this blog has been my writing account for ten years, some fics are old, some are incomplete. for more recent fics, check out my k-pop blog
Marvel:
✩ Candy Shop
You should have never brought the twins inside a candy store
(no ship)
✩ Not a Mountain Goat
Pietro teases you for being short and hides your Oreos. You do your best to get them back.
⋆｡°✩ Series:
✩ Sokovia Burning
Before he was fast and she was weird… a collection of Maximoff twins’ backstories.
✩ Covert Operations
You’re a S.H.I.E.L.D agent that has to learn to walk in high heels for an upcoming mission. To your initial dismay you are paired up with your not-so-secret crush Pietro Maximoff. But when you are to be fake married, anything is possible.
✩ Three Christmases
You admit your crush to Pietro via a Christmas gift, but things don’t go as planned.
Star Wars:
✩ Ice Cream (no ship)
✩ Unexpected Guests
Modern AU- Rey and Finn find BB-8 in his yard while walking home drunk one night. They attempt to steal the pup but are caught by Poe. Instead of getting mad, the pilot lets them crash at his place.
✩ Hold My Hand
Finn deals with the difficulties of recovering from his injuries, as well as his budding feelings for both Rey and Poe.
✩ Best Part of My Day
Poe is a cab driver in a big city who’s life is looking pretty bleak: his job’s in danger and the boy he likes is nowhere to be found. BB-8 is his cheerful corgi that’s always there to brighten his day.
Umbrella Academy
✩ Cup Noodles
Your close friend/secret crush takes a break from keeping the city save to watch the Oscars with you.
✩ Floral & Fading
Diego needs a place to crash, luckily your door is always open to him.
summary: ryland grace may be able to carry the weight of the world, but not without breaking somewhere. Luckily, he has someone who knows exactly how to bring him back.
warnings: 18+ smut, oral f receiving, p in v, submissive ryland!!, ryland has a hair pulling kink lowkey, needy! ryland, overworked! ryland, slight angst, soft ending, gentle and emotional smut, pornwith plot
The sound of the clock was impossible to ignore that night.
Now, that’s not to say it was big. Objectively, it was small. An old white thing that had come from Ryland’s first flat, now sitting proudly above the kitchen door. It was cheap plastic and most definitely second-hand, offering a loud click as the seconds crept on. Each landing deliberately as it reminded you what you were trying so hard not to measure.
You checked it again.
22:47.
You exhaled through your nose, lips pressing together as you tried to soothe the ache in your stomach that had been pushing harder and harder as the weeks went on.
The flat was warmer tonight, blame it on the oven being on for too long and the windows not being open enough. The smell of roasted garlic still permeated the air, softened now that dinner was technically over. It now sat on the counter, carefully packed into mismatched Tupperware containers. It had once been plated, earlier, when you thought he’d be home by eight.
You’d even lit a candle. You were optimistic.
The flame had travelled halfway down the wick, the wax pooling unevenly along one side, before you decided to blow it out.
He wasn’t coming back.
You pulled your knees a little closer to your chest, where you sat curled into the corner of the sofa, a blanket half draped over your legs. The TV was on as it flickered a shifting light across the room. Something mindless played on the screen, not that you were actually watching; you zoned out around an hour ago.
You just wanted some noise at this point, or rather, the absence of silence.
There is a brief war in your mind as you debate whether to put the Tupperware away. It was still sitting on the counter. You decide that it is probably for the best to move from your sanctuary on the sofa, stretch your legs and whatnot.
You wander over to the kitchen, socks shuffling across the floor as you reach for the plastic containers to put away.
He may not be here, but there are traces of him everywhere.
It’s what makes you so worried about him.
You turn towards the fridge—it was the first thing anyone noticed when they walked in. Not because it was particularly nice, but because it was covered.
Layered in magnets and paper and colour. Crayon drawings, most of them, curling slightly at the corners where the magnets didn’t quite hold them flat.
Stick figures with wildly disproportionate limbs. Planets coloured in purple and green. A sun with sunglasses. A lopsided rocket labelled—very proudly, in uneven block letters.
MR GRACE’S ROCKET SHIP!!!
You smiled softly.
He’d come home with that one months ago, careful not to let it crease too much on his bike ride home.
“Look at this,” he’d said, laughing. “They think I’m cool enough to go to space.”
You’d laughed then too, teasing him gently, telling him he was cool enough, and he’d ducked his head.
There were more of them now.
More drawings. More little notes. One that just said “Thank you Mr Grace :)” in pencil.
He’d never had the heart to take any of them down.
Your chest tightened.
Because that was him, wasn’t it?
That earnest kind of care. The way he gave himself to things—fully, without hesitation, without holding anything back. Whether it was his students, or a problem he couldn’t quite solve, or you.
Especially you.
Your eyes flicked back to the clock as you put dinner away.
22:52.
You wondered, not for the first time, what he was actually doing.
His most recent job was vague, always described sheepishly. He said there were NDAs involved, said it was "research." Papers were always hidden away where you couldn’t see them, let alone try to understand them.
You trusted him. That was enough for you not to pry. That paired with the way that he’d looked at you—not excited, but lit from within in a way you’d never seen before.
That had been enough.
You didn’t need to know the details to know that something had shifted.
It had started small. A meeting here. A call there. Then longer hours. Then missed dinners. Then the creeping realisation that whatever he’d been pulled into, it wasn’t temporary.
Most nights now, the flat felt too still without him in it.
It wasn’t that you minded. If anything, you were glad he’d found something that lit him up like this. It was the way he gave himself to it, completely and without pause, that worried you. The sense that he was stretching himself thinner and thinner, and that one day there might not be enough left to hold him up.
You lingered for a moment in the kitchen, fingers brushing along the edge of the counter as your eyes drifted once more to the clock.
23:01
Later than you’d promised yourself you’d stay up.
You should go to bed.
He’d understand.
With an exhale, you reached for the switch. The overhead light flickered softly, your hand hovering, as if you were hesitating, as if some part of you was still holding out hope.
The sound of the lock turning cut through the stillness.
You stilled.
Metal against metal. A stubborn click. The push of the door easing open.
Ryland.
You could hear he was trying to keep quiet. His shoes hardly made a sound as he kicked them off, nor did the door as it softly shut, trying not to disturb a space he already thought was asleep.
The flat stayed dim, the kitchen light still on behind you, casting a soft spill into the hallway, catching just the edge of his silhouette.
You could stand here and giggle as he fumbled around, trying to keep silent as he took off his bag and jacket, but the feeling in your chest stopped your thoughts immediately.
Before you could think better of it, you were already moving.
You rounded the corner quickly, too quickly for him to anticipate. He barely had time to look up before you were on him, arms wrapping around him and relief flooding your system.
“Oof—”
He let out a startled sound as you collided with him, hands coming up instinctively to catch you, steady you.
And then, just as quickly, he melted into you.
His arms slipped around you, pulling you in close. His chin dipped toward your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin.
He smelled the same. Coffee, soap, completely familiar and him.
“What are you—” he trailed off, voice lower than it usually was, tiredness hinting at the edges. “Should be in bed by now, sweetheart.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him, not taking his gentle scolding too seriously.
He should take his own damn advice.
You smiled, practically glowing in his embrace and the knowledge that you’d be able to say goodnight to him in person this time.
“I wasn’t tired.”
It wasn’t a lie.
Your eyes lingered on his face, fully taking him in, even if you hadn’t quite clocked everything yet.
“Plus,” you continued, a little quieter. “I sleep better when you’re here.”
He huffed softly, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly.
“That’s not true,” he said, voice still gentle. “You’re usually still snoring when I leave in the morning.”
You frowned immediately, offended.
“I do not snore.”
He gave you a look.
“Mm,” he hummed. “Okay. Whatever you say.”
You barely had time to argue before he leaned in, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It was unhurried, something you let yourself smile into.
When you pulled back, you tilted your head slightly, still holding onto him.
“I made dinner.”
That got his attention.
He blinked at you, like the words took a second to land, his tired eyes softening just a fraction.
“You did?”
You nodded, a little eager despite yourself.
“Pasta. Your favourite.”
He let out a groan, dropping his head into the crook of your neck, his arms tightening around your waist just slightly.
“You spoil me,” he mumbled.
You shrugged, smiling as your fingers brushed lightly against his back.
“It’s my job.”
He huffed softly against your skin.
“Should be mine.”
“What was that?” you asked, tilting your head just enough to try and catch it.
“Nothing,” he said quickly, lifting his head again.
You studied him for a moment, then stepped back just enough to gesture vaguely toward the kitchen.
“Do you want me to heat it up?”
He hesitated.
You saw it, even before he answered.
“Nah—no, no,” he said, a little too quickly. “You go, get comfy, yeah? I’ve just got… I’ve just got some stuff I need to read. Then I’ll be right with you.”
You stilled.
“You’re still working?”
The words came out soft, but they hit.
He stopped too.
In the brief pause between the two of you, it allowed you to really see him.
Even in the low light, it was all there. The shadows under his eyes were darker than they used to be. The strain on his expression that he was so obviously trying to hide. His glasses had slipped slightly down his nose, unnoticed by him, his hair a little more dishevelled than usual.
He looked exhausted.
“Ry—“ you murmur as your chest tightens, lifting your hands to his face. You drag your thumbs lightly along his jaw as you hold him there. “You can’t work all the time.”
“I know,” he said quietly.
“You need rest.”
“I’m gonna,” he insisted, but there was no real conviction in it.
You searched his face, your mouth turning into a frown.
“But you never get any.”
He hated to admit it, but you had a point.
Damn it.
He exhaled and it was heavy. His gaze dropping to the floor like he disappointed you. He didn’t want to argue, but he also didn’t want to deflect.
Because he knew. He knew you were right.
You brushed his hair back from his forehead gently, fingers slipping through the soft strands, and the effect was immediate.
He couldn’t help himself when it came to you.
His shoulders dropped just slightly, his eyes closing for half a second as he leaned into the touch without thinking, like his body recognised something his mind hadn’t had time to catch up with.
Like he needed it.
You let your fingers linger, nails dragging lightly across his scalp, and he let out a low groan, his grip on your waist tightening instinctively.
Your heart gave a small, startled thud.
When was the last time—
You didn’t even finish the thought.
Too long. Far too long.
Your fingers curled slightly in his hair, just enough to guide his head back, and he followed easily, eyes opening again, a little unfocused now, a little softer.
You had an idea.
You looked up at him, your expression gentler now, something more deliberate settling in your gaze.
“Ry,” you said quietly, almost coaxing. “Are you sure I can’t help you relax?”
It took him no time to understand your insinuation.
He looked at you like the question physically pained him.
Torn.
He dragged a hand briefly over his face, exhaling under his breath.
“Baby, I—” he started, cutting himself off quickly, like he’d caught the words just in time. He shook his head slightly, a faint, tired smile pulling at his mouth.
“Okay,” he said, softer now. “Okay. Yeah.”
His hands found your waist again.
“We can do whatever you want.”
Something bright, almost giddy, flickered in your chest. Because finally, you could take care of him.
Your fingers slid down from his hair, tracing the line of his jaw one last time before you caught his hand in yours. His palm was warm, a little clammy from the long day, but the second your skin met his he laced your fingers together.
You gave a gentle tug and he followed, his steps heavy and dragging behind you, socks scuffing softly against the floorboards. He moved like a man who’d forgotten how to want anything except the next thing you offered him, like a tired puppy trailing after the only light left in the flat.
You led him down the short hallway. The bedroom door was already ajar; you pushed it open with your hip, and the street lamps outside spilt in through the half-drawn blinds, painting everything in soft gold and cool silver.
The way he liked you best.
The glow caught on the rumpled sheets you’d left this morning, on the curve of his shoulder as he stepped in behind you, on the faint sheen of exhaustion that still clung to his face.
He stopped just inside the doorway, blue eyes locked on you. Even half-dead on his feet he looked hungry—starved, really—desperate with his pupils blow wide and his breath hitching every time you moved.
He perked up quickly.
Good.
Time to ease his thoughts away from work and solely on you.
You could still feel it rolling off him in waves: the weeks of late nights, the missed dinners, the way his body had forgotten what it felt like to be touched with anything but clinical efficiency.
You stepped closer, letting your hip cock to one side, head tilting as you looked up at him through your lashes. The movement made the hem of his old t-shirt ride up your thighs, and his gaze dropped there for half a second before snapping back to your face like he’d been caught.
