Chapter five of Four Years Til Erid is up! Remember that hurt/comfort tag?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/84467411/chapters/227986381
TVSTRANGERTHINGS

#extradirty
Cosimo Galluzzi

JBB: An Artblog!

Kiana Khansmith
he wasn't even looking at me and he found me
No title available
wallacepolsom
sheepfilms
Misplaced Lens Cap
"I'm Dorothy Gale from Kansas"
Jules of Nature

No title available
styofa doing anything

shark vs the universe
Acquired Stardust

blake kathryn
đŞź
ojovivo
One Nice Bug Per Day

seen from United States
seen from United States

seen from TĂźrkiye
seen from Singapore
seen from United States

seen from United States
seen from United States
seen from T1

seen from United States

seen from Singapore

seen from Malaysia
seen from T1
seen from United States

seen from Singapore
seen from Malaysia

seen from Saudi Arabia

seen from Germany
seen from TĂźrkiye

seen from Australia

seen from United States
@electro-elemena
Chapter five of Four Years Til Erid is up! Remember that hurt/comfort tag?
https://archiveofourown.org/works/84467411/chapters/227986381
I see your âRocky swears like a sailor but only in pitches humans canât hear/refuses to teach Grace what those words meanâ and raise you âRocky swears like a sailor and now has to explain to Grace that âbad bad badâ isnât actually a sequence you play on your Eridian speech piano in polite company.â
Grace is both horrified and amused to realise that a more accurate translation for what Rockyâs been saying is âshit shit shitâ.
quiet on set.
summary: on your fourth big blockbuster working together, you find yourself scolding hollywoodâs favorite, tom ryder. to much success, it manages to capture coltâs attention.
pairing: colt seavers x gn!reader
word count: 4.0k
tags: fluff and humor, coworkers to lovers, workplace relationship, mutual attraction, courting, flirty!colt, tom ryder being an asshole, brief gail meyer cameo, sexual humor, minor injury, kiss at the end, script supervisor!reader, gn!reader
cross-posted to ao3
âSolid chance for a reshoot,â you mutter under your breath, as soon as the director calls cut. Itâs clearly too loud, because the lead actor for the film whips his head around to locate your voice. Tom Ryder looks like heâs about to throw a temper tantrum; the overly-tight business suit and cowboy hat heâs costumed in does nothing to help his case. Youâre perched on your chair, script in-hand with one leg crossed over the other. You can only react with a raised brow.
âThat doesnât make any damn sense. I nailed it. My footâs on the tape,â Ryder protests, arms flailing down to point at the gaff tape under his left shoe. He isnât wrong, per say; his foot is most definitely on the spike. But, thereâs a very clear issue.
âYouâre faced in theââ Uncooperative, you remind yourself. Thereâs no point in arguing with Ryder head-on. You turn to the director, pen tapping against the stapled script in your hand. âHeâs faced in the wrong direction.â You canât imagine that youâre the only one whoâs spotted this, but the vast majority of the crew want to keep their jobsâand someone as fiery as Tom Ryder isnât the safest to correct.
Itâs your fourth big blockbuster with him as lead and it still astounds you how much they let him improv his scenes. Itâs difficult to tell if heâs playing different characters or just slightly different versions of himself. You can tell that half the set wants to throw in the towel by this pointâwith your observations and Ryderâs fussing. He clearly doesnât want to admit that heâs clearly overlooked the simple detail. âSo, Seavers can just reshoot the stunt to match the shot.â Classic.
You donât even know where Colt is right now. Probably taking a nap in his trailer, or grabbing a bite to eat off-set. You canât think about that now, because you need to focus on talking over Ryder. âThatâs insane,â you counter. âItâs too expensive to reshoot the stunt, and itâs already perfect as-is. It doesnât take a whole lot of work to recreate the scene you just did.â Itâs really not. All he has to do is wave his stupid prop-gun around and run his mouth.
âPain in the fuckinâ ass,â Ryder mutters indiscreetly. You can only scribble away on your script, unamused. The makeup artist that comes to touch up the highlighter on his cheeks looks half-scared to death. You can tell that sheâs in a quick rush to dab the brush at his face and scurry away as fast as possible.
âTom, bear with us for a minute. Weâve got this scene left, and then itâs press time. You love the press,â the director exclaims, all too sporadically. âWeâll redo the scene really quick, bud. Just go with the flow.â
â
Youâve been keeping your eye on Colt for the last week and a half of production. Itâs not that you can control it. Whenever heâs substituting in for Ryder for the fight scenes or the pyro or the vehicular stunts, heâs always front and center. Youâve got to keep your eye on the script and Colt simultaneously; itâs your jobâtracking the consistency. In any case, youâd have to do just the same for Ryder. Except, when Coltâs not needed for the shot, you, on occasion, still keep your eye on him.
