Elder millennial Usually known as @littlefanthings The side-blog of the side-blog This is my spot for all things fan fiction or slightly spicier thoughts Under 18 Please DNI (sorry youngins)
warnings: one cheating guy; one aggressive woman; Holland getting hit; alcohol; angst; tears; confessions; kissing; fluff; Holland just being himself; flirting
note : when your boyfriend cheated on you, it turned out that someone else really cared about you
A/N: Okay, I did it. I was thinking about a one-shot, but I'm planning something more. Unfortunately, I don't know what will come of it. Anyway, I ended up giving myself a choice...
[Ryan Gosling masterlist] [main masterlist]
Truth be told, you didn’t feel like going out. The week had drained you dry. Your soon-to-be ex-boyfriend had stood you up, and then Holland March appeared on your walk home and somehow, you agreed.
With that crooked, cheeky smile of his, he promised to buy you a few drinks and guarantee at least one decent evening. You’d known Holland for a while. He lived nearby with his daughter, Holly, who sometimes spent time with you whenever her father got caught up in work. You knew he was harmless, well, mostly harmless to everyone except himself, and annoyingly charming when he wanted to be.
“You look... wow,” he said as you slid into his car that evening. His eyes flicked over you, genuine surprise written across his face. “Your boyfriend’s not gonna mind?”
“Who cares,” you muttered, smoothing down your dress. “Apparently drinking with his friends was more important.”
“His loss, my gain,” Holland replied with an easy grin, flicking his cigarette into the street before pulling away from the curb. “And lucky for you, I know a really cool place.”
That “really cool place” turned out to be one of the trendiest clubs in town. You’d heard about it before, but every time you suggested going, your boyfriend claimed you’d hate it, that it was trashy, loud, disgusting. But the second you walked inside with Holland, you realized he’d been completely wrong.
Music pulsed through the room, impossible not to move to. The bar looked stocked enough to bankrupt a college student, and everywhere you looked there were beautiful women, handsome men, flashing lights, and clouds of cigarette smoke curling toward the ceiling.
“C’mon,” March said, resting a hand against the small of your back as he guided you toward a table. “Let me buy you something. Sweet drinks seem like your thing.”
“Are you judging me already?”
“Absolutely,” he said with a grin.
You laughed despite yourself, and a second later he disappeared into the crowd toward the bar.
A few drinks later, you were laughing at Holland’s terrible jokes and letting him drag you onto the dance floor. Somewhere between the music, the alcohol, and his ridiculous confidence, the night had started feeling good. Better than good, actually. Maybe exactly what you’d needed. You were just beginning to think that when someone suddenly dropped into the seat beside you.
“Healy,” you muttered, setting your glass down.
Jackson Healy leaned back in his chair and nodded toward you. “Nice dress.” Then he leaned closer to Holland. “I talked to the guy,” he said quietly. “He says Simpson’s got a place outside the city. We should check it out.”
“Great,” Holland muttered, though his voice had gone strangely tight. His eyes flicked nervously toward you. “Tomorrow, Healy. We’ll go tomorrow.”
“Why tomorrow? We should go now.”
“I…”
Holland hesitated, and suddenly you understood, you were still sitting there.
This hadn’t really been a night out. Definitely not for him. You’d just been convenient, someone to fill the empty seat while he watched the room, worked a lead, played detective. He hadn’t picked this club by accident. And maybe he hadn’t picked your table by accident either.
“Go,” you said quietly, because apparently you were the only one willing to make the decision. “I can get home myself.”
“No.” Holland straightened immediately. “I’ll drive you. You shouldn’t…”
“We should go now,” Healy interrupted, already impatient. Then he glanced at you. “Sorry. Important client.”
You shrugged, suddenly too tired to care. Standing up, you grabbed your purse from the chair and froze. A few tables away sat a painfully familiar figure.
“Peter?”
Holland turned so fast he nearly knocked over his drink. “Shit,” he hissed under his breath. “Listen, maybe don’t…”
But you were already staring. Your boyfriend, the same man who’d supposedly been out drinking with friends, had a red-haired girl half in his lap, kissing her like he’d forgotten the rest of the world existed. She looked young. Too young.
Anger surged through you so quickly it made your head spin. You took a step forward, then another. Before you could reach the table, a hand wrapped firmly around your arm.
Healy.
“Get her outta here, March,” he said flatly. “We don’t need a scene.”
“Maybe I do,” you snapped, alcohol sharpening every word. “Maybe I wanna tell him exactly what I think…”
“Take her out.”
A second later, Holland’s hands were on you, steering you toward the exit before you could protest. You struggled against him the entire way, but between the alcohol and his grip, it was useless.
Only once the cold night air hit your face did you finally wrench yourself free.
“Leave me alone,” you hissed. “You’re all the same!”
“Hey… hey, hold on.” Holland raised both hands defensively. “What does that even mean? I didn’t do anything to you.”
You spun to face him fully, chest rising hard with every breath. Heat crawled up your neck, humiliation mixing violently with anger.
“You brought me here because you needed cover,” you snapped. “Don’t deny it. Healy practically admitted it. You probably knew Peter would be here too, and…”
“I didn’t plan that!” Holland shot back immediately. “I swear to God, I didn’t.”
“Yeah, sure. Whatever you say.”
Without another word, you turned on your heel, determined to find a cab that would take you home. But before you could get far, March’s hurried footsteps caught up to you again.
“What are you doing?” Holland called after you. “I’m driving you home.” He fell into step beside you. “It’s late. You shouldn’t be walking around the city alone. Somebody could…”
“Could what?!” You spun around so suddenly that Holland nearly walked straight into you. “Someone could use me? Humiliate me?”
“Jesus!” Holland threw his hands up. “I didn’t plan any of this!”
You couldn’t stop yourself. Still clutching your purse, you swung it hard into his shoulder.
“Ow!” Holland stumbled backward, letting out a strangely high-pitched yelp. “What the…ow! Hey! Ow!”
“You’re — exactly — like — him!” you shot back, punctuating every word with another hit of your bag.
Only when Holland finally caught your wrist did the assault stop. A few strands of dark blond hair had fallen over his forehead, and he was breathing almost as hard as you were.
“Calm down,” he muttered, glancing nervously over his shoulder. “People are gonna think…”
“I’ll start screaming.”
Instantly, his other hand clamped gently, but firmly over your mouth.
“Jesus, woman,” he hissed. “You really shouldn’t drink. And honestly, I probably should’ve tied you up before trying to talk to you.”
You let out a string of muffled, furious sounds against his palm.
“Apology accepted,” Holland announced immediately.
Your glare could’ve killed him.
“Now,” he continued, still trying, and failing, not to sound amused, “you’re getting in the car, and I’m taking you home. Then tomorrow morning, when you’re slightly less terrifying, we can talk.” He pointed at you. “Deal?”
The two of you held each other’s gaze for a long moment. Holland March wasn’t the type to give up easily, you knew that better than anyone.
Eventually, you caved. With visible reluctance, you gave a small nod.
He slowly removed his hand from your mouth, though he immediately took half a step back, clearly expecting another attack from your purse. But you didn’t swing at him this time.
Something about you had changed, and Holland noticed it instantly, he noticed more than people gave him credit for.
Your eyes glistened beneath the streetlights, and your bottom lip trembled just slightly. And suddenly, more than anything, he wanted to pull you into his arms.
The drive home was painfully quiet. Neither of you spoke. The radio played softly in the background, drowned out by the hum of the engine and the occasional noise from the street outside. Holland kept both hands on the wheel, his eyes fixed ahead, though every now and then he glanced at you from the corner of his eye.
At one point, he was almost certain he heard quiet sniffles. But when he looked over, you had already wiped your cheeks with the back of your hand, staring stubbornly out the window like nothing had happened at all. Like you refused to let him see you cry, and for some reason, that hurt worse.
Holland liked you. More than he probably should’ve.
You were smart, patient, kind to Holly, and somehow still willing to tolerate him even on his worst days. Seeing you like this, heartbroken, humiliated, made something twist painfully in his chest.
When he finally pulled up in front of your house, neither of you moved right away.
“I didn’t know Peter was gonna be there,” he said, his voice unusually sincere. “I swear. I really didn’t plan that.”
“I know...” you answered quietly. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I just want to take off this dress, shower, and crawl into bed.”
“Way too many details,” Holland said immediately. “Way, way too many.”
You rolled your eyes, but he still caught the tiny twitch at the corner of your mouth.
Success.
“See?” Holland pointed at you like he’d just won an argument. “That’s better. Tiny smile. We’re making progress.”
“You’re annoying,” you muttered, reaching for the door handle.
“Yeah, well. That’s kinda my thing.”
For a second, neither of you moved again. The street outside was quiet, washed in the pale glow of streetlights. Holland tapped his fingers nervously against the steering wheel before finally clearing his throat.
“I’m gonna come by tomorrow,” he said. “Check on you.”
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.”
You looked at him then, properly this time. His tie hung loose around his neck and his hair was a mess.
“Why are you doing this?” you asked softly. “I was awful to you tonight.”
Holland frowned immediately, like the question itself bothered him. “You had a bad night.”
“I hit you.”
“With a purse. I’ve survived worse.”
“Holland.”
He sighed quietly, glancing away for a second before looking back at you. This time there was no teasing grin, no sarcastic remark waiting behind his eyes. Just honesty.
“Because you’re worth it,” he said simply.
The words hit harder than they should have. And judging by the way Holland immediately looked uncomfortable afterward, like he regretted letting something real slip out, he felt it too.
“So,” he added quickly, pointing at you again to cover the sudden sincerity, “tomorrow. I’m bringing coffee. And maybe donuts if I feel emotionally generous.”
Despite yourself, you laughed softly.
— — — —
The next morning, you ignored every phone call. You were almost certain it was Peter. You already felt humiliated enough.
The apartment still smelled faintly like yesterday’s perfume and cigarette smoke. Your dress lay discarded on the floor exactly where you’d thrown it after stumbling home, and every time you looked at it, you remembered the club and what you saw.
You buried your face deeper into the pillow with a groan. A loud knock echoed through the apartment. You froze. Another knock followed, more impatient this time.
“Okay, either you’re dead in there,” a familiar voice called through the door, “or you’re dramatically avoiding society. Both are concerning.”
Holland.
You stared at the ceiling for a moment before slowly dragging yourself out of bed. You looked awful. Your hair was a mess, your eyes still puffy from crying, and you’d thrown on the first oversized sweater you could find.
Part of you considered pretending you weren’t home. But Holland knocked again.
