss along his collarbone, using the hand thatâs not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.Â
It doesnât go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. âI was going to do that.â
He sounds a little bit thrown, like heâd really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.Â
âYou were also going to fuck me.â You prod, giving his cock another languid stroke, watching his face contort with pleasure as he groans. He eases himself back over you, legs between yours and his weight pressing down in a way that has you sighing in contentment.Â
âNot fair.â He pants, forehead dropping against yours. A hand, so gentle and far too tender comes up to brush the hair by your temple, away from your eyes. âNext time, you let me take my time, okay?â
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. âWeâll take turns.âÂ
The condom wrapper crinkles in your fingers and you pinch the edge of it between your teeth and rip the corner off, splitting it open with your thumb. Ryland whines, louder and needier than youâd heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.Â
He gets his hand down between your bodies, runs three of his fingers through your folds, making your breath hitch. Then he nudges your hand out of the way and runs his cock though them next. You whine, high pitched and stuttered.Â
Itâs a slow steady push when he slips inside you, one that draws out a long moan from your lips. Ryland moans your name, panting and kissing at your throat.
âGod,â he pants. âYou feel so good, baby.â
A broken whine sneaks past your lips, one hand reaching up to slide around the back of his neck, to lead his face back to yours so you can kiss him all over again.Â
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Rylandâs tongue teasing the seam of your lips before you slip them apart, tracing the line of his teeth with your own tongue. He rolls his hips, grinding down in a slow motion. The curve of his cock drags along your walls, along that spongy spot before bumping so deep inside that it must hit your cervix.Â
You hook a leg up around his waist and it has his stomach pressing up against your clit when he moves again. Moaning into his mouth, you see stars. âFuck, thatâs perfect- so good.â
Your fingers tangle in the hair at the nape of his neck, pulling in a way that earns you a whine and a jerky thrust of his hips. âY-yeah?â
âYeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.â The praise kicks him into gear and his slow occasional grinds turn into a building pace, hips pushing against yours and he buries himself to the hilt with every thrust.Â
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. ââM not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.â
âSâokay. Let go, baby.â You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.Â
The pressure alone is almost enough to tip you over the edge, pussy spasming around him. Ryland groans, loud and unrestrained, his rhythm falling apart as you do.Â
When he does come, he manages a couple more thrusts, shallow as they nudge up against that perfect spot inside you. Ryland whines, shaking a little with over stimulation.Â
âCouple more.â You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. âAlmost there.â
Your spine goes stiff and a drawn-out whine slips out as you cum, clenching around the weight of him. Ryland stills inside, buried deep as he pants.Â
Slowly, he eases himself down over you, the gentle pressure of his weight relaxing. Ryland only takes a few moments there though, before sliding an arm under you and around your waist, slowly rolling you both, so heâs sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.Â
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. ââS a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.â
You push up a little to look at him, hands either side of his chest, and a hitched breath sputters out of his lips as you shift, his cock still inside you. âMight? What happened to ânext timeâ?â
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. âWell, I donât wanna push my luck.â
âYouâre not pushing anything.â You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.Â
Once the aftershocks of your orgasm have faded and the idea of being empty no longer pulls painfully at your chest, you raise your hips up and let Rylandâs now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan. Â
He sits himself up not long after, slips the condom off and wanders off to the tiny door that you now know is his bathroom. He comes back with a damp cloth, smiling at you shyly as he cleans you up, gentle swipes over your core and along the inside of your thighs.Â
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. âYou want a shirt?â
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. âOnly if itâs one of your nerdy ones.â
He kisses the smile off your lips and wanders back over to his wardrobe, throws a shirt in your general direction then goes about fixing the sheets.Â
You admire the sight. It had never occurred to you how nice his arms were, you want them around you again. He pulls the sheets straight, then up over you before he crawls in beside you.Â
âThis okay?â He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.Â
âMore than okay.â You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. âBeen thinking about this.âÂ
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like youâre so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just canât help but let him know.Â
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. âHaving sex with me?â
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasnât where you were trying to go with this though. âSleeping in your bed. With you.â
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. âOh.â
âI think our next date should be trivia.â You declare, a quiet sort of smile on your lips as his fingers trace slow little circles on your back between the waistband of your borrowed boxers and the ridden up hem of the shirt. âSo we can get it right this time.â
âDeal.â
[ Masterlist ]
baby's first Goose fic? more proabaly on the way, although next fic published will proabaly be an oc one, with either Ryland Grace or Holland March from the nice guys.