So, you might have an inkling of a crush on the senior stunt double on your set. The reason, youâve tried to deduce, is that heâs relatively much nicer than Ryder, which means youâre so much more likely to like him. And youâd be lying if you said you werenât attracted to him, with his blonde highlights and all the movie quotes he spews out between takes.
Usually, youâll find him at the catering table, on his third cup of your shared fourteen-hour day. Itâs under these usual circumstances that he comes to thank you. You feel a tap on your shoulderâand Coltâs there, right beside you, mug in hand. You give him a nod and a smile, trying not to come off too jumpy. He still has his costume on, grayish blue suit and a slightly darker tie to matchâtopped with a brimmed cowboy hat. Itâs the same as Ryderâs. You drop your thermos down on the folding table, trying to figure out what pastry might tie you over for the rest of the day.
âSo, I heard you did me a big favor,â Colt murmurs. Word travels fast on-set, clearly. He takes the white little espresso mug up to his lips, taking a sip of the hot brew as he leans back against the catering table. He lowers it just a little to say, âYou shouldâve just let him make us reshoot.â
You shake your head, picking a scone off one of the trays and placing it onto your flimsy styrofoam tray. âItâs good to get him worked up early during production, so he might ease off the bitching later. Itâs like an advanced payment.â
Colt snorts. âNice,â he says, âIâm pretty sure heâs trying to get Gail to get you fired. Obviously, you didnât hear it from me.â It barely fazes you. Ryderâs always dying to get somebody fired, and it alternates based on his particular moods. His targeting you is no different than usual.
âShe canât fire me,â you chuckle. After four blockbuster films of you on script with the bigwigs, youâre convinced that youâre invincible. Itâs naive, maybe, but youâre good at what you do. Youâre credible. And, on this particular contemporary Western at leastâwith crunch time now, in the middle of springâyouâre safe. You digress, âI know the film inside out, and itâd be a killer to replace me at this point in production.âÂ
âRight,â Colt nods. He doesnât seem to believe you too much, but it is what it is. He seems to lower his voice as crew, largely lighting and sound in all-black, whizz past you to set up for the next scene. Intently, he tells you, âI wouldnât mind reshooting if it means Ryder wonât give you as hard of a time.â
Your eyebrows crease. Itâs not that you donât appreciate his efforts to make your life easier. Itâs just so simple the way Colt thinks he can be tossed around; you wish heâd be more careful with himself. âKind offer. Thanks.â Youâre brushing him off; he can tell.
âEven if you wonât take me up on it,â Colt tilts his head, âIâm around whenever you need me. What is this, our third film together?â Heâs flashing you a grin, back to the table. He must think heâs real cool; you hate that itâs working on you.
âFourth,â you correct. Youâre not sure if it comes out short or timid; regrettably, it feels more like the latter. Colt lowers his mug down onto the table, faltering just slightly.
Briskly, he repeats, âFourth.â Colt makes an extended effort to turn around and pick your thermos up off the table. You have to suppress a yelped âhey.â Despite your protests, thermos his hand, Colt practically bodyguards the whole setupâthe Keurig and the metal basket of espresso pods adjacent to it. Your hip bumps against his as he puts his forearm to fend you off. Youâd try to grab for it if you werenât at work, PAs and DPs flitting around you both. âYou donât have toââ
And, like a flash, Colt tosses your thermos onto the bottom plate, whips the pod into the canister, punches the lid down, and clicks double-shot. âMy first installment for you screwing over Ryder on my behalf.â While youâre both waiting for the machine to pour down coffee, heâs humming something like ABBA. âHow pissed was he to reshoot?â
âPractically frothing at the mouth,â you tell him, âIâm surprised they didnât prep a bib.â Coltâs perfectly satisfied with this answer, nodding curtly. Respect. Not many people are capable of talking down on Ryder so openly.
The thermos gets filled halfway, and Colt offers it back up to you, âHere.â You take the thermos back, in steady avoidance of his callused fingertips. He admits, âI donât know how you like your coffee yet.â Yet? You narrow your eyes. Youâre not sure that Colt has ever been so attentive talking to you, and youâre trying not to feel the way your breath hitches in your chest in response.