“Also,” he continued loudly, “I brought coffee, so if you ignore me, I’m gonna be emotionally devastated.”
You snorted despite yourself and finally opened the door.
Holland March stood there holding a cardboard tray with two coffees and a paper bag tucked under his arm. His tie was crooked again, sunglasses sliding down his nose despite the cloudy weather.
The moment he saw you, his expression softened. “You look terrible,” he said.
“Wow. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
He held up the bag. “I also brought donuts because apparently emotional support requires sugar.”
You stepped aside wordlessly, letting him in.
Holland walked into the apartment like he’d been there a hundred times before, setting the coffee and bag down on the kitchen counter. You noticed him glance toward the phone ringing again on the table.
Peter.
The ringing stopped after a few seconds. Holland looked back at you carefully. “You gonna answer that?”
“No.”
“Good choice.”
You crossed your arms tightly over your chest. “If you came here to tell me I embarrassed myself last night, trust me, I already know.”
Holland blinked at you. “Actually,” he said slowly, “I came here to tell you your ex-boyfriend’s an idiot.”
Your eyes narrowed immediately. “You talked to him?”
“Maybe.”
You looked at him suspiciously.
He sighed dramatically, already reaching for one of the coffees. “Okay, technically I went there intending to have a calm, mature conversation.”
“And?”
“And then he opened the door and started talking.”
You stared at him. “What did you do?”
“Nothing illegal.”
“That’s not reassuring.”
Holland pointed at you with his coffee cup. “For the record, I showed incredible restraint.”
Despite everything, you felt your mouth twitch slightly. He noticed immediately.
“There it is,” he muttered proudly. “I knew I could get at least one smile today.”
You looked away, suddenly feeling stupid again.
“Honestly,” you murmured quietly, “I don’t even know why I’m this upset anymore.”
Holland’s expression shifted.
“He cheated on me. He lied to me. And somehow I’m still sitting here feeling miserable over him.” Your laugh came out hollow. “That’s pathetic.”
“No,” Holland said immediately.
You looked up.
“It just means you cared.”
The apartment fell quiet. And annoyingly enough, he sounded completely sincere. Holland leaned against the opposite counter, watching you carefully now.
“You know what Peter said when I went to see him?” he asked.
You frowned slightly. “What?”
“That you were ‘too emotional.’”
Your stomach twisted. Holland scoffed before you could even react.
“Meanwhile, the guy’s out there cheating on his girlfriend with a girl who looked like she still needed permission to stay out past midnight.”
A startled laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“See?” Holland pointed at you triumphantly. “Now we’re healing.”
You rolled your eyes, but this time the smile stayed. And Holland, God help him, looked absurdly pleased about it.
You wrapped both hands around the warm coffee cup, sitting at the kitchen table while Holland made himself strangely comfortable in your apartment. Not that he seemed to notice.
He was currently digging through the donut bag with the concentration of a detective examining evidence.
The annoying part was that he looked good too. Too good.
His shirt sleeves were rolled up messily to his elbows, his tie hung loose around his neck again, and his hair looked like he’d run his hands through it about twenty times already that morning.
He looked exhausted. And still unfairly charming.
“You flirt with everybody, don’t you?” you muttered before thinking too hard about it.
Holland blinked. Then, unexpectedly, he went quiet. That alone made you look up. He leaned one hip against the counter, slowly turning the coffee cup in his hands.
“That’s not true,” he said after a moment.
You raised an eyebrow. “Really?”
“Yeah.” Something in his voice softened. “There are people I can’t flirt with at all.”
You frowned slightly. “Why?”
Holland looked at you then, and for one strange second all the usual humor disappeared completely.
“Because I actually care what they think of me.”
Your breath caught. The apartment suddenly felt very small. Holland seemed to realize what he’d just admitted at the exact same moment you did, because his eyes widened slightly before he immediately straightened up.
You stared at him, but he refused to look back at you. And that was the moment you realized something deeply unsettling: Holland March was nervous.
“Holland.”
“What?”
You narrowed your eyes slightly. “Were you just flirting with me?”
He froze, actually froze.
“I…” He cleared his throat. “I feel like that question lacks legal fairness.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it. “Oh my God. You were.”
“No,” Holland said immediately. Then, after a beat: “Maybe a little.”
“Holland March.”
“In my defense, you’re very easy to flirt with.”
You stared at him in disbelief. “I literally hit you with a purse less than twelve hours ago.”
“Yeah.” He nodded thoughtfully. “And somehow that wasn’t a dealbreaker.”
You shook your head, trying not to smile again, but it was impossible.
Holland watched you carefully over the rim of his coffee cup, and for once he wasn’t hiding the fact that he liked looking at you. That realization made warmth creep embarrassingly into your cheeks.
“You know,” you said slowly, “I genuinely thought I was just your neighbor.”
“You are my neighbor.”
“You know what I mean.”
Holland looked down into his coffee for a second before exhaling softly through his nose.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “You always seemed kinda immune to me.”
You blinked. “Immune to you?”
“The charm.” He gestured vaguely toward himself. “This whole thing.”
“This whole thing?”
“Yeah, this.” He pointed at his face. “People usually react to it.”
You burst out laughing.
“Oh, wow. That hurt my feelings a little.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“No, seriously,” Holland continued, now fully committed to defending himself. “Women like me.”
“You fell through a glass door last month.”
“That was one time.”
“You screamed.” you said.
“It was a very sudden door.”
Your laughter got louder, and Holland couldn’t stop smiling at the sound of it. God, he’d missed this.
Missed you laughing at his stupid jokes. Missed sitting in your kitchen like this. Missed the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled for real instead of forcing it. The realization hit him harder than expected.
“You know what your problem is?” you asked, still grinning.
“Oh, this should be educational.”
“You think being charming means pretending not to care about anything.”
Holland opened his mouth, then closed it again. Because annoyingly enough, you were right. You watched his expression soften slightly.
“But you do care,” you continued more quietly. “About Holly. About people. About me.”
The last words slipped out before you could stop them. Silence settled between you again. Holland’s gaze dropped briefly to your mouth before returning to your eyes. And suddenly you became very aware of how close he was standing now. When had he moved closer?
“You know,” he murmured, voice lower now, “you’re really not helping the whole ‘trying not to flirt with you’ situation.”
Your heart skipped. “Well,” you whispered back, “maybe I’m not trying very hard anymore either.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The air between you felt unbearably warm all of a sudden. Holland was standing close enough for you to smell cigarettes, coffee, and the faint trace of his cologne. His gaze hadn’t left your face once, which was honestly starting to become a problem.
“This is usually the part where I say something charming,” he said softly.
You tilted your head slightly. “Usually?”
“Yeah.” His mouth twitched faintly. “Unfortunately, you make me forget my material.”
“That sounds serious.”
“It’s horrifying.”
You laughed quietly under your breath, and Holland visibly relaxed at the sound. Like making you smile had become his favorite thing sometime during the last twenty-four hours. Maybe it had been longer than that. Your eyes dropped briefly to his lips before you could stop yourself. Unfortunately, Holland noticed everything. His expression changed immediately.
You should’ve stepped back, but instead you found yourself leaning a little closer. Holland inhaled sharply. And suddenly he looked nervous again. That almost made you smile.
Holland March, the man who flirted with waitresses, receptionists, bartenders, and probably parking meters, looked genuinely nervous around you.
“You know what?” you said quietly. “You keep saying all these ridiculous things instead of just…”
“Instead of just what?”
You hesitated for half a second. Then decided to be brave for once.
“Instead of asking me out.”
Holland blinked at you like his brain had completely stopped working. “You think I haven’t been trying to do that for months?”
Your breath caught slightly. “Months?”
“Oh, God,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “Now I sound insane.”
You smiled despite yourself, and Holland looked at you like the sight physically hurt him.
“You seriously didn’t know?” he asked.
“I thought you were like this with everyone.”
“I am like this with everyone,” he admitted. “That’s the problem. I had no idea how to make you understand you were different.”
Something in your chest tightened painfully at that. “Holland…”
“And every time I thought maybe you liked me back, you’d look at me like I was some stray dog that accidentally learned how to smoke cigarettes.”
You laughed softly. “That’s not true.”
“It absolutely is.”
Another step. You didn’t even realize Holland had moved closer until his hand brushed lightly against yours on the kitchen counter.
Neither of you pulled away. His eyes flicked down to your mouth again. This time, yours did too. The room felt quiet enough that you could hear both of you breathing. And slowly, carefully, Holland lifted a hand toward your face like he wasn’t entirely sure he was allowed to touch you. His fingertips barely brushed your cheek.
“You know,” he said quietly, voice rougher now, “if I kiss you right now, there’s a very real chance I’m never gonna shut up about it.”
Your lips twitched. “You already never shut up.”
“Yeah, but this would make it worse.”
You smiled faintly, your heart hammering against your ribs.
“Then maybe,” you whispered, leaning just a little closer, “you should stop talking for once.”
For the first time in what was possibly his entire life, Holland March actually listened. He stopped talking.
His hand remained against your cheek, warm and careful, like he still couldn’t quite believe this was real. For a second he only looked at you, searching your face for any sign that he’d misunderstood.
Then he kissed you. Soft at first, tentative.
Nothing like the smooth, practiced charm Holland usually hid behind. This felt almost unfairly sincere, like he was trying very hard not to ruin something he’d wanted for a long time.
Your fingers curled into the front of his shirt automatically, pulling him closer before you even realized you were doing it. That tiny movement completely destroyed whatever self-control he had left.
The second kiss was deeper and warmer. And Holland made a quiet sound against your lips that nearly melted your brain entirely. Then suddenly he pulled back.
“Oh, no,” he muttered immediately, breathing hard. “No, this is bad.”
You blinked at him, still holding onto his shirt. “Bad?”
“I need to stop.” He pointed vaguely between the two of you like he was explaining a crime scene. “Because if I don’t stop now, I’m genuinely never leaving this apartment again.”
Despite the heat rushing through your entire body, you laughed softly. Holland looked wrecked already. His hair was even messier than before, his cheeks slightly flushed, and he was staring at your mouth with the expression of a man actively losing a fight with himself.
“This is your fault, by the way,” he informed you.
“My fault?”
“You told me to stop talking.”
Before you could answer, he stepped forward again and kissed you a one more time. Harder. Like he’d already given up pretending he wasn’t desperate for it. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you flush against him, and for one dizzying moment you forgot every single bad thing that had happened in the last twenty-four hours.
When he finally pulled away again, he looked genuinely distressed.
“We should go to dinner,” he blurted out suddenly.
You stared at him. “What?”
