lacey ! 𑣲. @cupidlacee - Tumblr Blog

cupidlacee

Jul 11

julepod

learn to forget ⋆˚࿔

ryland grace x fem!teacher!reader

PART TWO

♪ post | beabadoobee

› summary: after realizing that your hookup, intended as a rebound after your long term relationship, is actually your coworker, you deal with it the best way you know how: avoidance. that is, until you're forced to talk to ryland grace.

› tags/warnings: no use of y/n, TW: trivia night mention, explicit mentions of smut but no actual smut (yet), drinking, mentions of reader's past toxic relationship, strong language

› wc: 5.5k

› part one | direct address series masterlist

ᯓ★

On Tuesday, you show up to the school earlier than everyone else, likely one of the only times you've been more than an hour early to anything in your life. The hall is still dim when you arrive, the custodians’ floor wax gleaming beneath the fluorescent lights. You lock yourself in your classroom to decorate in peace.

You make a point of putting your earbuds in, tuning out the noise in the hallway as other staff begin to trickle in and stop by to chat to Grace. Everyone is charmed by him, this stupidly overqualified molecular biologist that somehow ended up teaching eighth grade science. But not you. No, not you. You know better.

You know a lot of things about Grace, like the low sound he made in the back of his throat when you tugged on his hair. The concentrated pinch between his brows when he was between your thighs, mouth latched onto your clit. The pleased little smile he got when he had you writhing and moaning underneath him, heaving from your second (and certainly not last) orgasm of the night.

It's fine. Really, it's fine. You're a professional. You can be professional.

Your phone buzzes in your back pocket. You take out your earbuds. Even without looking, you know that it's Hallie and Reagan. Ever since you told them about Grace last night they've been treating your life like a spectacularly interesting romcom.

Halls: And have you talked to your good karma yet?? ;)

You: Don't call him that! I don't need you manifesting shit for me

Halls: Ok sorry I'll rephrase

Halls: Have you talked to professor sexy yet?

Reg: That's objectively worse

Halls: It's objectively funnier but thanks

You: Omg stop it with the nicknames

You: It's Grace. Just Grace

You: And no I haven't talked to him

Reg: You probably should

Halls: I second this

You: You guys are the worst

A knock sounds at your classroom door. For one wild second, you think it's him. You curse and shove your phone back in your pocket in a panic. When you sneak a look at the door, relief washes over you so strongly that you feel a bit woozy. Marisol is peering into your room through the vision panel with an impatient expression. She spots you, decides you're not moving fast enough for her liking, and knocks again, harder this time.

You exhale and cross the room.

Marisol has been teaching sixth-grade English at Grover Cleveland for ten years. Eleven, maybe. You're never certain, because every time you ask, she says something unhelpful like longer than anyone should or wouldn't you like to know? The latter is especially frustrating because yes, you would like to know.

But she'd been there for you, when you were starting out. The kids, being able to smell fear, walked all over you that first semester. It was awful. You remember being thirteen, but you don't remember being so mean. Maybe it was a new generation kind of thing. Ugh, even thinking that makes you feel old.

Marisol had helped, giving you pointers and making you feel better about being more strict with your students. A lot of detentions were doled out after that, but the behavior in your classroom improved by miles.

When you open the door, you catch a glimpse of Grace across the hall, pinning some poster up to the wall behind his desk. He's dressed more casually today, a plain navy t-shirt stretching over the broad slope of his shoulders, short sleeves squeezing around his biceps as he reaches up to smooth tape against the wall.

Your brain unhelpfully supplies the image of those same arms braced on either side of your head, muscles flexing under his skin.

You're such an idiot. It's the same every time you see him—that awful feeling of your stomach swooping and body tensing. Humans have been evolving for hundreds of thousands of years and here you are, your survival instincts kicking in at the mere sight of Ryland fucking Grace.

"Are you going to let me in or are we just going to stand here?" Marisol snipes. She speaks loud enough to catch Grace's attention, and he glances over, his eyes landing on you, glinting behind his glasses. You flush, your whole body feeling as though you've been doused in molten lava. You pivot away and usher her in, closing the door behind you.

She gives you approximately five minutes of peace before questioning you.

This is generous by Marisol’s standards. Practically saintly. She busies herself unpacking a box of new copies of Lois Lowry's The Giver while you work on your bulletin board, smoothing a border of blue paper around the edges and trying not to listen for movement across the hall.