nook rivalry (ryland grace x gn!reader)
summary: when your little piece of heaven in the library is threatened, you take it personally aka your relationship with ryland has a rocky start
wc: 3.6k
cw: enemies to lovers trope with slightly arrogant asshole pre-teacher!ryland
a/n: so sorry this request took so long dear anon who requested it a billion years ago! It took quite a while to find an idea that I liked and even now, it uhhh feels like dookie :â) making ryland my enemy felt like making a field of flowers my enemy
You liked to think you were a pretty levelheaded person.
You made attempts to not let the little, mundane things in life bother you- things that wouldnât matter in the grand scheme of things. Little blips to your day that were out of your control werenât anything to lose sleep over.
However, Ryland Grace was an exception to your rule.
You didnât know who he was or what he studied, nor did you care to find out.
In general, you were pleasant with everyone you crossed paths with and your first time meeting Ryland Grace wouldnât have been any different from seeing any other random grad student if he hadnât immediately pissed you off. To his credit, he didnât even know he had done something to irk you and it hadnât been his intention to be a thorn in your side- not at the beginning at least.
If you hadnât already been having the worst day of your life (woke up late, missed bus and denied scholarship application, to name a few of the events that morning), maybe the two of you couldâve hit it off and been fast friends. He was probably nice enough and besides occasionally being a smartass, he had a good head on his shoulders. Smart, confident and easy on the eyes- all things that pointed to a person you could get along with.
So how had he immediately put himself on your shit list?
Well, he was sitting in your spot.
No, the little nook in the Universityâs library did not have your name on it, nor did it actually belong to you.
But youâd been sitting there, in the same sunny little spot of the library that youâd come to call the closest thing to heaven youâd experienced during your doctorate studies, every day since you began your research. After extensive lab work, youâd disappear into the almost always empty corner of the library to type up your findings for hours at a time.Â
No one had ever been in your nook before. Until Ryland Grace decided he wanted to sit there too.
Youâd already had a day from hell so stumbling up to your spot midafternoon only to find that someone else had already claimed it with all of his stuff immediately infuriated you.
He seemed to be around your age, most likely working on his masters or PhD like you were. A spread of papers, books and packets were strewn over the desk surface, no apparent rhyme or reason to their organization. The guy was tapping away at a laptop where a huge spreadsheet of data was displayed, completely ignorant of your presence until you cleared your throat.
Any other day, you wouldâve grumbled about it but found a different area to plant yourself for the night. But not that day. You were too irritated and too tired to let this dirtbag take away the last scrap of peace you would get until the sun set.
The blonde haired intruder jumped at your pointed grumble, pulling a pair of wired earbuds out of his ears and looking you up and down from his seat. You most definitely looked like a hundred miles of bad road but you couldnât have cared less.
âYouâre in my spot.â
The quirked brow he gave you had you seeing red.
âPardon?â
âYouâre in. My spot.â
He seemed at a loss for words, pointedly looking past you where you knew a slew of other perfectly empty desks sat. âUh⌠canât you go sit somewhere else?â
You ground your teeth together. âNo.â
Gesturing to all of his stuff on the table, he shrugged in a half-assed apology. âSorry, Iâm pretty comfortable here and Iâm kinda busy, soâŚâ
The stare off the two of you had for several seconds was charged with tension. He wouldnât back down and you didnât want to either, but he had the advantage. He had already claimed your nook and if you went and complained to one of the library staff several floors down, they would look at you like you were crazy. Every spot in the library was first come first serve, you had no special claim to this specific spot.
So you moved. To a table very close to the one he occupied. And spent the better part of your evening glaring daggers at him.Â
Heâd look up occasionally, meet your gaze and go back to his studies, like he wasnât bothered at all. It sure bothered you that he was so nonchalant about everything. You could only watch with a sneer as the sun slowly set, bathing your perfect little nook in warm, golden sunlight and in turn making the messy jerk look ethereal while you were stuck in the libraryâs shadowy interior.