“A real date,” Holland clarified quickly, still standing far too close to you. “Like adults. I mean…emotionally unstable adults, but still.”
“You’re asking me out right now?”
“Yes.”
“You’re terrible at timing.”
“I’m overwhelmed.”
That made you laugh again, and Holland kissed you immediately afterward like the sound itself pulled him back in. This kiss was slower. Dangerously slow. The kind that made your knees feel weak.
When he finally forced himself to step away this time, he dragged both hands down his face dramatically. “Okay. I have to leave.”
You raised an eyebrow. “You do?”
“Yes.” He pointed toward the door while still looking directly at you. “Because I’m trying to behave like a respectable person.”
Still muttering under his breath, Holland grabbed his jacket and headed for the door before he could apparently change his mind again. You followed him, arms crossed loosely over your chest, unable to stop smiling now. At the door, he paused and looked back at you. For one terrifying second, it genuinely seemed like he was considering kissing you again.
Instead, he gave you a look somewhere between dazed and deeply offended by his own feelings.
“Dinner,” he repeated firmly. “Tonight. Seven.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.” Holland nodded.
Then he left. But you barely had time to close the door before it suddenly swung open again. Holland leaned back inside, slightly out of breath like he’d rushed back immediately.
“One question.”
You bit back a smile. “What?”
He pointed at you very seriously. “Is there gonna be more kissing later?”
You laughed. And the completely lovestruck look on Holland’s face told you that asking that question had probably been a terrible mistake for him emotionally.
“That depends,” you said, leaning against the doorframe. “Are you planning on getting completely drunk?”
Holland looked mildly offended. “I’ll have you know I can be extremely charming while sober.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
He narrowed his eyes slightly. “Okay, first of all, rude.”
“Okay. And second?”
“And second,” he continued, pointing at you accusingly, “you attacked me with a purse less than a day ago. I feel like we should focus on your violent tendencies before judging my drinking habits.”
You gasped softly. “You deserved that, March.”
“I absolutely did,” he admitted immediately.
That caught you off guard enough to laugh again. Holland smiled the second he heard it. God, he really liked making you laugh.
“So?” he asked after a moment, softer now. “More kissing?”
You pretended to think about it. “Hm. Fine.”
His eyebrows lifted hopefully.
“But only if,” you continued, trying not to smile too much, “you don’t get blackout drunk and forget my name halfway through dinner.”
Holland pressed a hand dramatically to his chest. “Wow. You think very little of me.”
“I know exactly who you are.”
And strangely enough, that answer seemed to affect him more than anything else had all morning. You did know him, not the version he showed strangers. Not the loud-talking, constantly flirting private investigator pretending he had everything under control.
You knew the real Holland. The exhausted single father, who tried harder than people realized, who made pancakes for Holly on Sundays and fell asleep on his couch with paperwork on his chest. The one who checked if you got home safe even before any of this happened, and somehow, unbelievably, you still liked him.
“You know,” Holland said quietly, “that might actually be my favorite thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
Your heart softened instantly. “You’re being dramatic.”
“Absolutely,” he agreed.
You smiled, stepping a little closer to him again. “Seven o’clock?” you asked.
Holland looked at you like he still couldn’t believe this was happening.
“Yeah,” he said softly. “Seven.”
Then, unable to help himself, he leaned down and kissed you one last time. Gentle and warm. The kind of kiss that promised this wasn’t ending anytime soon. When he pulled away, he rested his forehead briefly against yours and sighed.
“I’m definitely gonna ruin this by saying something stupid later.”
“Probably.”
“You’ll still go out with me anyway?”
You smiled softly. “Probably.”
And judging by the helplessly happy look on Holland March’s face, that answer was more than enough.
Very much blows my mind when people infantilise Doctor Ryland Grace, a man who canonically told someone they were a waste of carbon (ie kys fucken lmao), took mystery pills (presumably in college) from strangers, literally got into a bitching match seconds after meeting Dr Lokken and ignored Armando when he woke up in favour of getting fucking drunk
sic fic please! Ryland looks after you when you feel under the weather, hurt/comfort style…
I loved this one to much to not respond basically immediately, enjoy.
Doctor’s Orders
Ryland Grace/Reader | Explicit, MDNI | ~2.6k words
Tags: sick fic, comfort sex, fever, female reader insert, explicit, he explains your own arousal to you and then course corrects
You have a head cold. He has a thermometer, two humidifiers, and a t-shirt that says THE MITOCHONDRIA IS THE POWERHOUSE OF THE CELL. Your fever-addled nervous system starts filing requests that have nothing to do with tea. He’s a very thorough caregiver.
[ Cross posted on Ao3 ]
The tissues are becoming a biome.
You’ve been aware of this for about an hour, in the abstract, dissociated way you’ve been aware of most things since your sinuses declared independence and took your ability to think in complete sentences with them. The pile on the nightstand has achieved genuine structural complexity. There are layers. There is probably a civilisation in there. You lack the energy to care.
You are breathing through your mouth. You hate yourself.
“Okay so the good news,” Ryland says, appearing in the doorway with the specific energy of a man who has just finished doing research, “is that you are absolutely not dying.”
“I know I’m not dying.”
“The bad news is that you’re doing almost everything wrong.”
You turn your head toward him by approximately four degrees, which is all you can manage. He’s holding a mug in each hand and wearing the expression he gets when he’s about to explain something, which is basically his default expression, but there are gradations and this one means he has a whole thing prepared.
“I’m doing everything wrong,” you repeat.
“The dry air alone.” He crosses to the bed, sets one mug on the nightstand with the careful precision of a man who has already knocked something over today and is not going to knock something else over. “Do you know what dry air does to inflamed mucous membranes?”
“I’m begging you.”
“It makes them worse. It makes everything worse. I turned on the humidifier in the hallway, by the way, you’re welcome, and I found your old one in the closet and it has what I can only describe as a concerning amount of dust in it so I cleaned it out and that one’s running in here now.” He sits on the edge of the bed. Looks at you with the focused attention he usually reserves for interesting problems. You are, apparently, an interesting problem. “Also you need to drink more water. That,” he nods at the mug he just put down, “is not water, that’s tea, but it counts toward your fluids, and there’s actual water on the other side of the nightstand because I anticipated you arguing with me about the tea.”
You look. There is indeed a glass of water on the other side of the nightstand.
You have been outmanoeuvred by a man in a t-shirt that says THE MITOCHONDRIA IS THE POWERHOUSE OF THE CELL in the font of a band tee.
“I hate you,” you say, and reach for the tea.
“No you don’t.” He reaches over and pushes your hair off your forehead, just briefly, just to check. His hand is warm. “You’re warm.”
“I know I’m warm.”
“How warm, though. That’s the interesting part.”
“Ryland.”
“I have a thermometer.”
“I know you have a thermometer. You’ve had it in your hand twice in the last hour.”
“That’s because I wanted data and you kept being uncooperative about it.” He produces the thermometer from somewhere. Of course he does. He’s like a cartoon character with inexhaustible pockets when he’s in this mode. “Open.”
“I’m drinking my tea.”
“After the tea.”
You drink the tea with what you hope is a withering expression. He waits with what you know is genuine, uncomplicated patience. This is the thing about him in caretaker mode. He doesn’t flutter, he doesn’t hover, he just. Waits. With all the time in the world and a thermometer.
You open your mouth.
He waits the full sixty seconds. Checks the display. His mouth does a small thing.
“Ninety-nine point eight,” he says.
“So.”
“So nothing, that’s fine, that’s completely manageable, I just wanted to know.” He puts the thermometer on the nightstand. “See? Data. Good data. You’re warm but you’re not broken.”
“I feel broken.”
“I know.” He says it simply, no performance around it. “That’s the worst part of a head cold, honestly. You feel catastrophically terrible and there’s nothing actually wrong with you. Your body’s just.” He waves a hand. “Doing a bit.”
“A bit,” you echo.
“An unnecessary bit. Very dramatic. Zero stars.” He stands, and you get a brief anxious sense of him leaving, which you will not be acknowledging, and then he just goes to the other side of the bed and sits down against the headboard. Settles in. Reaches over and puts a hand in your hair, easy and unhurried, like he planned to be exactly here all along.
“You don’t have to stay,” you say.
“I know.”
“I’m disgusting.”
“You’re really not.”
“I’m mouth breathing.”
“I can hear that, yeah.”
“Ryland.”
“Go to sleep,” he says, “or don’t, I don’t care, I’m not going anywhere.” His hand moves slowly through your hair. Outside it’s getting dark. The humidifier makes a soft sound in the corner. “I found that show you like, I can put it on in the background if you want something.”
You want to say something. You don’t know what, exactly. Something about how unfair it is that he’s like this, probably. How he somehow manages to make being looked after feel like a completely normal thing to receive, no ceremony, no debt incurred, just.
Here. Obviously. Where else would I be.
“Yeah,” you say instead. “Put it on.”
He does. You close your eyes, which are also, mysteriously, tired. His hand stays in your hair. The tea is good. The humidifier hums.
You are still breathing through your mouth. You still hate it. But the weight in your chest is a different weight now, softer, and you are starting to think you might actually sleep.
You don’t sleep, and after a while you understand why.
It creeps up sideways, the way the worst things do. One minute you’re a sick, leaking, miserable little gremlin with no thoughts in your head beyond the structural integrity of the tissue pile. The next minute you are extremely, stupidly aware of the warm weight of his hand still moving slow through your hair, and the line of his body next to yours, and the low easy sound of his voice when he murmurs something at the show you’re not watching.
You feel betrayed. By yourself. By your own ridiculous nervous system, which has apparently decided that now, fever and all, snot and all, is the moment to wake up and start filing requests.
You make a noise. It is not a dignified noise.
“You okay?” His hand stills. “Need water?”
“No.”
“Tea’s still warm if you want the rest of it.”
“It’s not the tea.”
“Okay.” A pause. The careful pause of a man recalibrating. “You’re doing a face. What’s the face.”
“I’m not doing a face.”
“You’re absolutely doing a face. I’ve catalogued your faces. That’s a new one and it’s very.” He tilts his head, studying you with the exact focused curiosity he’d give an unexpected reading on an instrument. “Conflicted. That’s a conflicted face. What’s the conflict.”
And because you feel terrible, and because lying to him takes energy you do not have, and because he is going to figure it out anyway, he always does, you tell him. Flatly. Into the pillow. With as little dignity as the situation already has, which is none.
There’s a silence.