"What's the deal with you and Mr. Sunshine?" she says. You look behind you. Her back faces you as she sets books neatly in the cabinet at the back of the classroom.

"What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb." She slides another stack of paperbacks into place. "You're not any good at it."

Your mouth clamps shut. You're not sure if you should be offended.

She continues before you can respond, "I've never seen you act the way you did yesterday morning. And then the second the meeting was over you ran away like a bat out of hell."

You look back to the bulletin board, stapling the blue construction paper border and wishing you could be anywhere else. "It's nothing."

"Mhm."

"Seriously."

She scoffs. "It didn't feel like nothing when you were trying to hide in my shirt. Did you date him?"

"No."

"Does Anthony know him?"

"No."

"Come on. You said you'd tell me later. Guess what? It's later."

Your shoulders droop. Your hands fall to your sides, giving up on the border for now. The construction paper peels, curling in on itself in a pitiful spiral that you can't help but relate to.

Marisol won't quit until you tell her what's going on. You may as well rip the band-aid off.

"We slept together," you mumble at your shoes. Jesus Christ. You don't think admitting that is going to get any easier.

Silence greets you on the other end of the room. You glance up to see Marisol has stopped stocking the books. She's gawking at you, openly, and you feel like a bug under a microscope, completely at the mercy of one very judgemental coworker.

"I'm sorry," she says, slowly as if she's still trying to process what you said. "When you say we…"

You close your eyes. "Grace and I."

"Ryland Grace."

"Yes."

"The new science teacher."

"Yes," you grit out, starting to get a bit irritated. How many times are you going to have to say it?

"Mr. Sunshine? Right across the hall?"

"Please stop saying Mr. Sunshine," you say. Your face is getting hot again now, palms clammy.

Marisol's expression is unreadable. To you, this is worse than laughter. Right now, you would even welcome laughter. At least then there'd be something concrete to be annoyed about. Instead you stare at each other, her eyes wide and disbelieving.

Finally, she seems to pull herself out of her state of shock. She nods once, then again.

"Tell me everything," she says, and so you do.

You perch on the edge of your desk and explain how Hallie and Reagan wanted to drag you out to a new club that just opened a few weeks ago. You tell her about making eyes at Grace from across the bar when he was talking to another girl, and before you know it you're rambling. It spills out of you with such force that you don't think you can stop if you tried.

ᯓ★

"I need another drink," Hallie grouses, waving the bartender over. Reagan had disappeared into the crowd, tugging along a man in his early-twenties wearing a confused and somewhat fearful expression, leaving the both of you behind.

You're decently buzzed, having already gone through two Long Islands and a shot of tequila. Hallie drinks like she's still in college, and you always find it hard to keep up, but you try.

You prefer wine nights, splurging on a nice charcuterie board and huddling together to watch shitty reality television, but you had been moping around the last few weeks and Hallie and Reagan insisted going out would make you feel better.

Mourning your relationship comes and goes in waves. Some days you wake up and thank any deity that might be listening that you're done. You're truly, finally done. No further contact, no pathetic texts begging to get back together, no actually getting back together.

Other mornings you find it hard to get out of bed, crushed by the fact that you're alone. It's not the end of the world. You know that. But sometimes it feels that way. You had plans with Anthony, you were talking about getting married, for fuck's sake, and now he's just… gone.

So you finally gave in, and now you find yourself surrounded by pulsing lights and sweaty bodies crushing together on the dance floor. This is a thing normal people do, isn't it? Who cares. If it will take your mind off of the breakup for at least a few hours, then you're willing to take your chances.

Hallie slides a glass towards you, something blue and fruity that tastes more like juice than alcohol. It's a dangerous gamble, drinking like this, but you find it hard to care. You're here, with your two closest friends, and you're not letting the night go to waste.

"Oh," Hallie murmurs, teasing her straw between her teeth. "Look at that guy, over there."

You follow her line of sight. There's a lot of people at the bar, a group of girls a little younger than you, a guy that definitely looks underage hassling the bartender, and a couple that's being far too touchy to be appropriate in a public space. At the very end, you see who she's talking about.

You've always had a thing for nerds. Well, you say thing, but really it's a weakness. And this dude fits your type to a T so much that it's almost painful. His glasses are teetering precariously on the edge of his nose. You're certain if he moves his head with too much force they'll slip right off. He's leaning against the edge of the bar, an amused smile on his face. You can only see his side profile, and… the woman in front of him.