“You gonna let me take care of you, Ry?” you asked, voice low and sweet, the way you knew made his knees weak.
He swallowed hard, throat working.
“You always take care of me,” he murmured, the words rough.
“Yeah…” You smiled, teasing. “But I have a feeling you’re really gonna like this one.”
He opened his mouth—probably to protest, to say he should be the one looking after you, to offer some tired half-joke—but you rose up on your toes and kissed him before the words could escape. He melted instantly. The sound he made was broken, almost embarrassed, like he hadn’t meant to let it out.
His free hand came up to cradle the back of your head, fingers threading into your hair, needing something solid to hold onto while the rest of him dissolved.
You kept kissing him as your hands found the top button of his cardigan—soft green wool, the one he’d worn the day he first told you about the “research job” that was eating him alive.
One button, then another. You worked slowly, letting your knuckles brush the warm skin of his chest each time. He didn’t move to help. He just stood there, eyes half-lidded and gentle. When the cardigan finally slid down his arms and pooled on the floor, he shivered, even though the room wasn’t cold.
Next came the shirt underneath. You tugged it free from his jeans, palms skimming up the flat plane of his stomach, feeling the way his muscles jumped and twitched under your touch.
He was so pliant, so perfectly willing—arms lifting when you guided them, head ducking so you could pull the fabric over it.
The shirt joined the cardigan and he stood there bare-chested, breathing a little faster now, chest already tight from the weight of your stare.
Your fingers dropped to the buckle of his belt. Metal clicked. You looked up at him again, searching his face.
“Is this alright?”
His hands covered yours immediately, warm and steady despite the tremor in his voice.
“Baby,” he said, almost laughing but too wrecked for it, “you can have me whenever you want. You know that.”
The words came out hoarse and you couldn’t help but think about every night he’d come home after midnight, every morning he’d slipped out before you woke.
Your chest squeezed—but you shoved the ache aside.
Not tonight.
Tonight he was here, and he was yours.
You popped the button, dragged the zip down, and pushed his jeans and boxers off his hips in one. He stepped out of them clumsily, kicking them aside, and he was naked in front of you—cock already half-hard and curving up toward his stomach, flushed dark at the tip and beading at the slit.
He looked so vulnerable like this, eyes soft and a little glassy, waiting for whatever you wanted to do to him.
Before you could sink to your knees or touch him the way you were aching to, he reached for you with that same tired, adoring smile.
“Your turn?”
You giggled—couldn’t help it—and let him pull you in. His hands were eager, sliding under the hem of the oversized t-shirt you’d stolen from his drawer. He peeled it off you slowly, reverent.
God, you missed him.
When your breasts were bare he exhaled shakily, thumbs brushing the undersides like he couldn’t quite believe he was allowed. The shirt hit the floor and then his fingers hooked into the waistband of your sleep shorts, dragging them down your thighs in one go.
You stepped out and suddenly you were both exposed, skin glowing in the light, the air between you thick with weeks of pent-up need.
He didn’t waste time. He hauled you against him, mouth crashing into yours in a kiss that felt deeper than the last, like the exhaustion was finally cracking open.
One of his hands splayed across your lower back, the other slid between your legs without hesitation. Two fingers stroked through your folds, finding you already slick and aching, and he groaned into your mouth when he felt it.
“Baby…” he rasped against your lips, voice wrecked. “Seems like I’ve been neglecting you, huh?”
His fingers circled your clit once, twice, slow and perfect, and you whimpered, hips jerking forward.
You grabbed a fistful of his hair and softly tugged—just hard enough to make him gasp—then shoved at his chest playfully.
“Tonight I’m taking care of you, Dr Grace.”
Dr Grace.
The title landed like a live wire. You knew exactly what it did to him; he could see it in the way you said it.
His eyes fluttered, a broken little sound punched out of his chest, and he let you push him backwards until the backs of his knees hit the mattress. Let you move him where you wanted him.
He dropped down willingly, sprawled out on his back, cock now fully hard and leaking against his stomach. He looked pathetic in the best way—chest heaving, cheeks flushed, arms already reaching for you like he couldn’t stand another second without your weight on him.
You crawled over him, knees bracketing his ribs, ready to sink down and take him inside you the way you’d been dreaming about for weeks. But his hands caught your hips, stopping you. His blue eyes were hazy, pupils blown, yet somehow still so gentle.
“Baby… can you go a little higher?”
You blinked down at him, confused, thighs already trembling with want.
“Aren’t you tired?” The words came out soft, almost worried, and the sound of it made his expression melt even further. “Tonight I was gonna be good to you.”
Not that you were complaining.
He shook his head, thumbs stroking soothing circles over your hipbones.
“I don’t think I’ll last five seconds if we do that,” he admitted, bashful and honest and so fucking needy it made your stomach flip. “It’s been… Gosh, it’s been so long. Let me do my job first, yeah? Then you can have your way, okay, sweetheart?”
Your cheeks burned, but you nodded, heart hammering. He guided you higher, hands firm until your knees settled on either side of his head, and you were hovering over his face.
The light painted his features in silver and shadow—his tired eyes still locked on yours, lips parted, breath already fanning hot against your soaked cunt.
Fuck, he was stunning.
You lowered yourself slowly, and the first drag of his tongue had your head falling back with a moan.
He was tired, yes, but he knew you—knew exactly how to flatten his tongue and lick a long, slow stripe from your entrance to your clit, how to hum in satisfaction when your taste flooded his mouth.
How could he forget you?
His hands gripped your thighs, fingers digging in hard enough to leave marks you’d treasure tomorrow, anchoring you to him like he never wanted you to leave.
He licked and sucked with lazy, devastating precision, built from months of learning every hitch of your breath, every roll of your hips.
When you started to rock against him he groaned, the vibration shooting straight to your core, and the sound was so desperate—so pathetically grateful—that it made you clench around nothing.
“That’s it,” he mumbled against your pussy, voice muffled and wet, “ride my face, baby. Use me. Let go for me—”
Please.
His fingers dug harder into the soft flesh of your thighs, pulling you down with a desperate strength that belied how exhausted he looked.
You could feel the tremble in your legs already starting, the way your muscles quivered around his head as he devoured you like a man who’d been starving for months—and maybe he had.
Ryland Grace, brilliant and overworked and so fucking touch-starved that he couldn’t get enough, kept dragging you back and forth over his tongue with low, needy sounds vibrating straight into your core.
He was rock-hard beneath you, cock straining and leaking against his stomach, but he didn’t even seem to notice or care. All that mattered was you—your taste, your weight, the way you ground down on his face like it was the only thing keeping him awake.
He cursed every single late night he had, every single hour overtime.
How on earth could he put work before this pure heaven?
You reached down blindly, fingers tangling in his messy hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan loud and broken against your soaked pussy. The sound was pathetic in the most beautiful way. He’d let you use him until there was nothing left if that’s what you wanted.
And you did.
You rode his face harder, hips rolling in messy circles, chasing that building heat while he licked and sucked and hummed like he was trying to memorise every single reaction you gave him.
He felt it when you started to tip over the edge—your thighs clamping tighter around his ears, your breath hitching into these sharp little gasps. His blue eyes flicked up to yours, glassy and adoring even through the fogged lenses of his glasses, and he doubled down, tongue flicking relentlessly over your clit until you tugged on his hair again and came with a broken cry that echoed off the bedroom walls.
It was overwhelming, the way he didn’t stop—licking you through every pulse and shiver, dragging you back down when your hips tried to pull away.
Oh no, you don't.
He cleaned you up with reverent strokes like he couldn’t bear to let a single drop go to waste.
You were shaking, quivering above him, vision blurry with the aftershocks, and only when you were completely spent and whimpering did he finally loosen his grip on your thighs. His hands slid up your sides instead, soothing, like he was afraid he’d break you even though he was the one falling apart underneath you.
You lifted off him on unsteady knees, sliding down until you could look at his face properly. His glasses were completely fogged up, cheeks flushed crimson, lips swollen and glistening with your arousal. He blinked up at you, dazed and blissed-out, chest heaving like he’d just run a marathon.
“Was that… good?” he asked, voice hoarse and shy; he still needed the reassurance even after you’d just ridden his face into oblivion.
Tell him he was still good.
You let out a shaky sigh, brushing a thumb over his wet bottom lip.
“You know it was, Ry.”
A sleepy smile spread across his face—pure, unguarded bliss.
You shuffled lower, knees bracketing his hips now, and looked down at him with a teasing little tilt of your head.
Finally, it was his turn.
His cock was throbbing between you, flushed and leaking steadily against his stomach, and he was staring at you like you hung the moon.
“You gonna let me ride you now, Dr Grace?” you asked, voice dripping with sweet mockery.
He groaned, head dropping back against the mattress with a soft thud.
Again with the titles?
“You’re gonna kill me, I swear,” he mumbled, but his hands were already sliding up your thighs.
You chuckled, leaning down to nip at his jaw.
“Good. Maybe that way you’d finally get some rest.”
He huffed a breathless laugh that turned into another groan when you reached between you and wrapped your fingers around his cock. He was so hard it was almost painful to the touch and he jolted up with a sharp wince, hips bucking involuntarily.
“I—sorry, baby—”
It’s been so long.
His cheeks burned even darker, eyes squeezing shut in embarrassment.
You looked at him. His flushed face still shiny with your slick, hair sticking up in every direction from your tugging, that tired but desperate expression that made him look so beautifully pathetic. He was the most gorgeous thing you’d ever seen, soft submission and needy love, and your chest ached with how much you’d missed this version of him.
“You’re beautiful,” you murmured, meaning it with every part of you.
He whined, hips twitching again.
“Stop teasing, please. I need you.”
You chuckled softly, finally taking pity on him. You grabbed his shaft properly, angling it so the thick length slid easily between your slick folds. The motion had his tip catching perfectly against your clit before popping free, and you both moaned at the wet glide.
Fuck, it's been too long.
He sighed against your mouth, which had fallen open in a silent ‘o’, rolling his hips up in search of more friction, chasing the heat of you like he couldn’t help it.
“Patience,” you began, but the last of the word was stolen by a gasp when you ground down to meet his next thrust. The blunt tip of him prodded at your entrance, gliding up again with just the right pressure to make sparks shoot up your spine.
You both moaned louder this time, the sound tangled together in the quiet room.
His arms circled the curve of your waist, pulling you closer, dragging you over the full length of him again. It made you shudder hard in his grasp, nails digging into his shoulders for balance.
He caught right where you needed him most, your walls fluttering greedily around his tip, trying to suck him in. A low growl rumbled from deep in his chest when he tried to push a little more. But it was your hips that rolled this time, taking just enough for him to finally slide all the way in with a slow, delicious stretch that had you both gasping.
“Fuck,” you whined, feeling so full for the first time in way too long. Your walls clung to him tightly, trying to accommodate his size after all these weeks apart. You sat up straighter with a low huff through your nose, letting your nails drag down the centre of his chest. He shuddered hard under you, eyes rolling back for a second. “Fuck—missed you so much—”
“Language, baby,” he managed to choke out, but the words dissolved into a broken moan as you rolled your hips again, taking him even deeper. “Taking it so well—just like that—”
His praise hit you like a spark. You clenched around him involuntarily, and he twitched hard inside you, a fresh spurt of pre-cum leaking out. His big hands found the tops of your thighs, pads of his fingers leaving trails of fire as they slid up to grip your hips.
You started riding him properly then—slow at first, savouring every inch as you lifted and sank back down, the sounds of your bodies meeting filling the room. Ryland turned into an absolute babbling mess beneath you, desperate, eyes glassy as he stared up at you like you were everything.
“Missed you so much,” he gasped, hips jerking up to meet yours. “Missed this—missed baby, I—feels so good, so—”
You let out a sharp whine when he hit that perfect spot inside you, and his eyes lit up with that familiar hunger.
“Right there? That’s it? Yeah, baby?” he panted, begging you to tell him he was doing it good. “Look so beautiful, you—“
You moaned, head tipping back as you kept moving, chasing that building pleasure while he fell apart under you. His hands roamed everywhere—your hips, your waist, up to cup your breasts like he couldn’t decide where he needed to touch you most.
“Please, sweetheart, please,” he begged suddenly, voice wrecked and so fucking pathetic it made you throb around him. “Look at me—need to see you. It’s been so long, I need your eyes on me—”
It was hard to open your eyes—the slow, dragging drag of his cock against your slick walls was almost too much, the feeling of being so perfectly connected to him after all this time. But you did, locking gazes with him as you rode him harder.