Then, delighted, “Oh, that’s fascinating, actually, that’s a known thing, fever can absolutely crank up your, hang on, it’s a whole autonomic nervous system thing, your body’s already in this heightened state and the wires kind of cross, it’s not even that uncommon, it’s just your system being,” and you watch in real time as he hears himself, watch the exact half second where the lecture meets the room, “deeply unhelpful right now. I’m doing it again. I’m sorry.”
“You’re explaining my own situation to me.”
“I am explaining your own situation to you. Force of habit. It’s a coping mechanism.” He sets his jaw like a man recommitting to a task. “Okay. New approach.”
“You don’t have to do anything, it’s stupid, I’m sick, I’ll just suffer, this is fine.”
“You don’t have to suffer,” he says, easy as anything, like you’ve suggested walking to the store in the rain when there’s a perfectly good car. “That’s a wild thing to volunteer for. Suffering.”
“I’m disgusting, Ryland.”
“You keep saying that like it’s load-bearing.” He’s already moving, shifting down the bed, settling in close behind you, careful, unhurried, one arm coming over you to pull you back against him. His mouth is at your ear. He’s smiling. You can hear it. “For the record this is also fluids and rest. I’m a very thorough caregiver. It’s basically doctor’s orders.”
“That was the worst thing anyone has ever said.”
“I know,” he says, warm and pleased with himself and not sorry at all, and then his voice drops the joke and goes soft and certain against the back of your neck. “Just lie still. I’ve got it. You don’t have to do anything.”
And you don’t.
He doesn’t reposition you. Doesn’t rearrange anything. Just stays where he is, settled in close behind you, and you feel his hand leave your hair and go to the hem of your shirt. Your shirt. His shirt. One of his, the old soft one you stole so long ago he’s forgotten it was ever his.
“This okay?” Low, against your neck.
You nod. You don’t trust your voice to come out at a reasonable pitch right now and you are not adding that to the evening’s list of indignities.
He pushes the shirt up but doesn’t take it off, just rucks it up enough to get his hand on your skin, palm flat on your stomach, and the warmth of it makes you shiver, which is absurd because you are literally running a fever. His fingers spread. He just holds you there for a second, like he’s getting the measure of you, feeling you breathe.
Then his hand goes to your waistband. Your underwear. Whatever it is you put on twelve hours and forty tissues ago when you still thought you might leave the house today. He works them down slow, just far enough, not making a production out of it, and you feel his knuckles brush the outside of your thigh on the way and it lights you up like a wire and you hate your stupid traitorous nervous system all over again.
Behind you, he shifts. You hear the elastic of his waistband, the quiet economy of a man dealing with his own clothes one-handed because the other hand hasn’t left your stomach. Efficient. Unhurried. He settles back in, the whole warm length of him along your back, skin against skin now where it wasn’t before, and you feel him, hard against you, and he still doesn’t rush.
He pulls you back a fraction with the hand on your hip, closing the last gap between you, and then he’s pushing in slow enough that you feel every inch of it, slow enough that your breath changes twice before he bottoms out.
You make a sound. Small. Not one you planned.
“I’ve got you,” he says, low and easy, mouth warm against the place where your hair meets the back of your neck. He doesn’t move it. Just leaves it there, another point of contact, another thing holding you to the bed.
He sets a pace like he’s matching something you can’t hear. Something patient. He pulls back and presses forward and it’s the same each time, the same depth, the same slow drag, and he doesn’t change it. Doesn’t speed up. He said you didn’t have to do anything and apparently he meant that down to the letter, because he holds the rhythm for both of you, steady and unhurried and impossibly even, like he’s got nowhere else to be. Which he doesn’t.
His hand slides from your hip to your stomach and presses, gently, and the shift in angle makes your breath hitch. He feels it. Keeps his pace. Doesn’t chase it. Just lets it land.
The fever has done something to your nerve endings. Stripped them raw, left everything humming just beneath the surface. Every point of contact is louder than it should be. The drag of the sheet against your thigh. The spread of his fingers on your stomach. The way his hips meet the backs of yours and stay, just for a beat, before pulling away again. You feel all of it, too much and exactly right at the same time, and your body can’t decide whether it’s overwhelmed or starving.
Both. It’s both.
“There you go,” he murmurs when your hips shift back against him without your permission. Not praising, not teasing. Just noticing. Just letting you know he’s paying attention so you don’t have to be.
You thought it would take longer. You thought you’d have to work for it, that you’d have to climb somewhere, but that’s the thing. There’s no climb here. There’s nothing to push toward and nothing to perform and your body doesn’t know what to do with that kind of freedom except fall into it. The feeling gathers low and warm, not sharp, not electric, just a slow swell you don’t realize you’re riding until you’re already near the top of it.
Your hand finds his wrist. Not pulling. Not directing. Just holding on.
He feels the change. He must, because you feel it everywhere, the way your breathing goes shallow, the way your thighs press together, the way your fingers tighten on him. He keeps his pace. Same depth. Same unhurried drag. He doesn’t give you more because you don’t need more. You just need this, steady and close and exactly the same, and he gives it to you like it’s the simplest thing in the world, like there is nothing he would rather be doing on a weeknight than holding you together while you come apart.
“I’ve got you,” he says again, quieter now, and you believe him.
It breaks over you like something warm. Not a wave, nothing that dramatic. More like a long exhale you’d been holding without knowing it. Your whole body pulls taut and then releases, one shudder that starts low and rolls outward, and the sound you make barely qualifies as one. Just a breath with a shape to it. Just Ryland, half-swallowed into the pillow.
After, he stops.
Just like that. The second it’s clear you’re done, that you’ve crested and come down and gone loose and boneless against him, he stops, gentles you through the last of it with his hand flat and still on your stomach, and that’s it. No momentum carried forward. No quiet hopeful pause waiting to become his turn. He just holds you, and breathes, and lets it be over.
It takes you a foggy second to notice.
“You didn’t,” you start. Your voice has gone thick again, the cold reasserting itself now that the better feeling is fading. “You can. I can.”
“Nope.” He reaches down and finds the blanket where it got shoved to the foot of the bed and drags it back up over both of you, tucks it in around your shoulder with the same careful competence he brought to the humidifier and the thermometer and the strategically pre-positioned glass of water. “Go to sleep.”
“Ryland.”
“I’m good. Genuinely.” And the thing is you can tell he means it, that there’s no martyrdom in it, no scorekeeping, he’s just folded this into the same category as everything else tonight, one more thing handled, one more way of being here. His hand finds your hair again. Slow. Easy. “That wasn’t about me. Go to sleep.”
The humidifier hums in the corner. The show’s still playing, low, neither of you watching. You’re still congested. You’re still a little feverish, and you’re absolutely going to feel terrible again in the morning.
But the weight in your chest has changed shape one more time, and his arm is heavy and warm over you, and somewhere behind you he’s already going quiet and even-breathed and close.
Warnings: Injured reader, mention of panic attack? Grace is worried. This was supposed to just be an imagine but it ended up being longer than that. Use of medical equipment such as an oxygen mask, IVs, tubes, etc.
Grace's voice crackled through the comms, cutting in and out as you got further and further away from the control room. "Where... You? Not... cameras?"
The radio fuzz was irritating and distracting. You banged your helmet a couple of times to try and get it to shut up. Your breath came in haggard gasps as you trudged back toward the control room, vision blurry and disoriented. Every step hurt your entire body.
This was supposed to have been a normal, average check on the ship after passing through a minor asteroid field. You hadn't anticipated your foot becoming entangled in the tether, nor a stray meteorite knocking you clean off the hull and causing you to get yanked back by your leg. Nothing is broken, you think, but it burns like hell. You've certainly torn something. If it weren't for the whole no-gravity-in-space thing, you probably wouldn't be standing.
The asteroid field had knocked out the surveillance systems, so you were on your own until you got back inside the Hail Mary. Neither Grace nor Rocky knew what was wrong with you, and apparently the meteorite that knocked you off the ship damaged your comms, too.
"Y/N," Rocky's translated, computerized voice trickled through the radio roughly in a series of broken bits of speech. "Un... See... What..."
It was loud, and too much. Every step was like fire. Maybe you were close to some cameras by now.
Your vision blurred as the pain worsened. Okay, maybe you did break something. Hopefully not, but sharp, hot tears came suddenly as the adrenaline finally wore off and your body began to tremble uncontrollably from the pain. The tether was still wrapped around your leg, but you couldn't think straight to remove it. Logically, you knew you had to, but your head was still spinning from how quickly you'd been snapped back toward the ship.
Movement caught your eye, and you braced for another meteorite. Immediately, you relaxed. Grace.
He'd hurriedly put on his EVA suit to come get you, glasses askew inside the helmet. The second you saw him, his face dropped. You couldn't hear him as he tried to speak, but he was talking fast, brow furrowed. It might be a bit useless, but you gestured helplessly to your wounded leg. The utter silence besides your breathing was starting to freak you out.
Grace went into action like a sleeper agent, rushing over like he was a trained astronaut and cutting the tether free from you. The relief was only brief-- the pain came back full force and you cried out, glad he couldn't hear it. You couldn't focus on much of anything now; Grace clipped you to him and began helping you back to the airlock.
Once the door was sealed, you saw the stars begin to move outside as Rocky put the ship in centrifugal mode, probably using one of the handy probes you'd made him for just such a purpose.
Gravity, however, was the last thing you needed right now.
There was a sudden rush of noise and chaos as you both fell to the floor; Grace might have done a little better if he didn't have your full weight in the suit, but also if you wouldn't have started screaming.
You couldn't help it. You tried not to, tried to force yourself to stop, but the excruciating damage had left your leg utterly limp and filled with an intense pain the likes of which you'd never felt. Grace yanked off your helmet. "Y/N, I need you to tell me where it hurts. I can't help you if I don't know what's wrong." He was trying to be strong, but his voice was shaking.
Gasping for breath and coherency, you managed to put together a string of words behind clenched teeth. "Meteorite knocked me off the ship. Leg got tangled in tether. I think it's broken."
Grace braced you with one arm behind your back. "This is gonna hurt, I'm sorry!" He swept an arm under your knees and lifted you, suit and all, carrying you to Armando as fast as he could. Rocky rolled along behind him, wise to stay out of the way.
"She might have a broken leg, bud," Grace explained quickly as he laid you down on the table. Several robotic arms reached out of the ceiling for you, eager to help as Grace stepped back.
Wildly, you snatched his hand. You two had always had clear, unbroken boundaries. Physical contact was limited and you stayed civil, but your jobs were to put the mission first and... whatever was between you both second. You weren't trying to be the next Adam and Eve, but feelings had begun to sprout regardless. You both tried to keep it professional. At least until this was all over, and distractions weren't going to matter anymore.