If thereâs anything youâre able to bond about with Colt, itâs the damn on-set coffee. Heâs practically running on the stuff, probably ten times worse than you are. His little mug finds its way back into his hands again. Colt fails to speak for a moment, too occupied by⌠something on your face. Youâre trying not to crumple beneath his observation, but Coltâs smiling and heâs searching over your features for something.
Finally, after a few seconds, he lets up. âIâll get your order down sometime this week. Iâm, uh, quick to learn,â he tells you. Then, he raises up his little cup toward you. âCheers. To you disturbing the peace.â You raise your thermos, and Coltâs ceramic clinks against your metal. A little victory.
â
You could care less about Ryderâs peace, really; but, youâre partially grateful in the fact that itâs allowed you to catch Coltâs attention. Colt sticks to his word about the coffee, because he seems to keep his attention fixed whenever youâre at that catering table with him. And when youâre not at the catering table, heâs still somehow around, holding open doors for you and keeping spare pencils tucked on his person for you to use to mark scripts. You donât want to mistake it for anything that itâs not, but it feels almost vaguely like Colt Seavers is trying to court you.
All the fuss that heâs been making to please you culminates into a really unnecessary scene on-set. Youâre right off camera, next to the director, camera op, Gail, and⌠Colt. Itâs one of those classic getaway car scenes, set in a downtown street; theyâve got Ryder in the motions of hopping into a great Oldsmobile Toronado, while two security guards are trying to hop and skip after him in the facade of a nameless bank. All the actionâRyder yelling âReally, it ainât personal,â in a vaguely East Coast accentâculminates into him jumping down a set of stairs and whipping the door open. He clambers in, slams the door shut, and throws a big duffel into the backseat. The open zipper of the bag makes for a great effect of bills being scattered all in the closed containment of the car.
The director yells cut and the crew runs round to reset. Ryder runs his nails into his scalp, pushing back his curls; it all comes very easily to him, these things. As terrible as he is a person, he still canât help but be great at his craft. Itâs insufferable. One of the PAs guides him out of the car and off-camera to a tall chair with a glass of water and a tray of fruit. He pops a green grape into his mouth, before staring off in your direction, bored. âCan somebody tell Colt to stop eye-fucking the scripty?â
The notes that youâre taking down in red ink have to wait. You slap your script down onto your lap. âHeâs not,â you spit out, gawking most of all at the choice of words. In front of the entire setâoh, you want to kill Ryder; thereâs nothing in the world youâd want more.
âIâm notââ Colt scoffs. âIâm trying to gauge if the camera needs to get pulled back. Itâs gonna be a killer if I crack the lens.â You look over your shoulder to check Coltâs conviction. Thereâs zero of it. Heâs looking down at you and back at Ryder, hands propped on his hips. You can see his chest rise and fall. Colt wants to look tough, and his composure is doing absolutely to help you.
Ryder laughs, really guffaws. He makes sure to crunch down another green grape, before he shoos the whole arrangement away with a âThanks, honey.â The PA by Ryderâs side makes sure to make themselves sparse, taking away the fruit and leaving him with the water. Ryder keeps his eye locked on Colt, already quite entertained. âYouâre a shitty liar, dude.â
âThereâs a reason why oneâs the lead and the otherâs the double,â Gail says heartily, smacking her gum with a shrug. When she finds that you havenât agreed with her, or at least laughed alongside the two of them, she gives you an eyeroll under her wide glasses. Itâs all wide and clear: Gail thinks youâre no fun. She should really adjust her priorities.
The director groans, âJesus, Colt, just go get in the car.â The talk is getting you all further behind schedule. Coltâs meant to crash into a storefront window. Amidst the arguing, everythingâs all in placeâan Oldsmobile replica driven up in place of the real deal, door open for Colt to jump in. You can feel him hand tap the back of your chair as he straightens out his costume and grabs for his crash helmet. A wordless sorry. You try not to jump at the feeling of Coltâs suit brushing against your shoulder as he passes by you.
âYou got it, boss,â Colt calls out, exclamation muffled. He throws out a big thumbs up as he makes it over to the car. You have a feeling that Colt is going to grovel later about Ryder making a scene of the two of you, but really, it isnât the worst thing in the worldâat least, until Colt slams the car door shut and Ryder decides to speak up again.
Leaned over in his tall chair, he asks slovenly, âSeriously, are you sleeping with Seavers? If itâs because heâs my stuntman and itâs a power thingââÂ
âNo! No, Iâm not sleeping with Colt and even if I was, you would have absolutely nothing to do with you,â you hiss. The ego on Ryder makes your head thrum. You try to keep to your scriptâtaking up the clipboard in your lap to write notes down on your log on the last couple of shots.