He was trembling now, fingers digging bruises into your hips, breath coming in short, desperate pants.
“Not gonna last—I’m not gonna last much longer—”
“Neither am I,” you breathed out, leaning down to kiss him messy and deep, tasting yourself on his tongue again. “Cum for me, Ry. Let go.”
That was all it took.
He did—hard. His whole body seized up, back arching off the bed as he came with a broken, guttural moan that sounded like it had been ripped out of his soul. He swore he saw stars, eyes squeezing shut, mouth open in silent ecstasy while he kept thrusting up into you through it, needy even in the middle of his orgasm.
You followed right after, clenching around him as the wave crashed over you, moaning his name like a prayer while your thighs shook and your vision whited out.
You both came down slowly, chests heaving, skin slick with sweat. His arms circled you immediately, pulling you down against his chest. You stayed there for a long moment, just breathing each other in, hearts hammering in sync.
For a while, neither of you moved. You lay half-draped over him, cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the way his heartbeat slowly began to steady beneath your ear. It was still a little fast, still a little uneven, but it was him again.
Not halfway lost in whatever equations or impossible problems had been pulling him away from you.
His hand rested at the small of your back, fingers tracing against your skin like he didn’t quite know what to do with all this quiet. Like he was relearning it.
You felt him shift slightly beneath you, reaching again for the tissues on the bedside table.
“I’ve gotcha,” he murmured, softer this time, more awake.
He's always got you.
You huffed a small breath against his chest, but you didn’t move away. Let him fuss. Let him take care of you in the way he always did. He needed to feel close as much as you did.
He worked slowly, methodically, brows pulling together just slightly in concentration as he cleaned you up, determined to do it properly. You watched him through half-lidded eyes, the light catching on the slope of his nose, the faint flush still high on his cheeks, the way his glasses had slid crooked again without him noticing.
You reached up, nudging them back into place with a small smile.
“Occupational hazard,” you murmured.
He blinked down at you, a little dazed still.
Tease.
He finished cleaning you up, then his hand came back to you, settling at your hip, thumb brushing. You traced your fingers lightly along his chest, following the faint rise and fall of his breathing.
“You know,” you said after a moment, voice softer now, “you should take nights off like this more often.”
He huffed a breath, eyes flicking down to you, something a little brighter sparking there now.
“Oh, trust me,” he said, a hint of humour creeping back in, “I will be adding that to my schedule immediately. Very high priority.”
You stilled slightly.
The smile didn’t quite leave your face, but it shifted.
“Ry…”
He noticed.
Your fingers paused against his chest, your gaze lifting to meet his properly now.
Here we go.
“I know you can’t tell me what you’re doing,” you said gently, not accusing, not pushing. “And I’m not asking you to.”
He nodded slightly, something flickering in his expression—gratitude, maybe. Relief.
“But,” you continued, quieter now, more earnest, “I am serious.”
Your thumb brushed lightly along his collarbone, grounding yourself as much as him.
“You need to take time like this. Not just for you.”
A small breath.
“For me.”
That stuck. You could feel it.
You saw it in the way his expression shifted again, the humour softening. He looked at you, not just the comfort of you, but the person who had been waiting. Who had been worrying.
Who loved him.
His hand moved from your hip to your cheek.
“I know,” he said quietly.
He exhaled slowly, gaze dropping for just a second before coming back to you.
“I think I… yeah,” he admitted, softer still. “I think I’ve been… a little—”
“Obsessive?” you offered gently.
He huffed.
“That’s a polite way of putting it.”
You smiled faintly.
“It’s one of the things I love about you.”
“Yeah,” he said, a little sheepish. “It’s also one of the things that turns me into a complete disaster when I don’t manage it properly.”
Your fingers threaded lightly through his hair again, softer this time.
“You’re not a disaster.”
“Mm,” he hummed. “Debatable.”
You nudged his shoulder.
“Ry.”
He smiled at that.
“I hear you,” he said, more seriously now. “Okay? I do. I… I can take a night. Or—” he paused, recalculating, already trying to be better, “a couple. I can make that happen.”
You searched his face for a second, like you were checking if he meant it.
“Okay,” you said softly.
His thumb brushed your cheek again, lingering there.
“Okay,” he echoed.
There was a quiet between you. That was until you saw the cogs in his head turning once again.
“…we should probably shower.”
You couldn’t help but laugh.
Typical Ryland.
“Probably.”
He glanced down at himself, like he was doing a very quick, very scientific assessment.
“Yeah,” he added. “Definitely.”
You pushed yourself up slightly, offering him your hand this time. He took it without hesitation. You tugged him gently toward the bathroom, and he followed, steps still a little heavy but no longer dragging.
The light flicked on with a click, filling the small space with warm yellow, as steam already began to gather as you reached for the shower.
He leaned against the counter, watching you, something gentle in his expression.
“What?” you asked, glancing back at him.
He shook his head slightly, a small smile pulling at his mouth.
“Nothing.”
He gave a small shrug as his cheeks heated again.
“I just… missed this.”
Your chest tightened, but in the best way.
“Yeah,” you said, stepping back toward him, brushing your hand against his as the water started to run. “Me too.”
He squeezed your fingers before stepping in with you, pulling you under the warm spray.
For the first time in weeks, it felt like he was finally back with you. Where he belonged.
a/n: first ever post on this blog wooo!!! not new to writing, just new to ryland and couldn't help myself.
just testing the waters to see if there is anyone interested in more of ryland, lowkey want to do a series on him for the movie/book (it will be angsty though but with a happy ending) if people were into that?
anyway let me know what you all think and if you want more of ryland x reader!!
Rocky thought that a hickey was the human equivalent of a mating mark. So, one day when the purplish bruise on your neck finally faded, Rocky panics.
“Grace and (YLN) not mates anymore. Question?” Frantic chords vibrate from him. Both you and Ryland look confused as to where he got this idea. “Huh? No, buddy. No way. We’re still very much together” Ryland answered, reaching up to push his glasses higher up the bridge of his nose, “why did you think we weren't?”
The verbal confirmation that his favourite humans haven’t split up, calms Rocky down. He lets out a slower series of notes, “Mating mark not there on (YLN) anymore”. Ryland’s eyebrows furrow in confusion, “Mating mark?” He blinked, tracking Rocky’s pointed claw, which was pointed at you. Ryland turned his head toward you, only to find you already touching the exact spot at the base of your neck where the hickey had been. Ryland’s eyebrows shot upward, his lips parting as he breathed a faint, horrified, “Oh”.
Immediately, he flushes. “Rocky, no!” his voice cracking slightly. “Uhm, that’s completely…that’s not…” He trailed off helplessly, his eyes darting to you in a plea for backup. You offered absolutely none. Instead, you bit down hard on your lower lip, shoulders shaking as you held back your laughter.
“That is absolutely not a mating mark, bud" Ryland attempted to tap back to his teacher-voice, though it was currently a full octave higher than normal, "humans don’t carry permanent biological indicators of…of pair-bonding”. Rocky’s form tilts, “But Grace give that mark during mating, yes. Question?” Letting out series of curious chords.
Whatever composure Ryland had left shattered. His shoulders slumped forward. At that exact moment, he looked like he would gladly float into the scary, infinite dark space rather than spend another second explaining his sexual choreography to a five-legged alien. “Grace not answer Rocky" the Eridian says, his tones shifting into a disapproving hum. "Grace not good mate to (YLN). Statement”. That was your breaking point, finally letting yourself laugh.
Ryland buried his face entirely in his hands, letting out a groan. “Oh my God, stop laughing, baby” Ryland mumbled into his palms, his voice muffled. He looks up at Rocky again, “Rocky, It’s just…a pressure mark. Uhm, kind of a bite. It has nothing to do with our relationship status”.
Rocky lifted two claws, mimicking a pinching motion, “Grace bite (YLN) for science. Question?”You leaned against a table, wiping a tear from your eye. “Yes, Dr Grace” you managed to breathe out, “please tell our Eridian friend. Was it for science?”
Ryland dropped his hands, glaring at you with a mixture of betrayal and embarrassment, though a tiny smile threatened to crack through his flushed state. “You are evil” he muttered to you, before turning back to Rocky, “No, Rocky. Not for science. Just…human biology is weird. Can we talk about actual science now? Please?”
Rocky let out an amused tune “Humans weird weird weird. Grace more weird”. Ryland suddenly felt the same helplessness he felt back on Earth, being a middle school science teacher trapped in a classroom full of giggling preteens.
⭐︎⋆˚࿔ rocky is very observant of you and ryland grace. a little too observant.
Whenever you’re hours deep into planning, Ryland ends up close in your orbit without fail. Like, really close. The kind of close where your shoulders brush. Not that you mind. It’s nice to remember you’re not alone.
You can’t remember when those affirming touches started making your heart pound.
They started standing out everywhere. An excited high five when you’ve figured out the latest calculation, a silly tap of your arm when he laughs at your joke.
Today, your face won’t stop heating up as you work on the latest puppet show model for Rocky. To avoid bumping into each other in the tight space as he steps past, Grace keeps murmuring a quiet “excuse me” and, more agonizingly, placing a hand on the small of your back.
You’re going to explode.
After the latest brush, you notice Rocky stops scuffling excitedly. “Why…hmm, need word.”
“What word?” you ask, voice wavering.
“Beating sound inside human. Near upper mid of body.”
“Heart?” Ryland offers.
“No, Rocky know heart. Unless heart make sound. Need word for sound.”
“Oh, you’re thinking heartbeat,” you explain.
“Okay, okay, okay.” Rocky pauses. “Why Grace and Y/N heartbeat go up around each other, question?”
You almost drop a huge piece of xenonite on your foot.
Grace starts choking on nothing.
“I think we’re just working really hard on the model,” you say quickly. “Takes a lot of energy.”
“Then why heartbeat change around each other all the time, question?”
“What?” Grace exclaims, voice going up several octaves in genuine horror.
A million emotions flash through your mind. Then you bite back a smile. This has been going on long enough. If neither of you can catch a break…might as well have fun with it.
“Maybe that’s a question Grace and I can talk about later,” you tease.
“Oh.” Ryland turns you with wide eyes, then adjusts the glasses on his quickly flushing face. “Yeah, I — sure.” He gives a goofy grin and totally nonchalant thumbs up. “I feel normal about this.”
“Then why Grace heartbeat worse now, question?”
Ryland practically shrieks. You burst out laughing.
Well, that what-are-we conversation had to happen eventually.
oh nothing, just rocky being so intrigued by ryland and you kissing
“physical human connection. purpose?”
grace practically leaps away from you, where you’re pressed against a lab table (forgotten taomeba scattered across various microscopes and slates, pushed aside to make way for the — admittedly, quite sexy — make-out that you and ryland were currently locked in on).
“rocky! jesus-!”
you slap your hands to your mouth (the mouth which a certain dr ryland grace was ravishing just seconds previously) and feel your cheeks go hot.
“oh my god.” you can’t seem to say anything else.
“display of affection, question? crew bond, question?”
grace blushing and you quickly butting in with a “oh- no… um…”
“courting gesture, question?”
ryland and you make eye contact. something heated flashes across his gaze, something which rocky can’t see, and you flush a deeper maroon. his mouth crooks into a lopsided smile, and you instantly look away (if you maintain eye contact, you would be in a lot of trouble. and probably wouldn’t sleep the rest of the night.)
of course he’d do that when you’re not in private.
his gaze not drifting from you, ryland grins. “yeah, something like that, bud.”
“You look nice,” Ryland says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit.
in which: You need a date to the wedding you foolishly agreed to attend, luckily your co-worker is a willing sacrifice. Extremely willing.
[warnings: eventual nsfw 18+, a bit of fluff, excessively drawn out flirting]
wc: 14.2k (Whoops) [ Masterlist ] [ ao3 Link ]
Woe finds you on a Tuesday at the staffroom lunch table.
Picking apart the leftovers of a miserable thrown together attempt of fried rice that came to be after realising there were no better dinner options with the ingredients you had in the fridge two days ago and the determination to not get take out more than once a week that would surely fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.
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.
“I just… I can’t say no.” You lament. “It would be weird.”
“Weirder than going?” Margot asks, pulling her own container of lunch from the oven. It’s 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. You’re pretty sure the pair are sitting on a lofty investment profile because no man ‘works from home’ cooks roasts bi-weekly and buys his wife diamond earrings for her birthday).
“I don’t know. Maybe.” You manage, the next bite of fired rice tasting like loneliness packed into an over-salted flavour profile.