Now, though, you didn't care. "Please stay with me," You begged, feeling the tears run towards your ears as Armando placed a mask on you. A gentle gas began filtering through the tubing system to your lungs. "Don't leave me, Grace."
Grace hesitated, eyes wide, then reached behind him and snatched a chair. He swung it closer and sat down, clenching your hand tightly in both of his. "I'm not going anywhere. Promise."
You woke up three days later.
Or, it was around three days. Armando said you slept for 68.5 hours and it repaired a badly fractured leg, and that you'd be fine in 6 to 8 weeks. Light activity preferred. You were gonna be on some heavy painkillers. In no uncertain terms were you to even leave the bed without assistance, since the cast wasn't as sturdy as it would have been on Earth.
Inwardly, you wondered what this would do for the mission. You couldn't spacewalk, floating around would be a pain, or even getting to the control room in general. It was a tight fit on a normal day. With a cast it would probably be impossible. God, and Grace would have to help you. What you could do by yourself right now was limited. Just when you'd both decided that you didn't need any unnecessary proximity so you could get the mission taken care of without any distractions. What would this do to the ship? Would you have to remain in 1g? Or would 0g work, too? Would you still be pressing on to Tau Ceti E?
You tried to reach up and pull off the mask, but your limbs were still tingly and uncoordinated. You smacked yourself in the face by accident, clawing for the straps. Only oxygen was coming through the tubing, and you needed it off.
A small gasp came from your right. "Amaze! Y/N awake! Bad bad bad hurt. Better now! Grace not leave for long time. Rocky force Grace to change clothes. Grace!" You heard (and felt) the rumble of his xenonite ball as he careened for the entrance to the medbay, but you could only focus on getting the damn mask off your face. You were struggling with the strap, trying to get it off and vaguely aware of Rocky urging Grace to come quickly.
You were starting to panic. Your breath came in short, sharp bursts. All you could hear was your own labored breathing as the images of struggling for the airlock alone flashed through your head, your leg throbbing in pain as you remembered being violently yanked back towards the ship--
Grace. Gentle but fast, he slipped the mask off your face and pulled the tube from your throat, making you gag-- when had Armando put that in? As you coughed and spluttered on the bed, Grace was trying to talk to you. "Rock, just stay still for a second, okay? Y/N-- Hey-- it's okay, it's okay..." You heaved horribly as you struggled to come back to life, curling up on the cot. You felt an IV still in the crook of your left arm and shuddered at the sensation of icy fluids being pumped into your veins. Every breath was shaky.
Then you felt his hands on you. One squeezed your arm as he leaned over you to try and see your face, the other rubbed soothing circles in your back. You'd never been so glad for physical touch. "Breathe. Just breathe. You're safe now, Rocky's here; we've got you."
He sat with you until you were able to function a bit easier, although it came slowly. You're not sure how long you were disoriented. You peered at Grace over your shoulder, slowly flopping onto your back. He looked a mess, blond hair sticking in every direction and glasses ever-so-slightly askew. It bothered you. It always bothered you that his glasses were crooked. You always tried to remind him that farsighted and sloppy were two totally separate things.
Without thinking, you reached up and straightened his glasses with a frown. To your utter surprise, his hand found your elbow and traveled up to hold your wrist, keeping you close to him. You flushed, his deep blue eyes not breaking contact with yours. "Uh..." You croaked helplessly, "The morphine made me do it."
Grace smiled, something a bit lopsided but relieved as he chuckled quietly, almost to himself. He blinked rapidly as his eyes glistened. "I couldn't see you on the cameras," He managed softly, voice cracking. "I lost sight of you. Then Rocky saw it." He swallowed hard, caressing your hand still near his face with his thumb. "The meteorite. I tried to warn you. The radio wasn't working. He said it hit you, but after that we still couldn't get through. I went to get in the suit but I wasn't fast enough. Your leg..."
"Mangled," Rocky added sullenly, "Rocky had to learn new word. Leg bent in all ways."
Grace still hadn't broken eye contact with you. "Yeah. That. I'm..." You watched, stunned, as tears started streaming down his face. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry I sent you out there by yourself, and that I wasn't quicker coming to get you."
"Grace," You choked, "It wasn't your fault. It could've happened to any of us. I was just unlucky enough for it to happen to me." You let your hand relax in his grip, letting your knuckles brush against his temple. "...Now you've gotta take care of me, I guess. I'm sorry I didn't see the--"
"Is no one fault. No apology." Rocky sounded irritated. "We take care of Y/N. Y/N can only walk in 0 gravity. Grace must slow mission down."
Rocky-- thankfully-- was entirely unaware of what was happening between you and Grace. You two had had moments before Rocky had ever come aboard, moments where longing stares left the two of you in awkward silence and the brush of his hand against yours felt like it lasted forever. It led to a couple of awkward but factual conversations about what it meant that you two were having these emotions in close quarters, that you'd eventually die together and that the mission came first-- which required utmost focus. Nothing could happen before then.
That seemed to completely shatter now.
Careful of your IV, Grace cautiously pulled you up into the sitting position and wrapped his arms tightly around you in a warm hug, burying his face in the crook of your shoulder. You didn't hesitate to throw your arms around his neck, hiding your face in his body and getting as close as humanly possible.
Now Rocky noticed.
His five feet started excitedly tapping. "Oh oh oh! Hug! Good good good! Hugging not done alone!" A bit more quietly, he added, "...Can Rocky get hug too, question?"
Grace laughed into your shoulder as he pulled back to look at him. "Yes, Rock. You get one too." He held you close still, taking a deep breath and avoiding your gaze by staring at the fabric of the blanket. "Can I be totally honest about something?"
"What?" Your stomach twisted nervously. You weren't sure why.
He forced himself to look at you. "I don't want to wait for the mission to be over. I almost lost you today. If something goes wrong on this mission--"
"Oh thank God," You let yourself fall limp against his chest, surprising him. He let out a soft "Oh" as you chuckled. "It's been pulling me apart to wait. So can we go on a date now? Like with tube-spaghetti and fake moonlit water habitats and everything?"
He chuckled, rubbing your back. "Yes, and yes. I'll wear my best jumpsuit."
"What is date, question?"
You looked over at your rock-faced friend and gestured vaguely at the arm with his marriage signet. "Did you and Adrian have a courtship faze?"
"Yes," Rocky hummed thoughtfully, "Many days. Sing very long. Try to impress--" He went absolutely straight as he realized what you meant. "Amaze! Excite! Grace will impress you will tube-spaghetti!" He started doing jazz hands, dancing in place a little. "Excite excite excite! Finally!"
"What do you mean, 'finally'?" Grace challenged, taken aback.
Rocky ignored him. "Rocky want hug now. Y/N need rest, need sleep for big date."
Grace still hadn't let go of you. "I have an idea, but don't crush us, okay?"
"Rocky understand."
"What's your idea?" You challenged. Grace grinned smugly at you as he reached under the cot and pressed a button. Slowly, the cot began to sink to the floor. There was a mattress under you, thankfully, albeit a thin one. Grace held up a finger for you to wait as he stood and walked away, inadvertently freezing both you and Rocky.
You glanced sideways at your alien friend and opened an arm toward him. "C'mere, bud." Excitedly, Rocky rolled over. You felt the heat of his body through the xenonite. It was comforting.
When Grace returned, he had his own mattress and tons of blankets, all of which he piled together before gently moving you aside and adding yours to the pile. Carefully, he scooped you up afterward and sat you on the makeshift bed, which was extremely comfortable. "Here. Now Rocky can sit with you and keep you warm. You can watch her sleep, right?"
"Yes," Rocky answered, curling up in his ball as close as he could get without burning you.
You hummed gratefully, patting his ball. "Like my own personal radiator. What about you, Grace?"
"I'm going to let you sleep," He answered, confused. Clueless, more like.
You heaved a deep breath, pressing your palm harder against Rocky's ball for good luck. "Can you stay? Just for tonight?"
Grace hesitated a moment longer before making his way over, to the delight of Rocky, who began trilling excitedly. He set his glasses to the side, out of the way of Rocky's path, and slipped under the covers beside you a bit awkwardly. His cheeks were flushed as he refused to look at you. "Okay, yeah. I guess I need sleep t--" He froze as you scooted closer, pressing your body flush against his the best you could with your injured leg. Instinct seemed to take over; he slid one arm under your head, and the other around your torso.
Now, you were both fully snuggling close together, boundaries be damned. Beside you, Rocky kept the both of you very warm and cozy as the ship dimmed its lights. You dozed off as Grace played with your hair drowsily. In your half-asleep, medicated state, you smiled warmly.
summary: a stranger forces the you and ryland to face the truth about your feelings for one another.
“i heard sophie m. is dating jake p. now,” you say, smiling as you input your grades into your laptop. ryland looks up from his paper, eyebrows furrowed, “but i thought you said she was dating his friend Kyle?”
you and ryland had built a ritual over the last two years. every saturday morning, you get together and grade assignments together at a diner. you both claim to enjoy having company for such a mundane task, but really it was just an excuse for you two to see each other outside of school. sometimes it was really productive, and you guys could knock out a good amount of grading and enjoy the rest of your saturday. but most times it ended with you telling ryland all the middle school gossip your students had blabbed to you.
you brought your large mug to your mouth, shaking your head before you took a sip. “no apparently she was just saying she liked him to make jake jealous.”
ryland scoffed, laughing at the craziness of middle school drama. “how do you know all of this?” ryland loves that the kids love that the kids absolutely adore you and tell you everything. he loves even more that anytime you hear anything, you go running to tell him.
“what can i say? i’m their favorite,” you shrug, smiling brightly at ryland.
“uh-uh, nope. i’m the favorite,” ryland nervously plays with his pen. you two just sit there, stare at each other, smiling like idiots. ryland has to fight the urge to not reach his hand over to yours and touch you. to any one else watching, it’s so obvious that you two are in love, but you two are too scared of ruining the friendship to even say anything.
“mm okay, we’ll see who they pick for teacher of the year,” you lean back in your chair, bringing your leg up onto your seat. ryland rolls his eyes,
“you know i had a perfect winning streak until you came along,” he breaks the eye contact, it was getting a little too intense for him, and looks down at the quiz he was grading.
“it’s cause i’m the favorite,” your retort comes out sing-songy and you pull your glasses down from your head back onto your face. ryland takes the cap off his pen, throwing it at you, gently. his cheeks are pink from giggling and your cheeks are now burning from smiling so big.