âIt would make sense âcause he looks like me, you hate my guts. Itâs like that psychosexual shit that Freud talks about⌠uhâŚâ Ryder taps his fingers on the armrest of his chair, then clicks his fingers: âDisplacement.â Smartass. He probably only knows the term having prepped it for an interview on one of his psychological thrillers. Ryder is about to continue harping on about how flattered he is, but the 1st AD calls quiet on set; he shuts it.
â
Youâre stationed at your new spot on the opposite side of the backlot, five feet behind the secondary camera setupâwhere Colt is meant to swing the car through a large glass window. Luckily, Ryder and Gail have decided amongst themselves to depart elsewhere to talk about the next big film. This way, youâll be able to worry about this stunt in peace.
At action, the Oldsmobile revs. Colt is making sure to kick up some smoke. You can tell now that this is going to be a good takeâjust from the way heâs handling the car. If youâre not mistaken, you think that he might even be driving with a bit of extra force. The car starts barreling down the set raucously. Youâre trying not to grip your script too hard at the sight of him speeding down the road. As Coltâs car approaches, youâre unable to see his expression past the tinted helmet. The flash that you do catch is of his gloved hands gripping the wheelâand the most that you can do is cross your fingers.
The collision is hard. You canât help but flinch at the sight of him tearing the car through the pane. It shatters loudly, and you can see the motion of the Oldsmobile hitting the crash pad. The director makes sure to hold, so SFX can machine-pump a bit of fog out of the fictitious storefront and make the scene look a little prettier. Then, they call âCut.â Thereâs a whole lot of movement towards the carâfirst, with brooms to sweep away the stray glass, and second, to check on Colt.
The door of the Oldsmobile whips open, and Colt shoots out a thumbs up. You sigh. Heâs fine. As soon as he gets out of the car, though, you canât help but notice that heâs gripping his shoulder and trying to stretch it back. He takes a moment to tug off his helmet and mess with his hair just a bit. The nearest on-set medic tries to approach him with a âIf it hurts, I can take a look at it,â but you hear him deny it with an insistent âAll good. Donât worry about it.â The director runs up to give Colt praisesââThe shot was perfect, man. Good job.ââcalls a thirty-minute break to the crew, and then rushes away.
By the time Colt gets over to you, youâre still locked into your seat trying to look busy. Your fingers are clasping around your script and logs, trying to straighten out the stack as you tap it atop your knee a few times. He comes up and leans one hand on your armrest. As casual as he tries to make it look, Coltâs trying to keep himself steady. You suck in a breath and look straight up at him. âYou screwed your shoulder up, didnât you?â
His brows furrow. âNo. I stepped on the gas harder than I shouldâve so itâs just a residual, you know, body reaction,â Colt says, coming off your armrest. For once, Ryderâs right: Colt is a shitty liar. âI would know if I screwed my shoulder up,â he says dismissively.
âYou,â you say, index fingers pointed up and towards Coltâs chest, âare going to let me take a look at it, and if itâs bad, Iâm going to tell them to send you home early.â
He scoffs. âI still have two more stunts tonight.â But somehow, heâs still bending to your whimâbecause as soon as you hop off your chair and begin to walk off in the opposite direction, Coltâs right on your tail. âItâs my job to get dinged up,â he says, eyes still tracking your expression. Heâs trying to tell whether or not youâre mad at him. You arenât mad, per sayâbut youâre not very pleased, either.
His trailer is in sight pretty quickly, tucked away in a corner of the exterior set. Itâs really just a giant metal box, identical to the rest. âOkay, yes, youâre supposed to get dinged up, but not recklessly,â you tell him, approaching the front door of the trailer. âOr more than you have to. Quality over quantity, Colt.â When you look over, Colt is trying not to wince. You canât help but frown at him.
âIâm used to it,â he tells you, shaking his head, âI have Extra Strength Advil in there. Itâll work like a miracleâjust watch.â
â
You already know that Colt screwed up his shoulder, because he canât even take the suit jacket off himself. You have to come up behind him and help him shrug it off, trying to pay no mind to the shaky breaths and heavy groans that come with the movement. The pale blue dress shirt he has on is tight around the arms; itâs not your first time seeing how much muscle Colt has on him, but itâs still just as jarring. So, youâve got to ignore that, too. The tie is easy for Colt to pull off and toss away. Though, heâs having trouble with the buttons on the shirtâtoo much pull on his shoulder. You swat his hand aside and begin the motions of unbuttoning it for him.