He's taken. Of course he is, how could someone like that be single? What you don't understand is the flash of disappointment that zings through you. You don't even know the guy, why do you feel let down?

"I wonder if that's his girlfriend," you say, trying to come off as politely curious but ending up sounding more envious than anything.

Hallie makes a dismissive noise. "That is not his girlfriend."

"You don't know that." You turn away, taking a long swallow of whatever the hell Hallie had ordered for the both of you.

"I absolutely do know that," she says, indignant. She reaches forward, the tips of her fingers nudging at your jaw, forcing you to look back at the man. "See? That's not girlfriend body language."

"She's touching his arm."

"It's not a flirty touch. Just look. Please."

You sigh and devote a little more attention to the scene before you. The woman is saying something to him, her smile bright and wicked beneath the bar lights. He tips his head back slightly, laughing, one hand lifting as if in surrender. There's something wonderfully awkward about him, you think. Not clumsy, exactly. Just a little too sincere for the room. Like he wandered into the club by mistake and decided to be a good sport about it.

He ducks his head down in order to speak directly into her ear, and that should not be as attractive as it is, but what can you do about it? The heart wants what it wants. She laughs in response, and he rolls his eyes, but his half-cocked smile doesn't leave. Her mouth moves and you squint, trying but unable to read her lips. His expression shifts into theatrical offense, and she pats his arm once more before disappearing into the crowd. Gone, just like that.

Hallie jabs her elbow into your arm. "Well?"

"Well, what?" you ask. The man remains at the bar alone. His posture slumps, a little defeated, and he brings his beer up to his mouth, a large hand wrapped around the neck of the bottle.

"You know what. Go talk to him."

You whip your head towards her. "What? No!"

"Yes!" Hallie hisses. "Do it. You're hot, you'd have him wrapped around your finger before you even opened your mouth."

"You're just saying that," you say, shooting a glare at her.

She shakes her head, lips pressing into a thin line. "No, I'm not. I don't care. Either you go and talk to him or I'll buy him a drink and have the bartender say it's from you."

"Why do you hate me?"

"I don't and you know it. Quit being dramatic. Finish your drink and fucking go."

You stare at her.

Hallie stares back, unwavering.

You consider arguing. It would be nice, to dig your heels in and refuse to put yourself out there. That's what you would normally do. You've never seen the appeal of chatting people up at the club. You mostly go just to have a good time with your friends, to dance and drink and enjoy yourself.

But then… when was the last time you actually went out? Beyond trivia night with your coworkers and nights in with Hallie and Reagan or dates (however rare the occurrence) with Anthony. You can't remember.

You'd tried, a few times, but there'd always been Anthony, wheedling about how you should stay because he'd miss you and are you sure you should wear that out?

You inhale deeply, lifting your chin.

"Okay," you say, and you drain the last of your drink before you can lose your nerve.

Hallie's face lights up, victorious and encouraging all at once.

"Actually?" she chirps. At your unimpressed expression she manages to rein in some of her excitement. "Fuck, sorry. You got this. What's the worst that can happen? If he's a dick we'll just go dance and forget about it."

"Right." You nod to yourself, adjusting your halter top and thrusting a hand through your hair before sliding off of your stool. "Wish me luck."

"Luck!" Hallie calls after you as you start to walk away, reaching out to land a light slap to your ass. You flinch, barely biting down on a yelp, and glower at her over your shoulder. She grins, not looking apologetic in the slightest. You turn back around before she can make obscene hand gestures, aching to borrow some of the easy confidence her and Reagan always seem to possess.

Maybe you're in over your head.

No, not maybe. You're definitely in over your head.

The closer you get, the more handsome he becomes. At this point it's cruel, and you have no idea if you even know how to flirt anymore, that's how long it's been. What are you even meant to say? You come here often? Oh, barf.

But you're committed now. You'd look like an even bigger moron if you turned around mid-stride and retreated back to Hallie, who would never let you hear the end of it. She'd be bringing it up at your funeral.

The walk is agonizingly short. Before you know it you're sidling up to him. He doesn't notice you at first, but the brush of your arm against his has him blinking down at you in surprise. His pretty blue eyes widen behind his glasses, and for half a second he reminds you of a startled animal. Then his gaze moves over you before you can stop it.