“that wasn’t very nice now was it, mr. grace,” you say, attempting to use the assertive voice you use with your students, but the way ryland is peering at you over your classes is making you crumble.
ryland’s heart almost stops with the way you say his name. it makes him want to drop to his knees and worship you. mr. grace. it’s going to replay in his mind for the rest of the day.
he places his hand over his heart, and he can feel it hammering in his chest. “you’re right, i’m sorry.” you two return to grading silently. every now and the you’ll take turns taking a peak at one another. ryland’s glasses sliding slightly down his beautiful nose, lips peter as he chews on the end of his pen. and you’ve never been more jealous of something in your life.
ryland watches as you bite your lip, concentrating on your work. his eyes dip down to your chest when he sees you playing with your necklace. the oversized zip up your wore not zipped all the way, exposing your collar bones and one of you’re shoulders. the little lace trim of the tank top you wore drove him insane. he wanted nothing more to leave kisses and marks down your skin.
focus, ryland. you need to focus on your work. but of course, right as he had dragged his attention off of you and got back into the groove he was interrupted by something else.
“hi there,” a man stood at the end of the table.
you and ryland both snapped your necks at the same time. “uh, hi,” you said back, confusion laces your tone. you look in between him and ryland.
“i’ve been sitting at the counter for the last 45 minutes and i’ve just been captivated by you this whole time.” the man says, smirking at you. he looks about your age, sure he’s good looking but he isn’t your type. you awkwardly chuckle at his response. “oh. thank you, i’m flattered.”
ryland is tense. he’s now sitting perfectly straight just watching, intensely. his first instinct is to grab your hand and pretend to be your boyfriend , to protect you. but then the doubt starts to creep into his mind… what if you like this guy? what if this is the meet cute you’ve been waiting for? and ryland has to just sit here and watch.
“you really are beautiful. isn’t she just breathtaking,” he looks over at ryland for confirmation. you look at ryland who’s mouth is now slightly open. he’s trying to formulate words but he’s scared. “i uh-“ ryland clears his throat, “yeah, she’s pretty,” he mumbles, looking down at his papers.
your eyes widen a little, taken aback by his comment. you try fighting a smile because it hits you: ryland grace thinks your pretty.
“this your boyfriend,” the guy asks, not even giving ryland a chance to actually answer. “no!” you both say at the same time, a little too defensively. the guy chucked, taking a clean napkin from next to you and one of your pens, scribbling something down on it.
“well, here’s my number. give me a call if you ever want to go on a date,” he says. he stands back upright, gives you a wink before leaving.
you turn back to ryland, the whole thing happening way too quickly for you to wrap your head around. one look at ryland and you bust out laughing at how ridiculous that was.
“okay, well that just happened,” you take a sip of water, hoping it will regulate your system.
“are you gunna call him?” the words fumble out of his mouth. they come out before he can even stop them, and he’s now embarrassed that even asked. you look at ryland, who’s trying to hard to keep his focus on his quizzes, trying his hardest to pretend he doesn’t care at all. but of course, you can see right through him.
you pick up the napkin, and pretend to contemplate. “hmm, i don’t know. it’s been a while since i’ve dated. it could be fun,” you shrug, trying so hard to remain serious. but ryland jerks his head up. “what?” his voice comes out a little higher than anticipated. you fight the laughter from coming out.
“i mean, yeah, if you’re interested you should go.” he tries taking a sip of his coffee, acting nonchalant.
but of course, you had to push his buttons one last time.
“i don’t know, word on the street is you think i’m pretty,” you smirk, and ryland chokes. you start laughing, and you scoot out over your side of the booth, and sit next to him, patting his back softly.
“you okay, ry” your laughing uncontrollably now, and he looks at you a little pouty, eyes a little glassy from coughing.
“i’m okay. i promise,” he says, and you rub his back, soothing him. he lifts his head and you guys lock eyes. you can tell he’s shy now, his gaze is so innocent and soft, glasses a little crooked on his face. your other hand comes up to fix his glasses, and he sucks in a breath.
“i asked you a question mr. grace,” you voice is soft, face just inches away from his. ryland’s gaze drops down to you lips and he licks his.
“i do. i think you’re probably the prettiest girl i’ve ever seen,” he whispers. he can’t take it any longer, and leans in kiss you. it’s gentle, like he almost can’t believe it’s real. your leg slides over his, pressing between both of his. one of his hands goes to cup your face while he ghosts his fingers along your thigh, too scared to touch you. you hum into him, and he can feel his cock twitch at the small sound.
you pull away from the kiss, both of you out of breath. “i think you’re pretty too, ryland. just the most handsome man ever.” you say giving him a quick kiss again, then on the tip of his nose.
you try sliding away to move back to your original side, and ryland whines, pulling you closer.
“okay fine, i’ll stay in this side,” you say, reaching over the table to grab your laptop. ryland picks up your leg again, to drape over his. you had him wrapped around your finger now.
Ryland wants to be your real life husband, statement.
He’s sooooo nervous about crossing professional boundaries or something, like actual jittery about making it obvious how much he likes you and wants to spend time with you outside of work hours but doesn’t wanna fuck things up and make it awkward.
This man is just so damn helpful around work, always picking up your printing if he swings by the staff room and it’s there, maybe he brings you coffee on spare periods or during lunches.
You’d totally eat lunch together, probably do your supervision duties together too- some things are better with company. He also totally gets roped into playing with the kids when he’s on duty at the basketball courts.
He would see some of the kids doing the ‘this is for you meme’ and would a hundred percent dribble the ball towards the hoop, when the kids aren’t defending because they want to see the incoming disasters, and point a hand to you.
“This one’s for you.” And do a proper jump shot. He’d miss though. It's a close call, but it would bounce off the rim and bounce off sadly towards the side of the court. He slinks back to stand beside you, a little sheepish when he admits “okay I was always better at defence.”
The rest of the duty, and even for months afterwards, the kids would attempt to badger him into another try or point at you and copy his words with varying degrees of success.
You guys definitely chaperone each other’s school excursions. Like, they need a female and a male teacher by law, and every year when he takes his students to the planetarium for the astronomy unit, he asks you first, having already filled out the paperwork saying that you’re going to be attending.
Teachers are the cliquest mother fuckers around so best believe that everyone has just sort of accepted you and Ryland as one unit. The teasing in the staff room kicks it off, coworkers joking about Ryland being husband material. Then the admin girls calling him your work husband when he starts walking in with you in the morning (which totally isn’t intentional- he definitely doesn't time his morning commute so he’s chaining his bike up when you’re walking past the bike racks each day. He’d laugh, sunny and bright from the morning light, a little rosie flush high on his cheek. “Guess we’ve just got good timing”).
And once the students catch wind of this? Oh it’s over for you two.
If there’s one thing pre-teens love, it’s getting their grubby hands on a teacher’s personal life- especially their love life.
Your students joking about finding you a boyfriend is nothing new, you always laugh and evade the prodding, but maybe your friends with one of the kids mum’s or their older sibling, someone who’s just close enough to find a way to glance and your private social media, and gets the word around that you are single.
It starts simple, whinging in the morning while you read the daily announcements saying “But Miss, Mr Grace is perfect for you.” and then on Mondays they hit you with the “Did you and Mr Grace do anything over the weekend?”
They start referring to your supervision duties and ‘dates’ and during free time, when you let the kids pick music out, they play that one Raye song ‘where is my husband’, turning the chorus up loud enough that it lures Ryland in from a few rooms down, for a noise complaint.
Still, the music volume is nothing compared to the screeching a class of thirty-odd eighth-graders make, when the lyrics: Baby, where the hell is my husband? What is taking him so long to find me? play while Ryland rounds the corner of your classroom doorframe, leaning up against it with an amused smile at the sight of your rampant students.
His glasses low on his noise bridge as he looks at you over the rims, arms crossed as very obvious laughter threatens to spill past his lips.
You’d just hold your left hand up, mouth the lyrics to him. I would like a ring, I would like a ring I would like a diamond ring on my wedding finger. I would like a big and shiny diamond that I can wave around And talk, and talk about it. Maybe you’d wriggle your ring finger for emphasis. He’d raise his eyebrows, mouth ‘wow’ at you before reminding the students that there are other classes around and to keep the screeching to a minimum. He’d saunter back to his own class and the kids in yours would fawn over the whole thing- maybe asking if you’re already secretly married (a conspiracy that does its rounds every six months or so).
But the next day, you’d walk into your class room before the day really kicks off, a little wrung out from marking and last minute lesson plans, fully prepared to put on some lofi and have the kids do independent assignment work, go through the drafts you’d finally finished giving feedback on.
Your desk is tidy, as it usually is before the sheer mass of everything from your work bag is dumped on it throughout the day. But right when you’re about to chuck your bag in the middle of the wooden desk top, you pause. There’s a ring pop, in the center of your desk. No note or anything, but it’s early, and your room had been locked- only teachers with rooms in this block had a key, so there’s no need for a sticky note claiming the ring. There really is only one option.
And during recess, when you lean up against the fences at the basketball court, warm under the summer sun, watching Ryland chatter with the students. You note idly, that he keeps glancing over at you, cheeks as red as the ring pop you’re sucking on, as rosie as the candy has left your lips.
✤ not yet. Ryland Grace x Reader - fluff - the life you lead, the family you create. together.
✤ we are in this together. Ryland Grace x Reader - fluff, angst - you and Grace wake up on board the Hail Mary - the mission begins.
private property. l Lars Lindstrom x Reader [gentle monday series]
a few words too many. l Holland March [The Nice Guys] l x Reader from how we fell apart🥀 [masterlist]
And I’d like to sincerely thank you for every comment, reaction, and bit of support. There’s nothing more encouraging for someone who writes than seeing people connect with the things we create. ❤️
The Spanish teacher is getting too close to you, he doesn’t like it.
w.c: 2.3k
tags: jealous boy Grace, hurt/comfort sort of, it’s more like miscommunication/misunderstanding, idiots to lovers (eventually), theyre stupid your honor, fem reader in mind but can be read as gn!
a/n: i apologize for the delay on this, I started writing it with a different plot but didn’t like the way it was sounding so I had to scratch it completely. Anyways the main idea is still here, I hope you enjoy !!
Part one is here! But can be read as a standalone
Rylands classroom was silent, somehow the kids have finally listened to him and started doing the class work he had given them for extra credit. His pen was balanced between his pointer and middle, tapping the wooden desk every other second as he read through some papers for next weeks class.
The frames of his glasses hung low on the bridge of his nose, his free hand moving the pages of papers laid on his desk in messy piles. He knew where everything was just like this, one time a janitor messed up his papers and he was absolutely livid because he couldn’t find anything for a full week.