Youâd been the one to leave first. It was late, you were exhausted and you had a 10 minute walk home in the dark. The stranger didnât seem to be ready to leave at all, dutifully typing on his laptop and occasionally shuffling through the mess on the table for a notebook or sheet of paper marred with scribbles.
Heâd looked up when you stood, giving you a smug grin that nearly had you flying into the booth to wring his neck. Unfortunately, there were laws against that so you just settled for a middle finger and left.
You thought that would be the end of it.
A one off encounter that youâd fume about for weeks and a man who youâd never see again. The university was big and hopefully youâd made your point that the spot was yours so heâd find somewhere new to study.
When you walked up to your spot the following day in much higher spirits, your good day shattered when you saw the familiar fluffy haired head over the back of the booth. Heâd come again. And deliberately sat in your spot.
You decided right then and there that Ryland Grace was the bane of your existence.
For two weeks the man hogged your little piece of heaven. Try as you might to come earlier and claim it yourself before he could, he was always there. Did he ever do anything besides study? Did he eat? Did he sleep? Surely he didnât spend the night at the library, but you wouldnât put it past him to hide when the library staff shut the place down and stay until morning. The jerk would probably do that to be petty.
You couldâve found another spot. Surely there was another booth a floor up that was the exact same layout and would get just as much sun. But you refused out of principle. You wouldnât let this asshole get his way. He wanted to sit in your spot? Fine. If your glares werenât enough to deter him, youâd turn to another method to smoke him out.
The shocked face the man gave you when you slid into the booth opposite of him one day was worth every drop of fury youâd endured for those couple of weeks. His look of distress when you shoved all of his things to his half of the desk, leaving your half clean, was priceless.
âHey! Why??â
âYou want to sit in my spot? Fine. Weâll share.â
You began unpacking your things while the blonde tried to straighten out his. âYou messed up my system!â
Neatly setting your own books on the desk and opening your laptop, you laughed incredulously. âThat was your system?â
His scowl was searing. âYes. I donât expect you, of all people, to understand my method of madness.â
âWhat the hell is that supposed to mean?â
Youâd parted ways very angry that day.Â
The next day, you did the same thing: sat opposite of him and pushed his things to his side. And the next. And the next. And the next. He slowly started to learn to keep his things on his half of the desk to save himself the trouble of âreorganizingâ.Â
One time, you were surprised to find youâd beat Ryland to your nook and nearly jumped for joy. Finally! Your persistence mustâve paid off and heâd found somewhere else to plant himself. You were all smiles- up until a thick book was dropped onto the table, scaring you half to death, and that stupid messy mop of hair plopped into the booth with a smug grin. Said mop of hair then proceeded to give as good as he got; shoving your things from his side of the table back to your side.
Thus began your slightly hostile relationship with the man you eventually learned was molecular biology doctorate student, Ryland Grace (you read his name on one of the papers that snuck across the invisible line on the table).
For the most part, neither of you acknowledged each other during your joint study sessions- any conversation was clipped and tense. You didnât try to learn anything about him and he made no effort to learn anything about you. In fact, you werenât sure he even knew your name which was fine by you.
While you rarely conversed, there were small things you began learning about Ryland just by observation alone.Â
Number one, while he was studying molecular biology, he seemed to have a specific interest in the stars; life in regards to space and the possibility of life outside of our planet. You knew as much because he had this annoying habit of grumbling while he worked- speaking out loud and working through his thoughts verbally.
He also had a smorgasbord of space and science related stickers on the back of his laptop you occasionally stared at when you were trying to think. NASA, planets, beakers, science puns and the occasional fox sticker stared at you every day. You werenât sure why the foxes were thrown into the mix but you werenât about to ask.Â
Ryland couldnât ever seem to sit still. He was always bouncing a leg or tapping a pen. The one time you got after him for it, he only did it more so you never brought it up again.
You also noticed something that Ryland didnât seem to even know about himself. It took a couple of days to work up the willpower to actually ask about it.
âDo you have contacts?â
It was rare that you spoke to him, so Ryland looked up from the notebook he was writing in with a blink of surprise. âHuh?â
âContacts. Yâknow, the things in your eyes that help you see? Or glasses?â
âNo?â He seemed truly flabbergasted.