“What’s weird?” 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.
“Wedding.” Margot supplies, sitting down and shuffling her chair in with a sense of poise so rarely found in Middle-Schools. She’s 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.
Ryland frowns. “You’re already married.”
He’s… well, Ryland's… actually you’re 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.
He’s 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 ‘Doctor Grace’ last year, after digging about online and getting their grubby fingers on his linkedin profile.
‘Mr Grace’ 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 he’d brought to mark and keep himself occupied momentarily forgotten. His eyes darted from her face to the ring on her finger.
“Mm mm.” She hums, shaking her head as she chews, then levels her fork to point in your direction.
“You’re not getting married.” Ryland states when he turns to look at you, like it’s a scientific fact, one he’s so assured of.
“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Mr Grace.” You reply, still sort of wallowing at the photos on your phone.
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. “You aren’t, are you?”
“No. My ex is, though.” You sigh, despondent. The reminder glares back at you from the overly-bright phone screen.
“Oh. That sucks.” He manages, clicking open a red pen to start circling and ticking the first sheet on his pile. “Happens to the best of us.”
The kettle rumbles away on the tiny kitchenette. You look at him for a long moment. The best of us. Like it’s happened to him. Ryland’s not one to discuss relationships beyond the occasional quip about quitting to be a house husband like Margot’s. He’s never mentioned past romances, you don’t think he’s been in a relationship in the three years since he started at Grover Cleveland Middle. It’s 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.
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. There’s a shelf against one wall, just far enough away from the doorframe that the door doesn't crash into it when pushed open. There’s a long window the length of the wall on the door’s other side, a good view of the eighth-grade outdoor lunch area. The other staff call it the fishbowl, it’s 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, they’d never let up. “I’m considering the pros and cons of skipping it.”
“You were invited?” 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. “I already said I’d go too.”
“Why?” Ryland sounds appalled, like that one time you’d caught him trying to explain that the five second rule is not an effective barrier against bacteria to a student.
“It’s complicated.” You say, biting at your cheek.
“Bullshit.” 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.
“We went out for maybe two months in college.” You sigh, setting your phone on the table face-down to stare at your lunch, contemplative. “He’s engaged to one of the girls from my sorority. We’re… friends.”
Margot watches. “With your ex or the sorority girl?”
“Sorority girl. Daisy.” 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 you’d asked, gets me out of the classroom.
Margot screws her face up for a second, muttering it again under her breath as if the name offends her.
“You were in a sorority?" Ryland asks, face a little blank as he looks at you from across the table.
It makes you falter, the way his thoughts seem to be buffering like the school's slow wifi. “I… Yeah? That’s the interesting part?”
He shakes his head, looking down at his marking sheets and pushes his glasses up from where they’re slowly slipping down the bridge of his nose. “No, I just can’t picture it.”
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. “Well Daisy and I were roommates for a year and a half. She’s nice. Works in PR now.”
“But she’s marrying your ex?” Ryland asks, still kind of baffled.
You dismiss it with a lazy hand wave. “I mean, she asked before they went out and everything. I just think it’s a little weird. I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s going to be embarrassing.”
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. “Why is it embarrassing? Two months is nothing.”
“I was a little head over heels for this guy.” You admit, sheepish.
Ryland stands up, clears his throat as he turns away. “Yeah? How so?”
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 it’s easier to confess this sort of stuff with only one set of eyes on you. “I was sort of convinced he was my soulmate. He was doing pre-law, witty too.”
“Hot?” 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. “God, his jawline. And his hair- it was so… ugh!”
The thud is dull when your forehead lands on the table, to the right of your now abandoned lunch. “I don’t even know why I said I’d go. It’s dumb.”
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. It’s not even the new years resolution that has you mulling this over so intently. You’d agreed to go months ago- six months ago- and said yes to the offered plus one, adamant to yourself that you’d have someone by then, a partner or something. Someone of importance.
Attending alone is going to be even worse than if you had just RSVP’d for yourself in the first place. It’s 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.
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 he’d 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.
And just as in class, Margot is not phased for more than a handful of moments. “Then find someone with a better jawline and better hair to go with you. You can borrow mine.”
You blink at her, mulling the words over before asking, “Are you trying to pimp your husband out to me?”
“Only for aesthetic reasons, of course. It’d be nice to have the house to myself for once. Not like you have better options.”
It would sting more if it wasn’t 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.
“I mean, how good is his jawline?” 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. “Are we aiming high?”
There is no way to un-dig this hole, not now that they’ve 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. It’s 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.
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 who’d never found ‘it’, 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. “You can do better.”
Ryland looks kind of at a loss. “This is your type?”
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. “This is the hair that had you all…”
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.
“He slicks it back now. It used to be… I donno. Messy? Fluffy? Good to run my fingers though.” 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. “He does have a good jawline...”
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 you’re kind of obsessed with the so-called ‘5-o’clock shadow’ Ryland sports on Fridays.
It’s not something you’re 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 you’re 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.
By the end of the school day, you have reached the conclusion that you will blame it on work. That some mandatory day of ‘professional development’ as it is called nowadays, has come up and you will just have to miss the wedding, truly you’re devastated about it all.
Then Ryland corners you in your classroom. The bell’s long gone, as are the students. He’s dressed like he’s on his way out, his green backpack tossed over one shoulder and bike helmet hanging by the strap in one hand. You’re halfway through explaining your plan and the wording you’re going to use in the tragic text message to Daisy when he cuts you off.
“I’ll go with you.”
He’s a little breathless with it, like he’d 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.
“I know that I’m not Margot’s husband with a ‘better jawline and better hair’ but we can go and eat nice wedding food- If he’s a lawyer it’s gotta be fancy, right? And we can make fun of his stupid slicked back hair together and you don’t have to be alone or make an excuse and feel guilty about it.” Ryland’s 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 you’re her personal romance drama, there to occupy her during the day.
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.
“Yeah. Okay.” You smile, something warm and fuzzy in your chest.
His eyes don’t move, maybe widen a little before he speaks again, still a little breathless. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
It isn’t 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 you’re about to reunite with after a few years, for your Ex, Jack who’s obsessed with his wife, for Daisy who you’d told years ago to ‘go for it, he’s a nice guy’ working under the assumption that she’d only last a few months by his side too.
You’re not sure which answer you’d prefer, honestly; a date or a favour.
He texts you a lot- after school, on the weekend- asking about what he should wear, what you’re going to wear, how he should prepare for this sort of thing. It’s sweet, cute in a way that has little butterflies flapping around in your stomach.
“Okay, I’ll show you. Wait, hold on.” You placate, setting your phone down on the bed, screen up.
“It’s a lovely ceiling fan, but I doubt it fits the dress code.” Ryland drawls, and you can hear the smile there.
“Ha ha.” You reply, a little echo-y as you lean into your closet to pull the dress out.
He’s up in arms about what to wear, says he needs to know what you’re wearing too so he can match. The invite’s dress code called for formal attire in ‘dark colours’. On the facebook page she’d made for the event, Daisy had a full post going into more detail, about how she’d love any and all dark tones- forestry green, navy, even burgundy was fine. You had taken a firm stance against burgundy considering there’s some old wedding traditions that state wearing red indicated you’d slept with the groom. Which you had, but you were not about to advertise that.
So navy it was.
You’d sent Ryland a picture of the invite, where it was stuck to your fridge with letter magnets spelling out ‘woe’- it had felt fitting when you’d stuck it up there- and several screenshots of the lengthy dress-code post Daisy had made that went into excruciating detail. He wasn’t satisfied though.
Even your attempts to describe the dress you’d bought didn’t work well enough.
“I mean it! you expect me to know what any of those words apart from ‘floor length' means?” he bemoans from your phone speakers, face time call crackling. “I need all the data.”
“Oh listen to you, Mr. Science,” You drawl with a smile, pulling the dress out. It’s 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.
“I was thinking of changing my name. Very to the point, don’t you think?” He replies, still smiling as you collect your phone. His eyes are sparkling with something cheeky when you appear back in frame.
Ryland’s dressed down, in one of those dumb science t-shirts he wears on ‘Casual Fridays’ as it is called in staff meetings. This one’s dark blue and has the periodic table on it in worn down white transfer ink. You’ve seen it enough to know the punch line sprawled over his lower stomach even though it’s 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 he’d explained to you during a free-period on one of those casual Fridays.
He’s at his kitchen bench, phone propped up against something, while he taps away at his laptop. You’ve not actually been to Ryland’s apartment before, but it sorta feels like you have, the cramped studio always on display in the back of video calls like this one.
It’s just one long rectangle. Kitchen by the front door, a bench, a gap that is probably intended for a kitchen table but he’s stuck a desk there instead, his bed that’s 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, he’s a little higher up than you are, in a better part of the city too.
Ryland’s not brushed his hair, it’s all spiked up in different directions and you wonder if the mug he’s been sipping from, periodically, is his morning cup even though it’s just past ten. He’s blinking slow behind his glasses, sitting a little too still for his brain to be fully functional yet.
“I’m sure the kids will love it. Harder to spell on their assessment sheets, though.” 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.
You flip the camera, showing him the dress he’s been complaining about not understanding for the last half hour over text before he gave up and called you.
It’s 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. “Is that velvet?”
“It’s fake satin. I think.”
“Fake satin?” He repeats, confused.
The dress was one you already owned, bought a year or so ago for another friend’s wedding that you had attended alone but not felt crappy about, even if it did seem like everyone your age was getting married nowadays. It’s 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.”
“Okay, I know what you mean by delicate straps now.” That had been his main hang up, whining about, What do you mean delicate straps? Like they’re 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.
“Yeah, and here, the lace up back.” 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.
“Isn’t that going to be a nightmare to put on?” He asks, squinting still.
“There’s a zip.” You say, dragging the little hidden zipper down, showing him how the dress fabric parts and slips open. “So it’s fairly easy to get on. The cords are about as tight as they should be anyway, it isn't hard to pull to fit.”
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.
“Come on, you’ve got the easy part.” You try, a little concerned he’s about to say he shouldn’t go. “You just have to put on a suit.”
“I can’t just ‘put on a suit’.” He whines, flopping down onto his bed like the world is ending. “I’m supposed to be like, your big ‘fuck you’ to the girl who got with your ex. I’m supposed to look good with you. I don’t know if I have a suit nice enough for that dress.”
“Ryland. It’s not about saying ‘fuck you’ to Daisy, or pulling some revenge stunt. I just didn’t want to go alone like a loser when I said I was bringing someone.” You can’t 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. “You don’t have to come.”
“No, I’m coming. I just need to go through my wardrobe.” He’s 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 ‘aesthetic appreciation’ of Ryland that you’d been attempting to suppress, to a new sort of level.
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 he’s got in the works. All while you consider the pros and cons of having him beside you instead.
Ryland was probably the teacher you got on best with at work, despite being from two very different teaching areas. When he’d first arrived, you’d 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 he’s cool.
Over the years you’ve 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 you’d 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. You’d sent back a random string of praise, imagining him lulling it over in the store. It was nearly five in the afternoon, he’d left work pretty much on the final bell. You wonder how long he spent comparing the seemingly endless ties the shop’s 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 you’d asked him to come to the wedding, or where you’d already been together long enough that it was simply a given when the invitation turned up in your mail box.
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; he’d 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- ‘In a suit? God, never’- and makes sure you know that the uber would also drop you both back to your flat and he’d walk home or take another separate uber.
There’s talk about your ‘backstory’, which he takes as seriously as he does exam periods. You tell him it’s not super necessary, that saying you met at work is more than enough exposition for the gaggle of college friends you’d not seen in years. But he was never one to do things in halves.
“We obviously would have met at school.” He says, like it’s 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, he’d turned the fairy lights that are threaded though them on before he’d decided the floor was his resting place. “Maybe trivia is where it happened. We liked trivia.”
“We did like trivia.” You agree, pointedly.
It’s almost impossible to not just sit there and watch him, the student folders that you’re sorting worksheets into acting as a very inefficient distraction.
He’s 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.
“Maybe trivia was a date. What would you have done?”
“If you’d asked me to trivia as a date?” You glance up. He’s already looking at you, head tipped to the side, something soft, tentative there in his eyes.
“Yeah.” You can see the way his throat bobs when he swallows, how his chest rises with each breath.
Ryland sounds… nervous, in a way that does remind you of the first trivia night you’d gone to. He’d 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 bar’s warm lighting. He’d been a little twitchy for the first hour or so, but settled into himself by round two.