There were three soft knocks at the door, causing him to look up. But, the noise wasn’t against his door, causing him to sit up just a little more, straightening his back to be able to see through the window, and he caught a glimpse of that black floral cardigan he’s grown to love.
But you weren’t standing in front of his closed door, no no. You were standing in the one across his classroom, hushed voice speaking to the teacher who stood in his doorway. Grace has never seen you talk to him before. Every time you walked down this hallway, was either into his classroom, the bathroom or the teachers lounge.
Mr. Morales leaned against the wooden frame, smiling down at you as you were giving him some sheets, probably some he had asked you to print out, since your printer was always faster than the one in the office. But only few knew this, since when does He know that? And why couldnt he have the courtesy to at least go pick it up himself?
‘He’s new’, Ryland answered his own question. Maybe he still needed to get his bearings, and you explained how it works from that point forward.
“Mr. Grace?” A little girls voice startled him out of whatever trance he was in, the pen he was holding falling out of between his fingers.
“Yes?” His head slowly swiveled away from where you stood to look at Jessica, who was standing in front of his desk holding out the paper. “Already?”
She nods eagerly, waiting for one of the bean bags to be handed to her.
He sighs, taking the paper, and handing her what she wanted, “you know rushing doesn’t mean you get everything right.”
“I got everything right.”
“Uh huh…” he shooed her off back to her desk, glancing at the paper and… yeah she got everything right. As he kept reading through it, he took a chance to peak up to see if you were still there, but you were long gone, and the door was still wide open to see Mr. Morales continue with his class.
Over the next week, he kept seeing small things happen between the two of you. He was at the library often, once even inviting himself to eat lunch with you, staying for the full period (Grace decided to eat in his classroom that day). He brought you snacks one morning, giving Grace an enthusiastic wave, but his attention was solely on you, and you allowed it to happen. Hell, he might’ve just not been there at all.
It was getting out of hand. His feelings that is. He doesn’t care what you two have going on in your free time, it’s your life. You’re allowed to have friends, you’re allowed to be flirted with, it’s not like youre dating. It’s not like hes flirting with you, or have tried because it’s not like he likes you.
Besides, Mr. Morales wasnt a bad guy. One time when Ryland was in his free period, he came over to ask for some help with his classrooms decoration, saying the walls were too bare. He even complimented Rylands decor, saying that it was one of the best classrooms hes seen, and that “if you were my teacher you would’ve been my favorite”.
So yeah, he couldnt really hate him when he was such a sweet kid.
By next week, it was kinda normal to see Mr. Morales in the library with the two of you. Grace was trying to be civil, asking about his work life, and hobbies, but never personal. Because if he found out that you were dating?
Yeah he’s not coming back to school.
He did find out that he just finished his bachelors, so he was fresh out of college and this was his first real job at a school. No wonder he looked so young, and he was already hitting on one of his coworkers.
Maybe if he pulls him to the side one afternoon he could explain how dating coworkers is not a good idea, that it could make the workplace uncomfortable, and that he should just leave you be, but that would make him a hypocrite. Because, God, were you interrupting any coherent thought he could consider forming.
Wait what?
Anyways, that Friday was a long day, and Ryland wanted nothing more than to go home. He kept glancing at the clock, and at his open door, hoping that you would walk by in a chance of just catching a glimpse of you. And as soon as the last period ends, the kids went flying out of the classroom as he finished packing his bag. When he closed the door to his room behind him, he peaked into the Spanish classroom, that was seemingly empty, looking at all the decor and vowels on the walls. It was so lively, almost similar to his class.
A part of him is glad that he was starting to feel comfortable here. If it wasn’t for the fact that he liked you as well, Grace could consider him one of his friends at some point. Walking away from the doorway, he goes down the hall to go to the library like he usually does after a day of classes, going to pick you up and walk with you to your car as you talk about your days.
And as he was about to turn into the library, doors wide open since it usually doesn’t close immediately after classes, giving kids a chance to check out books one last time before leaving, he froze. Because there he was again, his frame leaning against your desk as he was mindlessly having a conversation with you, his dark curls falling over his eyes when he flashed you a smile.
He was making you laugh, distracting you while you were still doing your work. Grace just… watched, his hand turning into a small fist on his side but he quickly tries to calm down, reminding himself once again, that you’re just friends.
Sure, he hugs you every time he greets you or says goodbye. Yeah, he brings you coffee every single morning because, according to him, the coffee machine in the teachers longue takes too long, and he just insists that it tastes bad. And yes, there was that one time he had accidentally held your hand once to stop you from crossing the road when a car was coming, and refused to let go until you finished walking to your destination.
But these were all things friends did… right?
And friends also think that your eyes shine an even prettier color when the sun hits them just right, or that your hair blowing in the wind makes you look like an angel sent directly from god themself.
….Ok he likes you. Screw it, there’s no point in denying it.
Maybe it was the way your tongue slipped out just a bit when you were concentrated writing an email, or the way your smile brightened when you successfully helped a kid with their homework, but he was absolutely smitten by you. And god the idea of someone else even wanting you hurt, because they have a better shot at being with you than he ever did.
He felt someone bump into him, and of course it just had to be Mr. Morales.
“Im so sorry Grace!” He yelled out the apology speed walked down the hall, not even bothering to look back at him.
Grace stared daggers into the back of his neck, and if looks could kill, they’d have to find a substitute for his class.
“Grace!” You called out, his eyes snapped away from the retreating man he was staring at to you, who was still behind your desk, leaning over with your arm raised to catch his attention. He gave a small wave, cautiously inching into the room.
“I’ll be done in a few, sorry to keep you waiting.” You sigh, tapping your cranium as you think of what you have to do before leaving.
“No worries, im in no rush.”
Grace taps his fingers periodically onto the wood, trying his best to not stare at you. But obviously he fails.
Your eyes catch his look, the furrowed brows and the slight huff that escapes him. You turn your seat to get a better view, which makes him falter and lean away (he hadn’t even noticed he was leaning closer).
“What?” He asked, seeing you tilt your head to the side and, God! could you be any cuter???
“What’s wrong with you?” It comes out with a friendly laugh, but it scares him. “You’ve been.. weird”
“Im not weird” he defends weakly, causing you to cock a brow at him.
“Well you are weird.” you giggle to yourself, and watch as he rolls your eyes with a sideways smile “But I mean- you’ve been acting different Ry.”
He blows out some air, looking up at the ceiling while his hand came up to scratch the back of his neck. How does he explain that he’s jealous, without saying that he’s jealous?
“Well-“
“Oi cuz” Morales came back, walking to stand besides Grace as he talked to you about a movie you had planned to watch tomorrow at the theaters.
Ryland was about to step back, maybe grumble something about how rude it was to just burst into a conversation like that, but. Did he call you cuz?
“Oh my god” he whispered under his breathe, and suddenly everything clicked.
Your eyes jumped between the two, looking at Rylands face as it twists from whatever feeling he had when he saw your cousin walk in, to pure relief.
Your cousin stopped talking when he realized you weren’t even listening to him, just looking to his side to where Ryland stood.
He smiled brightly at Ryland, grabbing his shoulder with a small shake, “Oi dude- you should totally come too!”
“Oh no, I wouldn’t want to intrude.” He held his hands up with a shy smile, looking at the ray of sunshine that is this man.
He genuinely could not believe he ever saw him in a negative light. His eyes look back to you, and you were just in awe at how awkward he was being.
“Nah you wouldn’t intrude, I know someoneee wouldn’t mind~” he teased, and before he could say anything else his body was yanked backwards. You stood up at the speed of light, pulling him away from Ryland, and he watched him stumble trying to reach out his arm but it didn’t do anything.
“Okay! That’s enough!” Your voice comes out an octave too high and your ears already felt warm.
Ryland stood there while you almost strangle the poor kid as you’re cursing him out in Spanish, huh. He didn’t know you spoke Spanish. He heard a name be thrown into the conversation, ‘Caleb’ and then some more words he couldn’t understand. But by the tone of your voice, well it sounds like a mother scolding her child.
When you were done (and Caleb looked like a kicked puppy), you finally turned to Ryland, a smile trying to hide how embarrassed you felt. “He’s kidding- I mean, you can come if you want but that’s totally up to you”
He stood there, thinking, counting the possibilities of this ever happening again, being able to hangout with you outside of school hours. I mean it has happened before, but usually it still consists of work being done. And honestly speaking, he just cannot say no to you.
“Well if you’re offering.” He shrugs, watching as Caleb cheers, making your eyes roll.
“Awesome, we’ll pick you up! They’ll tell you the details, cause I gots to go” with that hes basically running off again, not before giving you a quick side hug.
You both watch him disappear into the hallways, hearing a distant thud. He probably hit the door on his way out.
“He’ll be fine” you mutter to yourself, before turning back to Ryland, and you couldn’t help the teasing smile that found its way to your lips.
“Ryland.”
His heart started to hammer against his ribs, the way you said his name sounded dangerous. “Y- yes?”
“Were you, perhaps, jealous that I was spending time with my cousin instead of you?”
He swallowed hard, laughing nervously. His fingers fidget with the end of his tie, rolling it up and letting it fall before repeating it.
“How bout we walk you to your car yeah?”
You laugh, nodding as you grab your purse. The walk was quiet, but nice. And when you reach for your keys in your purse, you pause.
“Ry.”
He hums, eyes watching different cars pull away from their unassigned assigned parking spots.
“You’re my best friend, no one will replace you ok?”
“Oh- oh yeah” he turned to look at you, the scarf around your neck, your pink cheeks that never got accustomed to the chilly weather. “You’re my best friend too”
You smile at his sincere words, unlocking the door to place your purse inside, but you don’t go in. Instead, you turn to him, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and pulling him closer to you, hiding your face into his neck. He hesitated, because your hugs weren’t like this usually.
This was… totally. Still a friend hug.
He slowly wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. God you were so warm.
𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: Ryland barely lets you lift a finger on the ship, whilst this might be heaven for others, you seem to struggle; leading to an explosive yet enlightening argument ending in a way you never expected.
𝐀 / 𝐍: A bit angsty, reader talks about wanting meaning in life (yup, that type of angst). reader also drops an F bomb :O SMALL ROCKY APPEARANCE YAY!!!
The atmosphere of the ship was off, a thick tension polluting the air inside the walls, so thick that it’d give even the sharpest of knives a run for their money. Ryland had somehow discovered your sworded-secret from this morning, the impromptu petty adventure you’d taken up by yourself, leaving the safety of the ship and exposing yourself to the dangerous elements of space with no one to watch over you. The earth equivalent of throwing a small child into a lion enclosure and hoping for the best.