You hummed and sat back in your seat. âLooks like you need them.â
âWh-â
âYouâre always squinting at your laptop so I was wondering if you have some but are so stubborn that you refuse to wear them. If you donât, it might be worth getting your vision checked. I canât imagine your eyes and brain appreciate the strain you put on them every day.â
Ryland didnât speak to you the rest of the evening, which wasnât too odd, but then didnât show up in the library for a week. You wanted to say you loved the extra space, but you begrudgingly realized the table felt too big with him gone. You didnât want to say you missed him, per se, but maybe somewhere adjacent.
When you saw Ryland after a week of absence- outside of the library for the first time- you had to do a double take.Â
It was early in the morning- so early you could barely stand on your own two feet, which was why you were standing in the ever growing line at one of the cafes on campus for a cup of brain fuel.
You werenât paying attention to who you stood behind in line, absentmindedly blinking at the slew of texts you received from a friend about a huge frat party happening that weekend that you werenât planning on attending. A familiar notification sound jolted you out of your tired stupor.
Ryland had a unique chime that played any time he got a notification. It was the satellite phone jingle from the 3rd Jurassic Park movie. You suspected Ryland was a huge nerd about science fiction media but heâd probably rather die than admit that to you. In and of itself, the sound wasnât that annoying but youâd heard it so often that it had seared itself into your brain and âPavlovâs doggedâ you into feeling annoyed when you heard it.
Sure enough, a familiar set of shoulders stood in front of you, all covered by a cream sweater.
âRyland?â
The science student turned on his heel. He seemed just as surprised to see you as you were him. It felt like seeing a wild animal, seeing Ryland outside of the library. You were surprised in turn, to find a new addition to the manâs outfit. Gold rimmed glasses sat on his nose.Â
Rylandâs ears quickly became tipped in red.
âOh. Hey.â
He seemed embarrassed, like heâd been caught red-handed.Â
âNice glasses.â
âThanksâŚâ
Your interactions were always awkward but this felt different. âFarsighted?â
âYep.â
âKnew it. They fit you though, if thatâs any consolation.â
âThank you.â
Coffee suddenly didnât sound appealing any more- not if you had to endure one more second of this horribly uncomfortable encounter. Your regular chats together werenât always pleasant but they werenât this odd. What changed? Was he angry that youâd been right and pointed out something he himself hadnât noticed? Was he embarrassed that youâd proved him wrong? Was he that egotistical?
You stomped off without another word.
-
There was a hot, steaming cup of coffee with your name on it sitting in front of Ryland the next Monday.Â
You hadnât expected to see him at all in the library anymore, not after your last altercation, so you didnât get a chance to turn and flee before he spotted you standing a couple of paces away, giving you a crooked smile.
You were too proud to run away now. You feared youâd look weak if you did. And Ryland Grace was the last person you wanted to look weak in front of.
So you pressed on, pointedly not looking at the scientist and pretending he didnât exist. Ryland watched you the whole time, You could feel his stare and you wanted to slap yourself silly when you felt your cheeks heat up.
When you made no move to talk to him after you settled, Ryland nudged the coffee closer to you with an uncomfortable clearing of his throat.Â
You pursed your lips and kept your eyes on your notes.
âI feel like we started off on the wrong foot.â His voice was cautious, like he was talking to a cornered animal. âIâm sorry for being an ass when we first met. Iâd had a rough day and I know thatâs no excuse but itâs the truth. I was feeling stubborn.â
This was the most heâd ever said to you in one go. You peeked a glance.
God did those glasses suit him. They made him look softer, somehow. Maybe they made his eyes bigger? Yeah that was probably it. Big eyes, like an alien.Â
âCan we start over?â
He stuck a hand over his laptop and held it out to you. A handshake. His fingers were trembling. Did you make him nervous? Your confidence took a nice little boost from the thought alone.
You didnât hate Ryland. Not really. As much as it pained you to admit, you enjoyed his company and had missed it while he was hiding from you. He just annoyed you sometimes with his snarky comments. But even those werenât that bad. Maybe it wouldnât hurt to give him a chance?
Chewing on the inside of your cheek, you carefully clasped a hand in his and gave him one firm shake.Â
His ears bloomed red again and he held onto your hand a little longer than you thought he would.
âYeah, ok cool! Didnât think you⌠would actually accept my offer so this is awesome. Your coffee order, I think I got it right? Iâve been peaking at your coffee cups for a little while to read the labels. Is that creepy? I didnât mean it in a creepy way, I just wanted to make sure I knew what you liked if I ever got you anything.â
This was a new side of Ryland- unsure, stammering and sweet? Maybe heâd always been this way and you just hadnât seen it.