With the way he’s looking at you, now as he plans out the false scenario that’s beginning to sound a lot more like a confession, you’re starting to get the idea that trivia could have been a date. If either of you had put it into words.
“Enjoyed it, probably.”
“Really?” He looks shy, a bit of a flush working its way up his cheeks.
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 you’re halfway through lacing up the back of your dress, holding the cords with one hand as you open the door. Ryland’s not been to your apartment before, something you’d failed to realise until he called you and asked during his walk over, if you’d have to buzz him in.
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.
“See,” You say, opening the door for him, keeping it propped open with your foot as he shuffles in. “My door locks.”
“Still one less lock that you’re supposed to have.” he grumbles, stepping out of his very nice dress shoes. They look expensive- black leather shined up propper.
Actually, Ryland looks expensive.
“You look nice,” he says, smiling a little shy, as if the compliment had just slipped out and he was supposed to be embarrassed about that.
“I uh,” You pause, swallowing thickly.
Holy fuck he looks good in a suit. It’s the only thought spinning around your head. It’s a proper one, tailor made no doubt. Blazer, slacks and undershirt, all three of them a deep inky black. The navy tie he’d sent you a photo of is done up around his neck in a knot neater than you’ve ever seen him wear to work. The pocket square is folded too, fluffed up with a little volume that suggests he did so intentionally.
Suddenly you’re reminded of all those times he’d complained about all the formal conferences and charity gala’s he’d attended during his days in academia. You realise you have made a grave error.
There have always been little parts about Ryland that oozed wealth, the glasses he wore for one, that he told you were antique when you’d 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 you’d googled it out of curiosity. These little things fall out of the spotlight and become footnotes that are often ignored when he’s in his classroom, or tiny apartment.
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.
“You look good.” 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. “How long have you had this?”
“Ages. 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?” He tacks that last bit on, like he’s waiting with baited breath for your approval.
“I’ll say.” 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. He’s tidied his facial hair up a little, slid the electric razor over all of it to make sure it’s the same length, no doubt. Ryalnd’s 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.
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. “Right, we'll, I'm nearly ready. The uber will be here soon.”
“Do you need a hand?” Ryland asks, and you’re about to turn, ask him, ‘with what’ when you feel his fingertips against the small of your back. It sends a jolt though your skin, he’s cold. From the outside air, where as you’ve been nice and cosy with the heat on while you’d done your hair and make up.
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. “Sorry, cold fingers.”
You swallow. “It’s.. it’s okay.”
“How tight?” He asks, giving the strings a gentle tug. You almost sway with the moment, feeling a little swept off your feet already.
“Bit tighter.” 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 you’d expected.
“There?” 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.
“Yeah, perfect.” 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.
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.
Ryland’s 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 that’s why he’d opted for the style, if he’s here, dressed up as the guy with ‘better hair and a better jawline’ that Margot had pitched, unaware that he already was exactly who he’s trying to be.
He holds an arm out for you to loop yours though, walking down the stairs in steady but slowed steps. You smile. “Wow, full gentleman experience.”
“I told you, I can't just ‘put on a suit’. It’s more than that.” He chides jokingly, and you pity the version of you that didn’t realise this was an option.
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 that’s polished up to try and seem fancier than it was. You don’t talk much on your way to the venue, comfortable silence that the driver thankfully settles into.
It’s nearing sundown when you pull into the driveway, a big circular road that’s already crammed with other cars and guests climbing out.
“You can just let us out here.” 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 it’s necessary, when the car is nowhere near low or high enough to warrant such assistance.
You place your palm in his anyway, letting him pull you from the car, no more temperature disparity in your hands since you’ve both been in the car for fifteen minutes, but it still makes your skin tingle. He’s got cufflinks, the same pale gold as his glasses, in the shape of atoms. You flick one lightly. “I like these.”
He smiles, something a little smothered like he’s 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. “Well I like your dress, so I think we’re even.”
It’s a ballroom, with these big stained glass windows in the room they hold ceremonies in, you’d seen some lovely shots on the venue’s website of sunset light streaming through them. Imagining Ryland in the warm sunlight has you in a good mood, he’s always suited it, even if the city’s never had much to offer.
“Not too much for our first date?” You tease.
Something like a laugh tumbles out of his lips, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “First date was trivia- and you were underdressed. Keep up.”
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.
Doesn't really matter what you wore back then when you’ve got him like this now.
Together you sit about halfway down on the bride’s side, the pew’s nearly empty, only someone on the other end you don’t know but looks vaguely enough like Daisy, that's you’d guess extended family.
“So why’d you like this guy so much?” Ryland asks, quiet enough for it to just stay between the two of you. He’s glancing around, but his eyes keep bouncing back to Jack at the front of the venue, where he’s talking to gaggle of similarly dressed guys, his groomsmen.
“What?”
“Him,” Ryland says, tipping his head a little to gesture at Jack. “What had you talking about soulmates? Couldn't just be the hair, tons of guys have good hair.”
“They do.” You answer, raising a hand to tangle one of the longer stands where it’s dangling over his forehead around your pointer finger and give it a light tug. Ryland’s eyes settle on you, like there’s nothing else to look at. “He made me feel like the only girl in the world.”
“That’s a cliche.” He refutes. “And a song lyric.”
You smile. “I’m serious. He’s like that with every girl he went out with. He’s like it with Daisy. He just loses sight of every other woman, so attentive.”
Ryland stays silent for a moment, eyes searching for something in yours. Maybe permission, or a want, for him to keep digging, it’s almost as if he’s scared what he might find. “What'd he do? To make you feel like that?”
It’s 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 Ryland’s bed. You smile at him, wondering if he’s 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.
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 couldn’t stop looking at me, for me. It was intoxicating.”
“I can’t.” Ryland blurts out, all reckless abandon, and he’s looking at you like you’ve 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.
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?”
“Stop looking at you.” He clarifies, eyes darting down to your lips. “I can do the other things though.”
A flutter knocks about your chest, unsteady and uncoordinated. “Yeah, you like dancing Doctor Grace?”
“If it’s with you.” He amends.
“And slow kissing? You like that too?”
“Yeah I do.” He’s 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.
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. “Good. Really good.”
Ryland looks dizzy with the praise, like it’s all rushed straight to his head.
“Hey Macey, good to see you.” You greet, using your hand on Ryland's knee to tip his legs towards you, making room for Macey to shuffle into the pew.
“Oh my god, good to see you too! It's been awhile, hasn’t it?” She leans down a little awkwardly to wrap you in a hug as you half stand, and it’s 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. It’s nice to see her here, for her to sit next to you- Macey’s always encouraged you to be a little wild, and with the way Ryland’s been looking at you all night, you might need her ego-bosting tonight.
“I’m Macey, nice to meet you.” She extends a hand to Ryland over your lap and he shakes it curtly, offering his own introduction.
There’s a big rock on her finger, and you remember seeing it on an instagram post, some dreamy forest scenery with a ‘coming soon to a theatre near you’ caption under it.
“I suppose it will be your wedding next then,” You tease, “Where’s Jamie?”
“Oh she had a work trip, couldn't avoid it. She wanted to come though.” 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 Jamie’s 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.
“So Ryland,” 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. “How’d you two meet?”
“We teach at the same school,” 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. “A little cliche but I don’t mind.”
Macey smiles, fans her face a little like that’s just soooo romantic. “What do you teach?”
“Science, opposites attract I guess.”
“Please tell me you used that line.” She practically swoons.
Ryland huffs a little laugh. “No, the kids threw that one at me actually.”
“Really?” You question, a raised eyebrow because that was not part of the backstory he’d been cooking up all week.
“Oh yeah. You should hear them. “Mr. Grace, you and Miss are ,like perfect for each other. You should ask her to the spring dance. They’re relentless, I swear.”
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 can’t help but giggle a little.
“Their heads might explode when they find out.” Macey laughs too, then like a stroke of inspiration, slaps her hand against your arm a few times in pure, unrestrained excitement. “God- remember when we found out Professor Morisaki and Professor Collins were married? Holy shit it was like our heads exploded.”
You bark a laugh, muffling it under your hand considering the rather low level of idle chatter in the venue. “Oh my god, I forgot about that.”
“Professors of yours?” Ryland asks, this soft smile spread across his lips still.
“Yeah, we were doing a car-wash fundraiser! They were kissing in the background of one of our photos!” Macey still whispers gossip like she did in college, like your students do now.
Ryland looks a little red in the face when he asks. “A car wash fundraiser?”
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. “Oh? Don’t you know? We were a little wild in college.”
You scoff. “A little?”
“Okay, a lot.” She corrects. “The car wash was an annual thing. White tshirts, bikinis. There’s definitely pictures. I have pictures.”
“Macey.” You scold, mostly joking.
She shrugs, straightens up and sits to face the fronts, pointedly not looking at you with a smirk on her face. “Hey- I’m just reminiscing on good times. Don’t you remember the kissing booth we ran? Of course you do you were the most requested-”
Now you stomp your foot onto hers, although she doesn’t do anything but laugh to herself.
Ryland is back to that dazed look, like he’s on some far off planet in his mind, when he murmurs, "Kissing booth?”
You glare at Macey, for a sharp moment. Before patting one hand on Ryland’s chest, leaning in close when you say, loud enough for Macey to hear. “Tell you about it later, handsome.”
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 you’d ever seen, looking a lot like he’s about to kiss you now, when there’s 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.
It’s 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 you’d all made ‘vision boards’ as a bonding activity, and Daisy had a little corner on hers that outlined the life she’d like to live, from a small sunset ceremony to the little white picket fence outside a cottage. You’re happy she’s finally arrived there, that she has a man who’s willing to give her everything she’d dreamed of.
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. It’s 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.
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. There’s 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 Jack’s lives, in albums and tacked up on walls, showing where they meet and things bleed together into their future. All of it’s beautiful.
It’s 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 aren’t really paying that much attention to it, until you see Ryland shift beside you, rising and holding out one hand, palm up, towards you. “Care to dance?”
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.
It’s littered with other couples, celebrating the love they have for each other as well as the bride and groom.
All of it has you a little dizzy, settling a hand on Ryland’s 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. He’s warm, firm against you, breath fanning across your cheek as you look up at him. “I know this isn’t the kind of dancing you meant, but it’s the best I can do for now.”
You humm, feet shifting in time with his, a slow waltz you weren’t even aware he knew. “I think I prefer this kind of dancing nowadays.”
Ryland’s lips tick up into a smile. “Yeah?”
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 he’s not one for such public displays of affection. “Left my wild nights behind in college.”
He sighs, like this is a devastating blow, hanging his head slightly, glasses slipping a smidge down his nose. “A shame. I was looking forwards to an appearance.”
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. “Might do a private showing. Just for you.”
“You going to wash my car?” He asks, teasing. Eyes following the movement of your hand as it slips back down into place on his shoulder.
Your forehead falls, pressing against his collar bone as a furious blush blooms over your face, the worst it has been all night, murmuring, “You don’t have a car.”
He must have known what you were going to say, or some semblance of it because you certainly weren’t speaking loud enough for him to catch all of it, but he still sighs, a little dramatic. “Guess we’ll have to go with the kissing booth then.”
You lift your head a little, to look up at him where he’s smiling down, mirth dancing about in his eyes. “Oh, what a shame.”
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 he’d tied up so perfectly for you.
For you, all of it. His nice suit he’d 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.
“You got plans after this?” You ask, and it sounds so cheesy, so bland once it’s left your lips.
Still, when he answers, the smile is audible in Ryland’s voice. “Thought I was getting a private show. Is that offer off the table?”
“Think I can manage it,” 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 you’ve both been pretending couldn’t happen, wasn’t there in the air of exhaled breaths and weighted stares.
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. “Wanna get out of here?”
“Bit forward, Ryland,” You tease, “we’ve not even taken photos yet.”
His eyes follow yours to the polaroid board in the corner, considers it for a moment before he’s pulling you gently by the grasp of his hand around yours, towards it.
The polaroid camera is a little hand held thing, there’s a stand for it, and poster board instructions on how to set a timer delay.
Ryland insists on taking one of just you, and while you’re grinning, trying to convince him to join you against the black fabric backdrop, the shutter goes off.
He rolls his eyes, but lets you drag him in beside you for the next photo. The timer is set, and just as you’re 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.
He lets you choose which photo goes on the memo board. “Whichever one you don’t put up there, I’m keeping.”
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.