He takes in your face first, then your hair, before dipping down to your neck, your top that complements your cleavage, and to your skirt that suddenly feels way too short. He seems to realize what he's doing and his eyes snap up to your face, the tips of his ears pinking.

Well. That certainly makes things easier.

"Tough crowd?" you ask, and have to make a physical effort not to wince. Sometimes you wish it was socially appropriate to punch yourself in the face. Only in times of great need, of course; you think this is one such situation.

"What?" he says. Your heart is beating so fast you think it might burst out of your chest and flop on the floor.

Fuck it, you think.

You let out a small huff of amusement and nod toward the direction the brunette had disappeared to. "That girl you were talking to. She your girlfriend?"

"Marissa? Oh, uh… no." He laughs, sounding a bit nervous. His free hand lifts to rub the back of his neck. "She's a friend."

You arch a disbelieving brow, and he smiles as if he knows what you're thinking.

"Really," he assures you. "She's very much not my girlfriend. Not that there's anything wrong with her. She's great."

"But?" you press.

"I'm here with her and her girlfriend," he says. His grin widens as your mouth forms a small 'o' of understanding, his cheeks dimpling.

"Third wheeling, huh?"

"Exactly. I've gotten pretty good at it."

"Can't say I relate." Hallie and Reagan are chronically single beyond the occasional fling.

"Are you here with someone, then?" He makes a sweeping motion with the hand holding his beer, gesturing to the swell of the crowd.

"Just some friends."

"Did they abandon you, too?"

You smile. "Yeah. One of them's already vanished with a guy who looked like he was about to cry."

"Good for him," he says. Then, as an afterthought, he adds, "Or sorry."

"We'll know by morning."

He laughs, his head tilting back a bit, and a warm feeling seeps into your chest, so strong it steals your breath. This back-and-forth, this banter, comes so easy to you now that the ice is broken that it's almost natural. You think you could do it forever.

"Should I be worried?" he asks, taking a sip of his beer.

"About her? Probably." You look out over the dance floor, wondering if you could catch a glimpse of Reagan somewhere in the crowd, but you don't.

"And you?"

The question is playful, but there's something beneath it, a flicker of interest that makes the space between you feel suffocatingly close and vast all at once.

"Me?" you say. Your face is starting to hurt from all the smiling you're doing. "I'm harmless."

He watches you for a beat too long. "I doubt that."

Your stomach dips. It's ridiculous, how much one sentence can do, and heat spreads over your face. You know what's happening, or at least, you think you do, and the realization sends a reckless thrill through you.

He seems to notice it, too, because his eyes drop to your mouth, and he licks his lips subconsciously. "Can I buy you a drink?"

You have no other answer to give him besides yes.

Later you remember, a few drinks later and several inches of space subtracted between you, his hand a steady, guiding pressure on the small of your back as he escorts you out of the club to the Uber he ordered. He opens the door for you and leans down, breath warm against the shell of your ear, murmuring something stupidly witty that you're not even sure he does on purpose, and you laugh, slipping inside.

He pauses before closing the door, taking a moment to watch you. His glasses had started slipping down his nose again. There's a pleased look in his eyes as he looks at you over the rim, as if he knows you're going to be trouble, and you look back at him, drunk enough to want to prove him right.

ᯓ★

You become a master at evasive maneuvers.

It shouldn't be this easy to avoid Ryland Grace like he's the plague, but it is.

The week after you explain what happened with him to Marisol finds you busy enough that you end up relaxing into the routine. By the time school starts, Grace is going through the humiliation ritual that is teaching middle schoolers for the first time, so you hardly see him beyond glimpses into his classroom and catching each other on the way to the teacher's lounge. You made the mistake of going at your usual time on the first day, only to find him already there, laughing with Doug (6th grade history) over his lunch, so now you go at the very last minute.

By the time you're nearing the end of September, you think you can finally put the whole thing behind you.

The only interactions you've had with Grace are stiff and awkward, far from how you spoke at the club. A quick introduction, a little small talk about the morning weather one morning when you were running late and couldn't time your arrival in order to dodge him. He stopped by your room, once to ask if you could point him in the direction of the nurse's office, and again a few days later to borrow a stapler.