âOkay. I shouldnât have driven as fast as I did,â Colt admits to you, âItâs on me, obviouslyâbut itâs also on Ryder.â You get to the bottom button slowly but surely, trying to pay close attention to his words. This feels⌠close. Considering youâd offered the check-up purely out of worry, this is all more intimate than youâd expected.
You tilt your head. âBecause he was saying all that stuff about theâŚâ
âEyefucking, yeah. And Iâm sure it was uncomfortable for both of us to get a load of that in front of all of our coworkers. I didnât wanna make it a thing, so I just⌠I was driving angry, which is never a good thing,â Colt says, âHe has no class.â
âItâs Ryder, you know? Itâs not like his words really ever carry any weight,â you say. Your priority still is to make sure Coltâs shoulder isnât too screwed up, but it also doesnât hurt to test the waters. You pop the last button off and try to help him shrug off his dress shirt. Itâs difficult not to feel a little shifty in your abdomen when your fingertips slide down against Coltâs bicep; you make sure to fold up the shirt semi-nicely before tossing it down with the tie.
When you turn, Colt in his undershirt and the dress pants looks almost boyishly guilty. You narrow your eyes, âOkay, turn around. Lemme see it.â And Colt does as you say, spinning around to show you his back. His shoulder is splotched purple and green, pigmented all across his shoulder blade. âFuck, Colt.â
âIt always looks worse than it actually is. Stunts 101.â Heâs trying to make you laugh, but youâre much too focused on the bruising. He steps away as soon as you ghost your fingers over his skin. Coltâs grabbing an ice pack from his mini fridge and bringing it over his shoulder. âAnd I should probably use right now as an opportunity to reassure you that I wasnât trying to eye-fuck you,â Colt says. Itâs a contradiction: you can see his eyes flashing down and back up. âUnless, obviously, you wanted me to. Then, itâd be a whole different story. Butââ
You kiss Colt, crashing your lips against his, and he practically hurls the ice pack away to hug his arms around your waist. Given the chance, he wouldâve gone through a whole spiel of telling you that he respects maintaining a professional relationship. But, now, youâre really laying it all out on the table. Your hands are coming up greedily to cup his face, and heâs sliding his hands up and down your lower back. He tastes like spearmint gum, and his face is burning up the longer youâre close to him.
Colt pulls back only for a moment to look at you; his pupils are dilated beyond repair. âOkay,â he murmurs, âRyder caught me staring. Good on him for calling me on it.â
âI figured. Youâre so easy to read,â you laugh, unable to stifle your amusement. Coltâs not offended at allâonly leaning in closer to you. Everything about him seems a little bit lighter after youâve kissed; heâs standing up straighter, and his hands are coming up to your head. Colt has his nimble, calloused fingers brushing through your hair. Itâs a soothing, gentle motionâpossibly a distractionâbut itâs also romantic enough to placate you. You have to shuffle away a little bit, still locked into Coltâs grasp. âSo, can I put in a word with somebody to see if you can get tonight off?â
He drops his hands back down to your waistâthe workaholic he is. âIf it pleases you, yes. And if it works out, Iâll nap here while you close out, ice my shoulder, and then I can take you out to dinner very, very far away from set. You choose, I pay,â Colt decides, âAnd we can make out a bit more after dessert. Does that sound good?â He really doesnât waste any time.
You hum in agreement, hand flattening against Coltâs abs, just under the white wifebeater heâs got on. You can feel his stomach tighten just slightly. Sensitive. âYou have me for ten more minutes, and then Iâve gotta go find an AD.â
And cockily, Colt replies, âIâm pretty sure you and I can get a lot done in ten. Donât you?â
there is Something in stratt pressing bob redell to confront that he was actually negligent, admit that his negligence lead to seven of his workers getting instantly killed, and then specifically saying that she won't let him act like "an innocent scapegoat;" and how she refers to herself as "the world's whipping boy" and, later, how sixteen of her workers end up getting instantly killed because the project she leads lacks sufficient safety protocols. is she being hypocritical and making the exact same internal justifications as redell, or does this mean she knows what she's doing is wrong? does she brush off the tornadoes in southern europe as not really her fault, or does she accept that, yes, she caused them? when grace calls her a murderer, does she agree or disagree? and, perhaps the million dollar question, does she act more distressed and vulnerable about sending him off to die because she just can't minimize it or push it down when her trusted friend and advisor is telling her "whatever lets you sleep at night"?