You didnât know how to feel about it.
-
Being âfriendsâ with Ryland lasted about a week.
All too quickly did you regularly find yourself hidden in a far corner of the library between the endless shelves of academic literature, kissing each other senseless. Or making out in a quiet study room. Or whispering weak protests against his shoulder when he laid you back in your shared nook to suck a mark on your neck.
Turns out, Ryland didnât hate you. Never did. Except maybe for a second the first time you got after him for sitting in your spot but other than that, he was just smitten (and terrified) of you which was why he kept coming back. He was still arrogant and a smart ass, usually when you asked him a question related to his field- like you were supposed to know what the boiling point of liquid helium was- but you found yourself enjoying his quips.
It was just another Wednesday when your relationship shifted.
You had Ryland pressed up against a line of shelves, cradling his head in your palms and soaking up the feeling of his glasses brushing over your cheeks while your lips slowly worked against his.Â
The library was silent at this time of day, especially being in such a far off corner of it, so the only sounds you could hear were the creak of the shelves when Ryland pressed too far back into them, your mouths, and your breath. It was your favorite pastime when you were tired of writing essays.
When Ryland pressed his thumbs into your hip bones, you pulled away an inch to give him space. His glasses were smudged from your skin and barely hanging onto his nose. His stupid t-shirt (a navy blue top with a ringed planet graphic and the words âJupiter? I hardly know her.â stamped below it) was rumpled and riding up on his navel, allowing you a glimpse of his happy trail.
âI start a new job on Monday.â He breathed, eyes jumping between yours.
You pulled back even more in surprise. Ryland kept his hands on your waist so you didnât go too far.
âReally?â
âMhm. Itâs a part-time lab technician job. The pay isnât great but itâll help boost my resume once I get my doctorate and I need the extra income anyway.â
You beamed. âThatâs great! Are you going to be able to juggle school and work, though? Will it be too much?â
Rylandâs eyes fluttered when you ran a thumb over his cheek. âI should be ok. ButâŚâ He hesitated. âI wonât have time to come here anymore.â
Oh.
Neither of you put a label on⌠whatever it was the two of you had together, so you never had a reason to meet up outside of your unspoken joint study hours. Ryland stopping his visits here meant you wouldnât get to see him.
Your hands slid from his face to his shoulders as you tried to put on a nonchalant face. This was just a hookup- a little fling that probably never wouldâve worked anyway. Ryland would continue his life and you would continue yours. It shouldnât have hurt as much as it did to find out you would rarely, if ever, see the prospective scientist after Friday.
âIâll miss my desk partner,â you smiled, hoping it wasnât obvious how sad his words made you.
One side of Rylandâs mouth quirked up in a smile. âYeah, me too.â He seemed awfully nonchalant about the whole thing. You kicked yourself for being so blinded by the handsome ass that weaseled his way into your life. Ryland fiddled with the hem of your shirt and straightened it out a bit, tilting his head to gesture down the aisle.
âSo⌠should we go back to our spot and hash out our schedules, then?â
Now you are confused. âOur schedules?â
âYes? To find times that work for both of us to meet up? Like⌠between labs and such. Or in the late evenings. Or weekends. Or you could stay the night at my place- uh, unless I read this thing wrong?â He let go of you to gesture between your bodies, beginning to fidget on his feet. âDid I read this wrong? If I did, forget everything I said because it was all just a funny joke-â
You flew onto your tiptoes and flung your arms around his neck, only slightly shoving him into the shelves behind him to claim his mouth. Ryland made a noise of approval and wound his arms around your torso to lift you into him.Â
Schedule swapping would have to wait a little longer and you offhandedly hoped that there were no security cameras this deep between the stacks of books because if someone was watching them, they wouldnât enjoy what they were about to see.
Can't stop imagining wearing nothing but Grace's fluffy fox cardigan and riding him in it đ
[MDNI]
p!link for visual
Grace has you in his lap in bed; you're clad in nothing but his â and your â favorite knitwear, soft and plush over your arms, shoulders and sides. It smells like him, and carries his own warmth as you keep it on while you're fucking yourself on his cock, riding him like you never want to forget the feeling of being full of him. He sits still, letting you use him for your own pleasure. His hands come up behind you, slipping beneath the material and pulling you in closer by your back as you undulate your hips into his.