Every single time, he looked as if he wanted to say more, and eventually decided not to. It doesn't help that you were usually interrupted by a coworker or a student, but to you it was always a much appreciated respite.

The latest was about two weeks ago, when he found you at the printer in the library just after lunch.

Hey.

Hey— oh. Uhm, hi.

Are you… He motioned toward the machine. His lanyard reflected the fluorescent ceiling lights, glaring up at you harshly.

Sorry? You tittered nervously.

I was just wondering when you'd be done.

Oh! You glanced back at the printer, where copies of your Getting to Know You! assignment were lying, forgotten. I'm done now, sorry.

You scooped up your papers, clutching them to your chest and shuffling away to allow him to access whatever he needed. He stepped forward, close enough for you to catch the scent of coffee, deodorant, and the darker, more insistent smell of his cologne. Your stomach clenched involuntarily, and you took a step back.

He glanced up at the motion, a muscle jumping in his jaw. Actually, I've been meaning to talk to—

I have to get back, you blurted suddenly, before offering a fake, apologetic smile. Can't leave them unsupervised for too long, you know?

He had opened his mouth to respond, but you were already rushing away.

Arguably not your best moment.

After that day, though, he had gotten the message.

Grace stopped trying to catch you in the hallway. He stopped lingering by his doorway when the final bell rang. He stopped looking as though he might say your name every time you passed room 214 with your arms full and your eyes fixed firmly on anything that was not him.

Now, when your paths cross during passing period, he nods, professional and restrained, before turning back to whatever student has his attention. When you both reach the staff lounge at the same time, he steps aside to let you pass, offering a quiet greeting that gives you absolutely nothing to work with. No bitterness. No accusation. No smirk. No wounded male pride for you to despise.

It's… whatever. More than you could have hoped for. But if you're honest, you feel a bit left out. Everyone appears to have fallen in love with him. Janitors, secretaries, paras, your fellow teachers. It's annoying, but you wish you could see what all the fuss is about without being a total creep. Even Marisol is besotted, singing his praises to you when you're both alone in your classroom, insisting that you should give him a chance.

"I think you'd really like him," she says without preamble, setting a stack of papers down on your desk. No hi, hello, how are you? At this point, you don't expect much else from her.

"Everyone keeps telling me that," you grumble, before glancing up. "Shut the door, please."

She sighs but does as you ask. You rotate the papers to face you, reading the permission slips for October's Outdoor Education excursion. It's a three day camping trip for the eighth graders, one that you always dread chaperoning.

"Well, maybe everyone is right." Marisol grabs a chair from a student's desk and pulls it up to sit across from you, pulling out her phone. "It doesn't matter, anyway."

You hum, stowing the papers away in your desk drawer, and return your attention back to your laptop where you've been putting in grades for the latest quiz. "Really? Why's that?"

She puffs up her chest, smug. "Lee and I decided to invite him to trivia tomorrow."

"What?"

"Don't give me that look, you're not the supreme leader of trivia night. We can invite who we want."

"I never said you couldn't."

She waves her hand vaguely. "It's all over your face right now. Whatever. The way that I see it, you have three choices."

You scrub a hand over your face and turn your computer off. You're never going to get any grading done like this. "Okay."

"You can talk to him, figure your shit out, and have a nice night with us at the bar." She holds out three fingers, ticking them off as she speaks. "Or you can not talk to him, don't figure your shit out, and make it awkward for everyone."

"And my last choice?"

"You can just not come." She crosses her arms. "Make up some bullshit excuse and skip out."

You glance away with a semblance of shame. That was exactly what your knee-jerk reaction was, to cancel and say you weren't feeling well or that you already had plans.

"See?" She points at you. "Do I know you or do I know you?"

"This isn't fair," you whine.

"Shit's tough. Ryland is coming, and you're coming, too."

You can't help a small smile at her determination. Trivia is a sacred ritual, attended by yours and Marisol's group of work friends. It had been going on for a while before you joined, and held strong through the last few years. Grace being invited is a pretty big deal. At least, it is to Marisol, who has always been very passionate about the whole affair.

"Okay, okay," you acquiesce. "I'll go."

She stands, triumphant. "Perfect. I'll let Lee know."

"If it goes bad, then we're friends off," you call after her as she starts to leave.

"Oh, please. Who else would bring you your stupid permission slips from the office?" she says without turning back to look at you.

Marisol leaves your classroom door open. Of course she does.