He grins like he’s 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 polaroid’s back.
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 Macey’s left.
Ryland’s got his arm out, hooked there for you to loop yours through again.
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.
The night air is crisp and the second you’re outside, waiting for the uber that’s 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 he’s been waiting to do it all night.
You look at him and raise a brow, but don’t say anything when you catch sight of his pleased smile. It’s almost devastating to realise he looks even better in just the black button down and tie than he did in the full suit.
Again, the drive is mostly silent, but you notice pointedly, that you’re not going back to your apartment. And when you tilt Ryalnd’s phone and tap the screen awake, you recognise his street name in the trip’s destination.
“Presumptious.” 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. “How are you going to wash my car if we don’t go to my place?”
“You don’t have a car.” 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.
“Right,” He hisses, patting his other hand on his leg, as if to say ‘drat, there goes that plan’. Then he leans in close, whispers to you, “What was the back up plan again?”
“You are much bolder after a few glasses of champagne.”
He hums, a considering sort of sound that rumbles in the minimal air between you. “More so when I know I'm right.”
“And what, pray tell, are you right about?”
“That you like-like me.” 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.
But you don’t 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. “You gonna prove that hypothesis in your apartment?”
“That’s very forwards of you.” 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. “All scientists say experiments are supposed to be conducted in controlled environments.”
He leans back, still close enough for his warm breath to fan across your face. “You’ve been seeing other scientists? I’m heartbroken.”
“Give yourself some credit, your classes are very interesting.”
“Earsdropping, huh? Didn’t think you were the type.” He looks far too pleased by the idea that you’ve 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 he’s saying, as if you could look at anything else when he was so captivating.
“I’ll Tell you exactly what type I am in,” You glance down to tap his phone awake, checking the ride estimate. “four minutes.”
He nods and you wonder if he’d get that head-rush distant expression on his face if you praised him for the patience. It’s 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 you’re both out of the car, leading you though his building with a sort of reverent silence, that you get the impression wouldn’t 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. You’re 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.
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 you’ve not felt in a long time. There’s 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 it’s too late.
Ryland though, he’s here. You watch him latch the door, before he turns, standing there to let his eyes run up you again.
“Soooo,” He says, pursing his lips and tangling his hands together in front of him, like he’s suddenly nervous.
“So?” 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 he’d turned up at your apartment that afternoon.
“It’s been four minutes.” 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 he’d picked out just for you.
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.
“It has.” You lick your lips.
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 you’d never make it out of. Expect he pitches forwards much easier than you expected and Ryland's lips are pressed against yours.
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.
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.
It’s slow kissing, it’s dizzying and it’s want. Everything he’d promised you hours ago, in the afternoon sun of that venue, looking like a dream come true.
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.
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. “Ryland,”
He says your name, just as breathless against your skin, his hand dropping the jacket to pull at the chord of your dress.
“Is your doorway where you take all the girls?”
“There are no other girls.” He murmurs like a confession, far more earnest than you’d been prepared for.
“Just me?”
He pulls back, pupils blow wide and face flushed blotchy and red. “Yeah.”
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 it’s 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.
His bed’s unmade, messy sheets splayed out in front of you, a pile of sage green cotton that feels like a promise, a sight you’ve dreamed about far too many times.
There’s pressure there, against your ass, a hard length that’s tight against his slacks and it makes your stomach swoop to know he’s so turned on by the slow kissing you’d been thinking about all night. His shuddering breath rushes like wind by your ear, as his fingers pull at the bow he’d tied himself. “Been thinking about this for too long.”
“Yeah?” 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. “Since you laced it up?”
“Since 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.
The dress doesn’t fall, not with the straps still hanging loosely from your shoulders, but it’s a damn near thing. One of Ryland’s 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 that’s maddening with far too much still left to your imagination.
You try to turn but he’s got you wrapped up so firmly in his arms that it’s 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.
“Okay,” 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. “Come on, don’t you wanna fuck me?”
You punctuate this by groping around between you both until you get a hand over his cock, giving it a gentle squeeze.
“Need to remember this bit.” 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.
It has you clenching down on nothing and you become actually aware of how uncomfortably wet you’re beginning to get. You squeeze your thighs together, squirming in his grasp.
“Next time, Ry-” He splays his hand over your stomach, using it to press you back into him. “Ryland, come on. Need you.”
It tumbles out in a breathy whine, and it’s like you’ve said the magic words. He’s turning you around in his grasp, hands reaching up to slip the straps off your shoulders and marvel at the sight.
He swallows as you reach for his tie again, loosening it gently now you can get your fingers into the knot properly. Ryland’s hands hover nervously before settling against your rib cage, fingers brushing anxiously against the underside of your breasts.
Your dress was not one that lent itself to a bra, so you’d gone without. You had assumed that he’d figured that one out, given how he’d both laced and un-laced the back of it, but now that it’s out of the way, he’s looking at your chest like he hadn’t expected to see it so quickly.
“You mean it?” 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. “I.. I get a next time?”
“Yeah.” You breathe, working on his shirt buttons, one after the other, coming apart as easily as Ryland did under your gaze. “As many as you want.”
When you get to the bottom of his shirt and reach for the belt buckle, Ryland’s hands move from where they’ve 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 didn’t know you understood so well until tonight.
“Let me.” He says, one hand coming to your hip to push you gently back and down onto his bed.
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.
Ryland is a sight, heaven-sent.
His hair’s 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 that’s begging to be marked up with your teeth and nails.
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.
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 you’re about to reach up, aiming for his shoulder or maybe even his cheek, Ryland surprises you by taking a knee.
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. He’s 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 he’s treating you. And the sight of Ryland between your legs is certainly one you could get used to.
He presses a kiss to the inside of your knee before blinking up at you. “Are you… Can I-”
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. “What is it Ry? You’ve already got me on your bed, no need to be shy.”
He bites his bottom lip, rolling it between his teeth as he considers the words. “If you say so.”
Then he gently leads your leg, by the ankle that’s 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.
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.
It’s maddening, has you gasping out his name as he licks a stripe up your cunt, sighing into it like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. He’s 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.
You're not sure how long Ryland spends between your legs with your hands in his hair and name on your lips, but it’s 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 you’d expected to hate, but are getting rather fond of.
It’s 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 it’s highly plausible that he’s 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. “You said I could fuck you, right?”
“Yeah,” you swallow, throat scratchy and dry. “You can.”
With your head still spinning from the attention and care he’s taking with you, it’s 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.
Ryland’s 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. “Like this?”
“Just like this.” You say, nodding hand reaching up for his cheek to pull him down into another slow, languid kiss.
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.
You’re getting impatient, and while he must have ditched the pants somewhere between eating you out and repositioning you right side up on the mattress, he’s still got his briefs on and you’re still wearing your underwear.
“Off,” You grunt, hand pulling at the waistband of his briefs.
Ryland’s 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.
He gasps, a shaky exhale hitting your skin as you wrap your hand around the length of him.
Warm and heavy in your palm, he’s bigger than you’d expected. When you slide your hand up, swiping a thumb over the head of his dick, there’s so much precum that it pools on your thumb pad. You give him a slow pump, slide eased by the wetness.
Ryland mouths at the skin of your shoulder, and the hand he’s not using to keep himself above you finds its way to your hip, slipping under your panties, pulling at them.
“Condoms. I need-” He cuts himself off with another groan, biting into your skin then kissing it softly like an apology. “I need a condom.”
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 that’s not wrapped around him to tug your panties down, wriggling them off and down your legs.
It doesn’t go unnoticed, and he drops the condom wrapper somewhere beside your head as his gaze whips back to your face. “I was going to do that.”
He sounds a little bit thrown, like he’d really been looking forwards to pulling your panties off.
“You were also going to fuck me.” 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.
“Not fair.” 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. “Next time, you let me take my time, okay?”
You press a kiss to the corner of his mouth. “We’ll take turns.”
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 you’d heard him all night, when you roll it over his dick, hips bucking into your hand and cock bumping against your stomach.
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.
It’s 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.
“God,” he pants. “You feel so good, baby.”
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.
This type of slow kissing might have been your new favorite, Ryland’s 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.
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. “Fuck, that’s perfect- so good.”
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. “Y-yeah?”
“Yeah Ry- perfect. Feel so full.” 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.
You kiss at the line of his jaw, mouthing and biting at the stubble there. He moans, sharp exhale hitting your cheek. “‘M not gonna last much longer, sw-swetheart.”
“S’okay. Let go, baby.” You murmur by his ear, free hand slipping down to press against your clit.
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.
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.
“Couple more.” You moan, fingers winding tight little circles over your clit. “Almost there.”
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.
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 he’s sprawled out with his back on those sage green sheets with you draped over him.
He kisses your temple, mumbling your name like a prayer. “‘S a good kissing booth. Might be a repeat customer.”
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. “Might? What happened to ‘next time’?”
He smiles at you, hands reaching for your hips as he draws slow lines up and down your skin with his thumbs. “Well, I don’t wanna push my luck.”
“You’re not pushing anything.” You murmur, leaning back down to kiss him proper.
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 Ryland’s now soft cock slip out. He exhales heavily, and you lay beside him, eyes on the slow spinning ceiling fan.
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.
Ryland walks over and pulls some boxers on, then returns to the bed to slide a pair over your hips too. “You want a shirt?”
You bite your bottom lip in a poor attempt to smother a grin. “Only if it’s one of your nerdy ones.”
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.
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.
“This okay?” He asks, pulling you over to lay up against him.
“More than okay.” You snuggle closer, cheek pressed against the warm plane of his chest. “Been thinking about this.”
The confession slips out in a rush of endorphins, like you’re so happy to be wrapped up in his arms and sheets, smelling like him, that you just can’t help but let him know.
You can hear the confusion in his voice when he speaks. “Having sex with me?”
No. You almost say, even though you had. It wasn’t where you were trying to go with this though. “Sleeping in your bed. With you.”
The rise and fall of his chest, of a heavy exhale, moves beneath you. “Oh.”
“I think our next date should be trivia.” 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. “So we can get it right this time.”
“Deal.”
[ 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.
Rocky learns about the importance of sound to babies in the womb so he and Adrian start thrumming/singing when you're pregnant, whether it's just in conversation or an actual song, it varies but they do it more and more as the baby develops.
Really find it fascinating when they sense the baby move in response too. They really enjoy fiding out with vibrations / sounds the baby reacts to more, or which one lulls them.
Ryland has to shoo Rocky and Adrian away sometimes because 'his baby is not a science experiment'. But, you really can't blame them, or any of the other Eridians. This is the first human baby they've ever gotten to experience. There's so much data!!!
Working with Ryland wasn’t much of a problem. In fact, it was the opposite.
He was so likable it was hard to get upset at the guy if he made a mistake, even if he could get a bit bratty, none of it came from the heart and he’d spit out a small apology later.
However, only one thing comes to mind.
He had no concept of personal space.
He constantly complains about Rocky invading your shared living space in the Hail Mary, but he doesn’t even realize they are so much more similar than he thinks.
If you’re looking through the microscope, he’s hovering behind you, heat radiating off his body as he leans over your shoulder, as if he was able to see what you were seeing.
If you’re trying to show him something, he’s rolling his stool over next to yours and practically leaning against you to see what you are showing him.
More than once, he’s helped put things away or grab things off high shelves, reaching over you and practically trapping you under his arms.
And the worst part? He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, or even how he’s affecting you at all.
Over time it keeps evolving as you two get closer to one another.
A hand on the small of your back as he moves past you.
Putting his hands on your waist as he peers over your shoulder.
Wrapping his arm around your shoulder nonchalantly while you both watch some movie in the ‘don’t go crazy’ room.
Putting a hand on your thigh while you sit near him.
He just wants to be all up in your space and you’re not too mad about that anymore. He’s warm, comforting, something to ground you in these stressful moments in space.
Working with Ryland wasn’t much of a problem. In fact, it was the opposite.
He was so likable it was hard to get upset at the guy if he made a mistake, even if he could get a bit bratty, none of it came from the heart and he’d spit out a small apology later.
However, only one thing comes to mind.
He had no concept of personal space.
He constantly complains about Rocky invading your shared living space in the Hail Mary, but he doesn’t even realize they are so much more similar than he thinks.
If you’re looking through the microscope, he’s hovering behind you, heat radiating off his body as he leans over your shoulder, as if he was able to see what you were seeing.
If you’re trying to show him something, he’s rolling his stool over next to yours and practically leaning against you to see what you are showing him.