You giggle when Grace playfully nips at your lips, and he smiles back; his heart is impossibly overcome with adoration. He catches you in a kiss, fingers now resorting to weave through your hair as he slots his tongue inside your mouth to caress yours with it. He sighs, eyes fluttering shut while you continue your lascivious pace.
When his head dips down to shower some attention upon your breasts, you opt to match him by leaning back and using one of your hands to anchor yourself on the mattress, arching your spine as you drop yourself more pointedly onto his cock. You whimper at every delicious drag of his length in your walls, and the way that Grace gently bites and sucks at your hardened nipples; crying out as you focus on pressing at that spongy patch over and over again until you feel your body humming from ecstasy.
Grace lifts himself up just a tad to meet your movements, wanting to see you fall apart in his grasp and hitting you just the way you like it. You always make the prettiest noises when you're about to come, and he wants to pull out every single note from your mouth.
You don't stop moving until you're gushing around Grace; your hips erratically jerking as you're coating him in your cum.
Before you can even gather your wits, Grace is flipping you onto your back, smiling down at you as he hooks your legs up on his shoulders. He presses a kiss to your ankle. It's his turn now.
the way these pictures make me think ryland x inexperienced!reader where he teaches her how to ride while heâs in the pilot seat. (nfsw 18+)
(p.s. this is all my opinion)
the way this man would grip your waist, and squeeze it, for sure leaving marks. i canât ever decide if grace is an tits or ass guy so i feel like heâd both knead maybe slap your ass and have his face buried in your chest. he wouldnât even take your shirt off all the way, just pull it up enough so he can get his mouth on you.
this mouth on this man could kill me!
âthatâs it baby, just like that.â
âyouâre so good to me, babyâ
âlook so pretty falling apart on my cock.â
âyou think you can speed up a little for me, dear?â
âsuch a perfect girl. doing such a good job for me,â
heâs a softdom! for sure in the beginning. he wants to make sure heâs taking care of you and heâs enjoying watching you fall apart on his cock. but as you get a hang for it, heâs whimpering, moaning, crying mess. because at the end of the day, this man is touch starved and you feel like absolute heaven squeezing him.
Rocky learns about the importance of sound to babies in the womb so he and Adrian start thrumming/singing when you're pregnant, whether it's just in conversation or an actual song, it varies but they do it more and more as the baby develops.
Really find it fascinating when they sense the baby move in response too. They really enjoy fiding out with vibrations / sounds the baby reacts to more, or which one lulls them.
Ryland has to shoo Rocky and Adrian away sometimes because 'his baby is not a science experiment'. But, you really can't blame them, or any of the other Eridians. This is the first human baby they've ever gotten to experience. There's so much data!!!
getting emotional thinking about marrying grace :(
heâd want to do an actual proposal- would work with adrian and rocky to make you a ring and set up the perfect day for you!
you two would sleep in and heâd ask if you two could go for your daily walk on the beach a little later in the day so you two could watch the sunset⌠heâd even take you off the usual path so the spot where he proposes is much more memorable-
and oh heâd be so nervous- he probably practiced getting down on one knee with rocky for hours (rocky makes sure his postures good and that he can open the box for you)
then- when itâs finally time the biodome illumination team makes the sky fade into the most beautiful sunset youâve ever seen
and grace cries, you cry- if rocky and adrian could cry they do when they see you with your ring
the ceremony is just as beautiful.. adrian helps you get ready and rocky helps grace- both of your outfits were made to look like they were from earth with added eridian touches (rocky and adrian have the opposite- eridian clothes with bits from earthâs fashion)
all the eridians who worked on the biodome are there- excited to see such an important day for you two.. and when the time comes, graceâs kids spread little fake flowers down the aisle- setting the path for you to walk in
grace cries when he sees you- how could he not?? by the time you reach him youâre both teary eyed and smiling so hard your cheeks ache
his vows are incredibly thought out and genuine. he promises to love and take care of you forever and ever!
then rocky- the self ordained priest (he did extensive research on his laptop though) announces you married and all the eridians cheer and you kiss! and you both live happily ever after :)