Once she's gone, you try to resume grading. You catch yourself putting in the wrong scores for the wrong students, their names all jumbling up together on your screen. You lean back in your chair, pressing the heels of your palms to your eyes.

You can't stop thinking of Grace.

Ryland Grace is coming to the bar with you, Marisol, and four of your other closest work friends. And it's going to be great. You're going to be completely normal about it. Because you're a grown woman and you can handle it.

But you know there will be no grading today, nor any guise of productivity. There's no guide for navigating such a weird situation. There's only room 214 across the hall, trivia on Friday, and the sinking realization that Marisol is right.

You have to talk to him.

You do an odd jerking motion, as though your body tried to get out of your chair before your mind had caught up and put a quick stop to the idea. You sit back for a second and squeeze your eyes shut. You feel a lot like you did right before you approached Grace that night—jittery and mortified and… sort of excited all at once.

Alright, bitch, you imagine Hallie's voice in your head and give your thigh a harsh pinch in an effort to ground yourself. Now or never.

The hallway is quiet when you step out. Most of the building has emptied now that it's nearing five in the afternoon. When you peak inside room 214, you find Grace hunched over some papers, a red pen in hand. His hair is that sort of tousled-messy that, in any other circumstance on any other guy, you admire. His brow furrows, mouthing the words he's reading on what you assume is a student's assignment, seemingly bewildered by what he finds.

You knock lightly on the doorframe. He glances up instantly, swiveling his chair to better face you.

"Hi," you say.

"Hey," he says in return.

You shuffle your feet, hovering in the doorway as though there's some invisible barrier between the two of you. "You got a minute?"

"Yeah." Grace straightens up as though he's bracing for impact, a slight grimace breaking through the neutral, friendly expression he wears. "Of course."

He's nervous, you realize. His fingers tap against his thigh and he pushes his glasses up farther up the bridge of his nose. They slip down again almost immediately. He needs to get them sized and fitted, you think, before you realize you're staring. You look away quickly, examining his classroom.

He's got the makings of a model solar system pinned to the ceiling, but he's still missing Uranus and Neptune. Cute, dorky science posters like Don't trust an atom, they make up everything and Think like a proton and stay positive! are plastered on the walls. It's exactly as lively as you'd imagined. From what little snippets you'd heard from your students, Grace was shaping up to be the cool new teacher, well-liked by the kids. Because of course he is.

What an asshole.

"It looks good," you comment.

"Thanks," he says, glancing around as if to view his own room from your perspective. "Still needs some work, but I'm getting there. They really don't give you a lot of time to set up, do they?"

You smile, tension seeping from your shoulders at his casual tone. "No, they don't. It's easier when you've been here for longer. You get away with leaving more and more stuff in your room during break every year."

"Yeah, that… that makes sense." Grace runs a hand through his hair.

You pause, unsure of what to say. It's a painful silence, and you blurt the first thing that comes to mind in order to fill it.

"I'm sorry," you say. "I just wanted to…"

You lose the end of your sentence as he meets your gaze. He waits for you to finish, and you swallow harshly.

"Marisol told me you're coming to trivia."

"Oh. Yeah, Lee mentioned it."

"This Friday."

"I remember."

"Right." You nod a few too many times, grasping for the right words. "Good."

Grace shifts his weight, the tapping against his thigh intensifying. "I didn't say yes."

You blink. "What?"

"I haven't said yes, yet," he amends. "I, well… I wanted to talk to you first."

"Why?" you ask, but you think you know, and you're so touched it's actually a little sickening.

"I don't want to intrude," he says. "It's your group of friends. Your monthly thing. I don't want to be there if it makes you uncomfortable."

"You don't have to do that." Guilt leaves a sour taste in the back of your mouth. You'd never wanted Grace to feel unwelcome, you'd just… wanted to be left alone. You can't imagine how you would've ended up if Marisol hadn't taken pity on you and swooped in to practically adopt you, and you certainly can't imagine putting Grace in a position where he couldn't have that same opportunity to connect.

He ducks his head, avoiding your gaze. "It's the right thing to do."

"No, I mean… you should come. It's fun. Marisol takes it way too seriously and Lee pretends he doesn't care but he does, and Abby always gets super drunk. Joe has tried to bribe our rival team a couple times. The drinks are good. Can't say the same for the food, though, so—" you cut yourself short. You're rambling. And his face is doing something unreadable and you're so certain you've made a mess out of the whole thing that you do a double-take when he responds.