More than once, he’s helped put things away or grab things off high shelves, reaching over you and practically trapping you under his arms.
And the worst part? He doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, or even how he’s affecting you at all.
Over time it keeps evolving as you two get closer to one another.
A hand on the small of your back as he moves past you.
Putting his hands on your waist as he peers over your shoulder.
Wrapping his arm around your shoulder nonchalantly while you both watch some movie in the ‘don’t go crazy’ room.
Putting a hand on your thigh while you sit near him.
He just wants to be all up in your space and you’re not too mad about that anymore. He’s warm, comforting, something to ground you in these stressful moments in space.
CUTE. I don't know why but I felt like i couldn't find the end of this one hahaha
He Reads ~ ryland grace x reader
1.3k words, fluff, immediately post sex
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Ryland pulls you onto his chest, breath coming out in heavy pants as he tucks your head under his chin. Trembling arms wrap around your back, long fingers splaying across your skin and rubbing soothing circles into the muscle. Lips press into your messy hair, the sweetness of it a stark contrast to how intense everything felt a minute ago.
“You okay, sweetheart?” His voice was soft, trying to not to disturb the peace that had fallen over you two. You nod and crane your head up, licking slowly into his mouth. There’s no hesitation from him - he meets your lips with a happy little noise, making you smile. You settled back against him, soaking in the haze for a few more moments.
When you roll to your back, Ryland climbs out of the bed and disappears into the bathroom. You hear the sink running and he comes back with a warm towel. He presses your legs open just enough to swipe up the mess, murmuring his apologies when you twitch a little. A kiss drops to your knee and he’s gone again.
A glass of water and a bag of chips land on the nightstand and he’s reaching for your hands. “Drink this, I’m going to get the shower going,” he helps you sit up, ever the gentleman, and retreats again. You take a sip and follow him, wrapping your arms around his front and pressing your face into his back. He lets out a laugh, turning to see you.
“You’re so sweet, you know that?” Your arms loop around his neck. He rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance, and rests his hands on your rear. “I’m serious, you fuck me into the mattress and then immediately turn into prince charming.”
He makes a strangled noise, closing his eyes and turning his head away. “I might have done some… research.. in my time,” he forces out. “What kind of research?” You jump on him as quickly as he expected. He’s bright red, “I might’ve read some books.”
Your eyes go wide, smile breaking across your face. “What kind of books are we talking?”
“You know what kind of books I’m talking about,” he grumbles, biting back his own smile. “Ryland Grace reads romance, I’m going to need a minute to take this in,” you study his face, not wanting to push too hard if he’s really embarrassed about it.
“I read a few right when we started dating, figured women were going to be the most reliable source.” He’s practically pouting, “it’s basically peer reviewed material.” He leans down, kissing you soundly before you can tease him. “Now, you pee while I go grab clothes,” he gives you a serious look with a point. “I’m serious!” and he steps out of the bathroom.
He waits until he hears the toilet flush before coming back, knowing you prefer a little privacy. You’re already in the shower when he returns, letting the hot water soothe your tired body. Ryland slides in behind you, taking your loofa and scrubbing your back gently. He’s very well behaved the whole time, radiating his respect for you through caring touches and dreamy kisses.
When you’re both clean and dry, he slides a big t-shirt over your head, laughing at the playful slap you land on his ass when he turns around for his boxers. “So forward,” he chuckles, grabbing your wrist and pulling you back to the bed. You slide under the covers and hold them up, patting the mattress beside you. He dives right in, nearly laying his whole body on top of yours.
“Mm, love you,” his words are muffled against your neck. You return the words easily, fingers weaving through his hair. “So about those books,” you start, giggling at his groan. “I was just wondering which ones you’ve read!”
He raises his head and glares at you. He’s thinking again, you can see the wheels turning. The drawer on the nightstand slides open and he grabs his kindle, pausing before handing it to you with a shy look from under his lashes. “Ryland, I’m just teasing, you don’t have to tell me.” You’re suddenly worried that he feels real pressure, which is the last thing you wanted to do to the sweetest man you knew.
“It’s okay,” he smiles, laying back down against your chest. “I’m open to your recommendations.” He takes the kindle and turns it on, letting you read the list of books. It’s a lot of genres - memoirs, fiction and non-fiction, lots of classics. “You have good taste,” you affirm, skimming your nails over his back.
A few romance books are scattered through the list, they’re generally tame, he clearly reads the content warnings before picking one out. You huff a little laugh when you realize that he really only read sweet romance novels.
“What?” He sounds anxious. “Nothing, nothing Ry! These are really good ones, I’ve read them all too,” you ask him for his thoughts on a plot twist from one of the stories, laughing as he launches into a tirade about how many bad decisions were made back to back by literally every character. “Like, if a single good choice had been made, the book would have been over. It was all so fixable!” His hands fly through the air, helping him articulate his thoughts.
You scroll back up the list, eyes going wide when you catch sight of a title you didn’t expect to see. “Heated Rivalry?” You didn’t mean to sound so surprised. It had the little checkmark on it, he read the whole thing.
He squeezes his eyes shut, muffling a snort in your shoulder. “That’s a good one too!” You insist, running a hand over his hair again. “I wanted to know what the hype was about,” he chuckles. “Then the story got really good and I needed to know how it would end.” You both melt into giggles, “have you read it?” He asks, tilting to see you.
“I’ve seen the show, haven’t read the book.” A nod from him, like he’s cataloging that information for later. He taps into the store on his tablet and waves it out to you. “Here, what should I read next?” He molds himself to you as soon as you take it, wrapping his arms around your waist and pressing you lower into the sheets. “This is a big responsibility,” you tuck a leg around his, distracted by how nice his weight felt on top of you. “Do you have a favorite?”
You think for a second, searching for something he would like. Oh, of course. You type in the title and let him read the synopsis, laughing when he reads out a review. “‘It’s everything I didn’t know I needed.’”
He taps buy and downloads it, “I’m telling you, it’s peer reviewed!”
“No, you’re right. The data is there, I never thought of it that way,” you push him and he rolls, pulling you on top of him. You see him open the book and you grin, “you’re gonna read it? Right now?” He clears his throat.
“I’m gonna read it to you.” His fingers skim over your side, feeling the breath you pull in.
And he does - he reads the first chapter in a low voice. He doesn’t notice that your eyes are closed and your breathing evened out until he gets to the last page. A small smile pulls at his lips, his eyes shining in a way that he knows would make you blush if you were awake.
He reads for as long as he can, stretching the moment out. These were his favorite nights, he decided to tell you that too when you woke up in the morning.
--------------------------
i figured out that I struggle to write earth stories with ryland bc I know that he would be sent to space and that would be the end of it. I like Erid bc I can explore hope and grief and how they intertwine, knowing it's an objectively happy ending. any earth story is ultimately more heartbreaking than post hail Mary ones
HEYYY SO I JUST FINISHED UR "MR GRACE HAS RIZZ?" FIC AND WHAT IF YOU MADE A PART TWO WITH READER COMING IN FOR CAREER DAY AND ON OF THE SINGLE PARENTS TRYING TO FLIRT WITH HER AND GRACE GETS JEALOUS???
DID THIS MAKE SENSE??? AND IM NOT SHOUTING I JUST LIKE TYPING IN ALL CAPS
BTW I RLLY LIKED THE FIC!!!
OKE BYEE🩷🩷🩷🩷🩷
HA okay this is less dialogue because I DON'T KNOW how to write it apparently. thanks for reading!!
Mr. Grace has rizz? pt. 2 ~ ryland grace x reader
1.5k words, fluff
summary: it's career day! ryland has his students trained on professionalism but it doesn't extend to their parents
Part 1
--------------------------------
Career day had been marked on your calendar for weeks, your manager was more than happy to give you a morning off for it, saying something about inspiring the next generation of workers. You didn’t love that phrasing, but the capitalist wheel turns no matter the willingness of the cog, you supposed. You had a short presentation ready, choosing to talk about the coolest parts of being an architectural engineer. The goal was to get the students excited about science, though whether that was for their benefit or Ryland’s, you weren’t totally sure.
Either way, you were standing in Ryland’s classroom, mingling with the handful of other professionals there to talk about their own work. An L&D nurse and a firefighter, both parents to students in the class, and a photographer who travels for a living. It was a good mix of the arts and sciences, Ryland did well finding such different perspectives to present to the kids.
The students were sitting close, the history class next door piled in for the period. The bell rang and Ryland clapped his hands, lifting one in the air. All eyes went straight to him, chatter dying down quickly. He perched on the corner of his desk, smile wide as he introduced each speaker. “They’ve graciously agreed to share their time and work with all of us this morning, which means we’re going to be what?”
A chorus of “respectful!” rings through the room. It was impressive, how in control he seemed to be of so many middle schoolers. The photographer went first, showing the kids their best, and silliest, animal photos. They ate it up, laughing at a photo of a bird pooping in midair. Ryland stood next to you off to the side, hiding his grin behind his hand. The presentation ended up being a great refresher on animal sciences, which the kids didn’t expect from the artist of the group.
The nurse was next, she gave a beautiful speech about getting to help people every day, how she loved supporting moms through the scary moments and the joyful ones. It brought tears to your eyes hearing how passionate she was about her patients. You caught the history teacher wiping her cheek, a small smile shared between you two. You figured she must have kids, you didn’t have that excuse though.
The firefighter decided to go the comedy route, laughing his way through a story about having to save someone who climbed a tree to save a cat. He got them both down safely, using it as a stepping stone to talk about how firefighters have to be brave for everyone around them. He let the kids pass around his helmet and showed them how quickly he has to be able to suit up. The helmet eventually landed on Ryland’s head, making the students giggle as he puffs out his chest and says, “you know what, I do feel brave in this!”
Then it was your turn. As an architectural engineer, you knew you wanted to get the kids excited about design, so you brought in a model of a new lab your team was working on. You talked about the importance of being able to blend beautiful structure with sound math and things like ventilation, because a pretty building is nothing if it’s not safe. The kids had really thoughtful questions about accessibility and standards of design. It surprised you, how attentive they were.
You expected some teasing from them considering that they knew you were dating their teacher, but they were nothing but respectful the whole period. When you finished, Ryland jumped in and raised his hand again, “what do we say to our guests?” A rousing “thank you!” followed, making you laugh. The bell rang and that was it.
A few students stayed after class to talk to you all individually, asking more in-depth questions that made you excited for their future prospects. These kids were smart, now you understand why Ryland loved science fair season at the school.
When the last student finally ran off, the firefighter approached you. He was flirting, you could tell immediately, but you didn’t want to be rude, so you smiled along until you could find an out. He told you about his son Mason, briefly mentioned being divorced, and finally asked about your life. You could feel eyes on you from across the room, you knew Ryland was watching. He wouldn’t intervene unless you asked for help, but that doesn’t mean he’s not acutely aware of the unwanted advances you’re currently facing.
The man asked for your number, a charming smile on his face. You held in a sigh and kept your face neutral, “oh, I actually have a boyfriend.” You kept it simple, not wanting to hurt his feelings. “You do?” He asks, brows raising. Before you have a chance to say anything, though, you feel an arm slide around your shoulder. You turn your head and see Ryland, other hand on his hip and a big smile on his face.
“Thank you for coming today, the kids were so engaged,” he says it to you, then turns to the firefighter. “Seriously, they loved getting to meet you.”
The man covers his surprise quickly, reaching out to shake his hand. “It was my pleasure, Mr. Grace,” and he exchanges a few pleasantries before excusing himself.
You turn to Ryland with your brows raised, a smirk playing on your lips. “Ryland,” you start, “was that a little jealousy I heard?” He meets your eye and shrugs, “Mason’s dad is freshly divorced and maybe too eager to find a new wife.” You laugh softly, shaking your head and stepping away. “I was in the middle of turning him down, but thank you for saving me the trouble,” and you kiss his cheek.
~
It’s not until the next evening that Ryland has stories for you. He comes home with a huge grin plastered on his face, barely even getting his coat off before he’s calling for you. “You’ll never guess what Mason told me this morning,” he corners you on the couch. “Apparently, his dad asked him about you yesterday.” Your eyes go wide, not knowing what to expect when the story was coming from a 13 year old.
“Mason said, and I quote, ‘don’t worry, Mr. Grace, I shut that shit down so fast. My dad isn’t going anywhere near Mrs. Grace.’” A laugh rumbles out of him, shaking the couch cushion. You gasp, “he said that?!”