Chapter four of Four Years Til Erid is up! A little bitterness and a lot of sweetness to make up for it.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
(insp.)
GRACE ROCKY SAVES STARS
Project Hail Mary (2026) dir. Phil Lord, Chris Miller + Wordle
((Inspo))
Ryland Grace + Physical Touch Project Hail Mary (2026) dir. Phil Lord, Chris Miller
Hey so what the fuck đ
Rocky's speech patterns
I made a spreadsheet logging all of Rocky's lines in the movie and analyzed some of his speech patterns by correcting his grammar. Enjoy:
- can use contractions but often skips them
- has trouble understanding personal and possessive pronouns like I, my, or mine; uses them anyways on occasion but defaults to skipping them or using names as placeholders instead (e.g. Grace or Rocky, Grace's or Rocky's) -- need more evidence to suggest a specific use case but I headcanon that there's a difference in emotion when he uses these because canonically Rocky's full name is actually something like "Rocky of the Whatever Clan of Erid" instead of just his first name like human naming conventions
- uses past tense or simple present tense by default (e.g. died, [I or you] die); does not often use future tense even when discussing future actions
- skips prepositions
- often uses the minimum amount of words necessary to explain a concept -- this could also be that he's using larger sentences full of words that the translation software can't catch or hasn't been ironed out yet. plausible because his language production is so alien to humans that grace might genuinely miss some parts of his meaning when he explains even a very specific chord
- often skips the verb in a sentence if it's "is," unless he's also skipping the subject of the sentence when it's "it" -- example of skipping "is" = "what this down here question" -- example of skipping "it" = "is okay" instead of "it is okay." still remembers to use a verb pretty often
- sometimes speaks in lists without using prepositions to order them, just verbally orders them. basically verbally creates bullet points
- understandably confused by idioms like "what on earth" and "not half bad"
- does not understand sarcasm and rarely understands jokes. also understandably because these are based in earth knowledge. however, he says "humor. confusing," at one point, instead of "human humor. confusing," or "earth humor. confusing," which is a more likely version of what he would say if he understood humor but not earth's version of it. interesting commentary on potential eridian culture
- the way he uses "fist my bump" despite repeatedly being told the correct way to say it, not even using possessive pronouns very often, and being incredibly skilled at mimicry due to an infallible memory implies that he's just fucking with grace, which is hilarious. also suspect this is true for "words of encouragement"
- does not give a FUCK about articles of speech. "a" "the" and "an" can all go fuck themselves apparently
- there's more but lmk if you want to see the spreadsheet
Chapter three of Grace and Graham's space shenanigans is up, and so is the rating!
https://archiveofourown.org/works/84467411/chapters/224591811
I know there's a popular headcanon that Grace's crew died because of feeding tubes malfunction (based on the paperwork Grace was doing right before the explosion), but â in the book he specifically says that even after the accident he kept dealing with that same paperwork on minor Hail Mary issues, so I doubt that feeding tube problem was left unaddressed. May I offer instead:
Grace was put into coma by the people who cared about him. They (especially YĂĄo being YĂĄo) probably double-triple-quadruple checked everything. They watched him sleep for those first few days â I doubt they went into coma immediately after leaving Earth's orbit. They probably talked to him, assuring him that he'll be okay.
Ilyukhina's coma procedure was probably supervised by YĂĄo. He made sure that everything was in order, but â he is just one man and he is not a doctor. There was much more room for mistakes.
When YĂĄo went to sleep, he was alone. He had to rely on the technology completely.
We know that he died first.
[ ęąá´á´ á´ á´Ęá´ á´ á´á´á´ ]
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 ]
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 subtly 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.
grace, the hail mary, and the ocean
so how many times do we think grace has tripped down these stairs
we can't keep letting him get away with this
Chapter two is up! Grace is procrastinating and Graham is making it really, really, hard.
https://archiveofourown.org/works/84467411/chapters/224216181#main
a continuation of this comic here >>>
the anime was ok though
bonus:
the "older sibling experience" transfers back to dick