"That does sound fun."

"It is," you insist. You're aware it sounds more like you're trying to convince yourself rather than Grace, but the words are already out of your mouth and who even cares, at this point? How much more of a fool can you make of yourself? Might as well own it.

He studies you. "You're sure?"

No, you think. You make me nervous and a whole night at the bar with you is going to drive me insane but Marisol will kill me if I don't go.

"I'm sure."

"Okay." He clears his throat, smiles, and you're certain you're getting yourself into something you'll for a second time. "Okay, then I'll be there."

ᯓ★

› A/N: hiii this took way longer than i expected haha writing is hard :( big big thanks to vi (@pixiebuggz) for being my beta reader and helping brainstorm the ending so i could finally get this out! next part is finally some smut and talking things out. if you want to be added to the series taglist just comment! (and also please yell at me if i forgot to add you!!!) i'm debating on making just like a general writing taglist for when i post for other rygos characters is that something y'all would be interested in? idk lmk. i'm pretty sure no one noticed but i changed the title of part two like three or four times i'm so indecisive when it comes to titles LOL. as always if i missed anything in the tags/warnings lmk

cupidlacee

Jul 11

Okay guys walk with me here, I’ve never written a fanfic before and I genuinely don’t know how to well, but I tried writing an unfinished (possibly going to be continued???) Ryland Grace x Reader drabble and I need you to be DEAD HONEST WITH ME if it sucks tell me PLEAASSEEEE (read at your own risk) (probably sounds like a wattpad fic from 2020 😭)

Ryland Grace.

He was quite the cup of tea, that’s for sure.

You’d never really talked to him before, just observed from afar and made your own conclusions.

He was an asshole with a big ego who wore corny science pun shirts.

It wasn’t like he was hot - his hair definitely didn’t perfectly fall over his face in a way that made your stomach twist.

His glasses slowly sliding down his face without him noticing when he concentrated surely didn’t make you want to imagine how they would look sliding down his face in different circumstances,

And his voice FOR CERTAIN didn’t make you go weak in the knees, especially when you heard him growl.

So, no biggie.

Well, kind of a biggie.

Because of course the universe decided to put you two together for a group project.

And that’s how he ended up in your apartment on a Saturday night, when you’d much rather be out at a party or something (the college experience, hooray!) across from Ryland Grace on your couch.

For the fifth or something (let’s be honest, you stopped counting) time that night, he looked at you in that infuriating way.

That way where his eyebrows would furrow slightly, and he looked like he just wanted to drag his hands down his face in anger, but didn’t out of pity.

He’d already rewritten half of your notes (hey - you worked hard to make them look aesthetically pleasing!) without asking.

God, this man pissed you off.

Which is why you were staring at his arms.

Obviously.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, and talked to you like he was explaining rocket science to a baby.

“No, that wouldn’t work. It goes against our specific research, and - are you even paying attention to what I’m saying?”

Hey!! It’s not your fault his stupid ass ‘I wear this shirt periodically’ shirt is way too small on him and makes you wonder what he’d look like with it off.

Or maybe it should stay on, it does really accentuate his biceps.

“Yeah, yeah. Mhm.” You say. Great going, very convincing.

“Then what did I just say?”

Ouuu shiii..

“Uh.. something about me being wrong, again.” You mutter.

“Maybe we wouldn’t have this problem if you’d actually payed attention in class.”

Okay, now you remember why you hate this guy.

“I do pay attention in class!” You say, crossing your arms and scoffing.

“Yeah, that’s why you stare off into space for half of it.” He says, looking away and sighing.

You just grunt, rolling your eyes and leaning back against your couch.

“Oh, don’t get all pissy now.” He practically grunts out.

Pissy? You? The nerve this guy had!

You open your mouth to say something, to snap back, but - god, your work is never going to get done, is it?

————

Okay that’s it tell me how bad it issss ughhhhhhh 😭

On a real note though I’m not expecting good feedback, it’s my first fic, please be so honest with me because I want to improve soooo badddd

Also the ouuu shii thing was because I did NOT know what to put there but I hope I made you giggle

#ryalnd grace #x reader #fanfiction #fanfic #phm #project hail mary #first fanfic #be patient #help #is this anything

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