“Yeah! And then he had to put his name in the swear jar because what the fuck, Mason!” It always makes you laugh when Ryland swears, it sounds so unnatural coming from his mouth. You had rubbed off on him a little, but he really tries to keep it to the confines of the apartment.
“He’s a good kid,” you throw your legs over his, “he had great questions yesterday.”
He nods, “oh! One of the girls sent me an email with questions for you, said she was interested in how what she’s learning in her electronics class might roll over into what you do.” He pulls out his phone, forwarding you the email.
“Aw, a little engineer in the making,” you smile. “She’s like, insanely smart. Her last paper was on hydroponics, she brought a basil plant in for the window, it’s growing like crazy! No soil!” He gestures wildly, like he can’t believe she’s keeping it alive in his classroom.
You can’t help the soft look on your face, eyes shining as he brags about his students. When he finally looks at you he freezes, “what?” It’s a gentle question, timid, even. “Nothing, just - thank you for including me yesterday, it was nice seeing you in your element,” you smile, reaching for his hand.
He plants a kiss to the back of your hand and you feel the heat radiating off his cheeks. “A couple of the girls cornered me this morning,” he looks away bashfully, “they said I needed to buy you a ring today because I’d be crazy to let you go.”
“Yeah?” Your voice is quiet, “I’m not going anywhere, Ry.”
He finally turns to look at you, “Would you… would you want to get married?” He’s nervous, it’s sweet, you think.
You can’t help the wide smile that breaks across your face, it eases his nerves instantly. “Mm, I think I would.”
He nods, lips stretching into the most beautiful smile you’ve ever seen on him. “I’ll do it properly, the ring, one knee, nice dinner somewhere pretty.”
“I don’t need anything grand, you know. Just you, whatever feels right to you.”
He shifts to pull you in by the back of your neck, lips landing on yours in a soft, sweet kiss. “I love you,” he says your name like a prayer, holding eye contact like it’ll express everything he feels. “I love you too, Ryland,” you whisper against his lips, feeling his smile against your skin.
He’s quiet for a moment, just enjoying the closeness. Then he shifts again, “okay, so the girls were showing me different rings, they made it sound so complicated.” You laugh, nodding, “I’ll show you what I like, but I want you to pick it out.”
And you know that he will absolutely be showing those middle school girls the rings he’s considering for their opinions. You trust their judgement, it’s gotten you two this far, anyway.
Ryland Grace's new students catch a look at reader and freak out
This was fun!! I'm practicing dialogue because it does not come naturally to me, but I think it turned out cute!
Mr. Grace has rizz? ~ ryland grace x reader
1.4k words, fluff, lots of gen z slang
summary: you run by the school for ryland, his students can't believe you're real
Part 2, career day!
-----------------
He hadn’t done it on purpose, the rush of the morning caught up to him and he left a stack of graded worksheets on the table. He was halfway to the school when he remembered, shooting a quick text to you asking if you could drop them off on your way to work. It was no problem, of course, you loved seeing your Mr. Grace in his element anyway.
The drive was easy, you parked in a guest spot and strolled in, hoping to catch Ryland at a good time. A quick peek through the window of his classroom confirmed your hopes, the students had their heads down, working quietly on an assignment. Ryland caught sight of you and stood from his desk, moving quickly to the door. You opened it to greet him with a wave, holding the stack of papers out.
“Thank you so much,” he murmurs, leaning in to press a chaste peck to your cheek.
A chorus of “ew,” “aw,” and gasps rumble through the class. Ryland closes his eyes for a moment before turning around to face the excited middle schoolers. Before he could say anything, though, one of the girls points forcefully in your direction, “that’s your girlfriend?!”
“No way Mr. Grace pulled her,” another joined in.
“There’s a Mrs. Grace?!”
“There really is hope for all of us,” a boy laughs.
“Wait, she’s hot!” They were all talking over each other, a mix of compliments to you and barely concealed insults toward their teacher.
“Hey!” Ryland starts, clinging to what was left of his dignity. You wave to the room, introducing yourself with a grin. You were absolutely going to make fun of him tonight, and he knew it too. He was bright red but he fixed the students with a serious look, “back to your work, everyone.”
They didn’t even pretend to look at their papers, too interested in this new side of their silly science teacher that they never got to see. Ryland turns back to you, stepping through the doorway and leading you away from the windows with a hand on your lower back. “This is all they’re going to talk about today,” he sighs. You stifle a laugh and point behind him.
The kids were lined up against the window, pressing their faces close to the glass to try to get a glimpse of you two. He doesn’t even turn around, “I owe you dinner for these,” he shakes the papers still in his hand. “You’re not cooking in my kitchen,” you giggle.
“Takeout it is,” he smiles, landing one more quick kiss to your lips before he steps backwards, steeling himself for the torment he was about to walk back into. You whisper your goodbyes and laugh to yourself when you hear his voice carry through the hallway, “don’t think I won’t lower your grades on these papers!”
~
He beats you home that evening, an array of Chinese food already set up on the table when you slink through the door. Ryland is in the kitchen fighting with that one drawer that just doesn’t open right. Loose sweatpants sit low on his hips, a big difference from his work clothes you last saw him in. “Hey! How was your day?” He’s chipper, the day must not have been so bad.
“Same old, I’m more interested in your day, Mr. Grace.” You step beside him, opening the drawer and kissing his cheek. He fishes out the chopsticks you always use and ushers you to the table, he pulls out your chair and can’t help but drop a kiss to the top of your head. “My day,” he starts with a sigh, “was exactly what you expect with a bunch of middle schoolers who just found out that I have a beautiful girlfriend.”
You giggle softly, opening the boxes in front of you and assessing just how much food he ordered. “Come on, I want details! If anyone is going to have good jokes it’s your students.”
“First it was the lingo, they called me unc and said something about pulling a baddie,” he laughed, wiggling his eyebrows at you. “Then they said you were way out of my league, asked how I convinced you to give a nerd like me a chance.” You let out a belly laugh at that, knowing full well you were head over heels for him the first time you met. “Did you tell them that I’m a nerd too?”
“In so many words, but they wouldn’t have it. They decided that you’re the breadwinner of the relationship, something about being a CEO or owning a business,” he’s giggling now, too. “I told them you’re an engineer and Abby asked if you work for Lockheed Martin.” You gasped, choking out a laugh. “How does she know about them?”
“Her parents talk about a lot in front of her,” it’s said wistfully, like he wishes they would stop. “Then, they started using words I didn’t know. I wrote them down, hold on.” He grabs his phone, opening his notes app. “They said I’m ‘high-key a simp,’” a snort from you, “Tyler said, ‘Mr. Grace been hiding his rizz,’ which felt inappropiate coming out of a child’s mouth.” His turn to snort.
“Oh! Jenny called me the Beaker to your Dr. Bunsen, that’s a crazy reference for a 13 year old!” That one bowled you over, you threw your head back with a loud laugh. “I still don’t know what this one means,” he holds his phone far from his face, pretending to struggle to read, “‘Mr. Grace lowkey ohio, but his girlfriend has goddess energy.’” He looks at you exasperatedly, “I’ve gotta ask their English teacher to translate all of this.”
“I don’t mind ‘goddess energy,’” you wink at him. “The girls all agreed on that one, so I think it’s universally accepted,” he smiled softly at you, his tongue poking out to wet his lips. “My favorite one, though, was someone said we’re like fix-it Felix and that soldier lady Jane Lynch voiced in Wreck It Ralph.”
“Stop! They did not say that!” Your cheeks hurt from laughing so much at this point. “They did! I think it was a disguised way to say that you’re out of my league again,” he’s so enamored with the way you’re laughing, he almost wishes he had more quips to read out. “I told them that one doesn’t work because Felix is shorter than the soldier, then they said I give short aura and that insecurity about being a ‘short king’ is a bad look. I’m six feet tall!” You’re struggling to catch your breath, you loved these kids so much and you’d only just met them.
“That was a lot for one class period,” you wipe your eyes, food totally forgotten on the table. “Yeah, we didn’t get much work done,” he sighs dramatically.
He hesitates a little to tell you the next part, his ears burning when you notice the look on his face. “They- uh, they exclusively referred to you as Mrs. Grace, despite how many times I told them that we’re not married.” Your cheeks heat up at that, “that’s sweet of them.” The moment stretches, longing in his eyes that you recognize. He’s never brought marriage up before, but he often talks about spending the rest of your lives together. One thing about Ryland is that he’s a loverboy, it’s one of your favorite parts of him. You lay your hand on top of his, a gentle comfort after a long day of torment.
“Anyways, now that they know you exist, they’re going to ask to see you again. Maybe you could come in for career day? Tell them about the importance of paying attention when their teacher is talking,” he looks a little shy, it reminds you of how he looked when he first asked you out.
“I’d love to do that, Ry, you just let me know when it is and I’ll make sure my schedule is clear.” Your smile is bright, excitement shining through at being included. “Yeah?” His expression is hopeful. “Yeah, I’ve gotta prove that they’re right, I am the breadwinner in this relationship,” you don’t even have time to laugh before he’s pulling you out of your chair and over his shoulder. He lands a hand against your thighs, ignoring your squeals.
“You’re right, I’ve gotta earn my keep,” and he carries you all the way to the bedroom, “happy wife, happy life and all that.”
things i like: winged eyeliner, big glasses, hoop earrings, boba tea, peach-colored things, late spring weather
things i post: i write and reblog fanfiction about movies and shows i like. this is occasionally an nsfw blog. minors do not follow!
this is a sideblog! i do not send asks from this blog. my other writing sideblog is silvergyus
please note: this blog is ten years old. old fics by me do not accurately represent the writer i am currently. i am proud of my past self but please do not judge me harshly for works i wrote as a teen ♡
Ryland Grace headcanons// sfw// inspired by the movie but a lot of the characters points are from the book since i've read it multiple times
cw/ just a lot of fluff/ i need him bad/ established relationship/ fem reader/ mentions of crying (not angst!)/ mentions of kissing+skinship/ lmk if i missed anything/ am probably going to do a nsfw version soon bc... ahem
he doesnt have a jealous bone in his body, not really. he can just get... overprotective. he wants you close All The Time. whether hes grading tests or projects or watching you cook dinner in your shared apartment (the only thing he ever makes for himself is ramen noodles), he needs you near him. hes in the bathroom brushing his teeth while youre showering because he doesnt want to lay in your bed without you, even for five minutes.
hes a deep sleeper. and a long one, too. whenever you two share a day off you have to bribe him out of bed with coffee and pancakes, because if it was up to him, hed rather spend the whole day in bed with you. hes also Always falling asleep with his glasses on. he goes through pairs of them so often youve started keeping a spare in the apartment, along with an always-updated copy of his prescription for when he inevitably loses the spare set too.
the epitome of golden retriever boyfriend, theres no denying it. all he ever wants is for you to run your hands through his hair and tell him hes doing a good job, no matter what it is hes actually doing. Needs reassurance from you whenever youre willing to give it to him, which is always, of course. cycles constantly through having lots of energy to none at all (hence the sleeping in).
we all know hes a cryer. hes crying at anything and everything even a little bit emotional. he always tells you its the price you have to pay for having an emotionally intelligent boyfriend, hes gonna be emotional. more than once hes handed you a tear-stained book and asked if you could read him the ending, because the words are too blurry for him to do it himself.
hes a Huge believer in goodbye kisses. if you two are going to spend any time apart at all, he needs a kiss goodbye. usually this isnt a problem, with his teaching job starting so early in the morning hes almost always out the door before you, and in charge of the goodbye kiss. but theres been a few times where you left before him and decided not to wake him in your rush to get out the door. not only do you get a very pathetic text about it whenever he does wake up, he wrestles you directly into bed the second you get home, complaining about how lonely he felt all day without your kisses.
the least organized person you know by far. his desk is the one place that doesnt get organized in the apartment, at his request, and its constantly strewn with gradebook binders and alternate test question forms for his different classes. you have no idea how he can stand working with his space like that, but he always tells you just because his papers arent in neat stacks doesnt mean he doesnt know where they are.
absolutelty Hates when you use titles on him. all he hears all day from students and colleagues is 'Goodmorning Mr. Grace!' and 'How are you doing today Doctor Grace?'. after hearing it for hours on end at work he cant stand it coming out of your mouth. he doesnt even like when you call him grace, since there are so many pet names he prefers. the only thing he lets slide is his contact name in your phone, which changed from 'Dr. Grace' to 'My Grace <33' in between you two being friends and dating.