This isn’t what you wanted it to be.
The point of being launched into the stratosphere was to make a difference. A difference to the impending doom heading earth’s way in a matter of years, and the worst part; everyone would be living their lives, blissfully ignorant to their worst nightmare until it was right in front of their eyes, turning their life upside down in an instant.
It wasn’t credit that you wanted being up in space. A strong yearning for fulfilment, for meaning in life — even if you did live out the rest of your days in the absence of solid ground, that was okay, because you had meaning. The desire trickled deep in your blood, like an unshakeable compulsion, a fire that refused to be stoked.
Humans always seemed to brag about purpose, all twinkly-eyed and euphoric as if the earth itself had come down to whisper secrets of meaning in their ears; waking up with a bright smile on their faces every morning because they knew what they were meant for. You envied them deeply, with a weight that seemed to sit eternal on your chest, becoming begrudgingly aware of such a hollow space in between your bones where fulfilment was supposed to be.
The more frequent rejections you experienced from Ryland, the further away the feeling retreated, akin to a ship slowly disappearing into the horizon. What once felt so close, almost within your grasp, was now being ripped away along with every fibre of your being.
Every “Me and Rocky have it handled”, every “I don’t think that’s a good idea” that left his mouth seemed to destroy a part of you, beating you down senseless until you finally decided to take matters into your own hands, scheming your own mission in a desperate attempt to chase purpose.
You were mad at him.
And now he was mad at you.
“I mean, what were you thinking?!” Ryland’s tone was harsh, unlike anything you’d heard from him before, his usual sweet tone quickly turning sour as he gestured crazily with his hands — seemingly overcome with the anger he was feeling, the absence of an immediate outlet getting to him.
”I’m fine! I didn’t get hurt! I don’t understand why you’re yelling at me right now.” Keeping your calm for now, you assured Ryland that everything was fine — you were careful, it’s not like you recklessly traipsed on top of the ship with no precautions whatsoever.
Ryland only stared back at you, almost as if he was seeing straight through you, like some sort of translucent apparition stood in the furthest corner to him.
His brows seemed to furrow for a moment, stressfully dragging a hand down the length of his face.
“You know full well that’s not the point.” He began, scolding you as if you were one of his students back on earth causing a disruption. His obvious dig at you only furthered your anger, feeling all sorts of emotions bubbling up into your throat. “We are supposed to be a team, or did you forget that?”
A loud, sarcastic laugh escaped your mouth, hand quickly coming to cover it before swinging it back down to your side in a harsh motion — your body beginning to tremble slightly as it went into overdrive. You struggled to find the right words for a moment, completely perplexed at his sudden outburst, Ryland had been intentionally leaving you out and now had the nerve to imply you’re the problem.
A tight knot forms in your stomach, jaw locking on instinct like a door slamming shut.
”Me?” You yelled in disbelief, your finger coming up to point at yourself “I forgot we’re a team? Do you even fucking hear yourself?” Your previous calm and collected manner had just gone out the window, like a candle in the wind, fire burning deep under your skin.
That was the first time you’d ever cursed in front of him, it felt wrong as soon as it escaped your lips, like you’d just sworn at the pope — but all the sudden emotions quickly became too much to mask, feeling like you were trying to fight an electrical fire with water.
”Don’t—“
”Don’t what? Every time I want to help you tell me no. You shoot me down constantly. You barely even let me breathe on the ship!” You cut him off before he could finish his sentence, jutting in obnoxiously in a way that made him jump slightly.
“Sometimes it’s just a 2 person mission, it’s logistical!”
”It’s not a 2 person mission if one of you is a damn alien, Grace! I mean, jesus christ. You’d rather work with an extraterrestrial being than me. Just admit it — you don’t think I’m as good as the two of you.”
Ryland’s eyes seemed to soften, his frustrated expression falling away in realization of what you said.
He noticed how your voice quivered on the last part, sensing the underlying emotion behind the outburst. He felt his heart wrangling in his ribcage, aggressively hammering against the skin as if it were to jump out of his chest at any moment.
Ryland opened his mouth to reason with you, to reassure you that what you’d assumed was the opposite of the truth, but he was cut off again before he could even piece together the words he wanted to say.
”No! I’m sick of you taking everything away from me.”
His hammering heart came to a slow still, feeling the organ shattering inside of his anatomy, a horrible knot spreading across his stomach. He was still staring at you, his guilty eyes now glassed-over as he examined you intently.
”What?” His voice was small, barely above a whisper, like talking too loud would shove you even further towards your breaking point.
”All I’ve ever wanted was purpose, why do you think I’m on this ship in the first place? I wanted to prove to myself that I can make a difference. But you know what, if something had happened to me on my solo mission, nothing would’ve changed. You guys are saving the world. Not me.”
Your voice trembled with emotion, a gentle tear coming to cascade down your rosy-cheeks, a symptom of the prolonged anger you felt. The tear was almost refreshing against the hot skin, acting as a coolant while your anger lessened by the second, manifesting into a form of dismay, a state of sadness.
”I’m about as much use as I would’ve been if I just threw myself off the ship with the rest of—“
In one quick lunge, Ryland bound towards you, his hands coming to firmly rest against your cheeks as he pressed a passionate kiss to your lips. He continued in his stride, using his grip to walk you back into the cold, sharp-cornered wall of the ship as he kissed you, your back bouncing off the wall.
A sharp sting shot up your back from the impact but it was quickly being soothed by the magic of Ryland’s lips against your own, feeling every last ounce of negative emotion being siphoned from your soul.
The shock of the action initially sent you reeling, your brain screaming at you to push him away, then to kiss him back — a plethora of contradictory suggestions pacing around your mind, completely unsure of what your next move should be.
The kiss was heavenly. His soft lips dancing against yours, warm-hands coming to cup at your cheeks, his body gently leaning against yours. In that moment, you felt as if nothing had ever been a problem, that nothing would ever be an inconvenience as long as his lips met yours eventually.
By now, your entire body seemed to relax, instinctively melting into him as your lips joined his in the kiss, arms coming up to rest against his broad-shoulders; hands clasped gently clasped together at the back of his neck.
“I’m so sorry.” He paused sincerely against your lips, continuing to kiss you afterward.
His string of apologies caused your heart to flutter, growing more desperate for him the longer his lips weren’t on yours.
”’S okay.” Your voice was quiet, barely above a whisper as the kiss grew messier.
Ryland only continued apologising between kisses, no matter how many times you assured him it was okay. The sequence repeated itself in a pleasant loop, the two of you stuck in a mantra of apologies and affection for what felt like forever before Ryland finally pulled back; his hands still on your face as he rested his forehead gently against yours.
It took the two of you a while to come back down to earth, ironically. You both just seemed to stand there in eachother’s arms — quietly panting through uneven, staggered breaths whilst staring at eachother.
”This is why you wouldn’t let me do anything, isn’t it?” Your eyes were innocent as you looked up at him, a small smile playing at the corners of your lips, mirroring the smile he was displaying as he stared down at you. His finger begun gently wiping away the tears staining your cheeks, catching them just before they dripped down to your jaw.
“Yes. God yes. I think you’re amazing!” He affirmed instantly, letting out a large exhale accompanied by the widest smile you’d ever seen him sporting. A smile that sent a rush of excitement underneath your skin, like he was injecting himself into your bloodstream to stay there forever.
“I just didn’t want you to get hurt, I was being selfish.” He seemed to scold himself, shaking his head disapprovingly as self-loathing thoughts pestered his mind.
”Well, I think I can find it in my heart to forgive you.” You soothed quietly, offering him a small smile, eyes now plagued with adornation.
Ryland scrunched his face ever so slightly, a small chuckle leaving his lips — it wasn’t the most sincere reaction from him, it was clear he was still beating himself up over the situation. Even if you forgave him, he didn’t completely forgive himself but after awhile his shoulders seemed to relax.
“But—“ You began, watching as Ryland seemed to perk up; a display of undivided attention while he awaited your conditions, nodding in agreement before you had even said anything. ”Only if you kiss me some more.” A smirk played against your lips, your body swaying gently as you stared up at him.
”Oh, I can totally do that for you.”
Just as his lips were about to meet yours, there was a sudden clanging echoing off the walls of the ship, the familiar scuffling against the floor — occasionally a slam, indicating that the intelligent alien who accompanied you both had not so intelligently ran into something before arriving in the archway.
”Ah! Humans friends again, statement!” Rocky sung happily, excitedly buzzing around in his xenonite ball as his claws came up in celebration; shaking them back and forth.
”Yep. Thanks for the commentary, Rock.” Ryland shot Rocky a thumbs down, seemingly a little let-down that Rocky had ruined the moment. His chance to kiss you again, the moment he’d been dreaming of ever since he woke up on the ship, your beautiful face above him — waving at him apprehensively. He knew from that moment he adored you.
”Does human apology always involve lip movement, question?”
Ryland shot you a look, meeting your amused expression with a laugh. Realistically, Rocky was never going to come into contact with any other humans in his life, it wasn’t plausible for him to ever be on earth, his home was Erid. Ryland was deep in thought, thinking about all the times he could kiss you, all the future chances he could get. His stomach seemed like it flipped in on itself for a moment, craning his head back over to Rocky.
”Yeah. Always.”
He lied.
To Ryland, the opportunity was too good to pass up, to be able to kiss you anytime he wanted without Rocky’s unnecessary questioning. The thought seemed to set his body alight, the familiar feeling of floating in zero-gravity even though his feet were planted firmly against the floor.
Even if, in turn, Rocky always thought Ryland was doing something wrong.
“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 ]
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 subtly fade come February. Alas, it is still January and all those new year resolutions are still sticking like cheap adhesive hooks that will eventually be weighed down enough to slip as time ticks on.
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.
The don’t-go-crazy room wasn’t the most comfortable spot for a movie, but the three of you made it work. Blankets were spread over the walkway, the pillows from your individual beds providing a little more comfort. Ryland’s back was against Rocky’s ball, his legs bent in a way that framed you, allowing you to lean into his chest.
You really tried to pay attention to the movie, knowing Rocky would have questions after. Ryland wasn’t as committed, you noticed. He never even pretended to watch, his eyes trailing your profile instead. His hand ran up and down your back slowly, just savoring the contact.
When the credits rolled, Rocky asked his questions. “Why humans leak so much, question?”
You couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled up, “we cry when we feel certain emotions, Rock. It’s the sign of a good story, honestly, if an actor’s crying can make you cry.” He answered with a few clicks and seemed to think about that.
Ryland was still studying you, like he was assessing his next move. “Hey, Rocky, I was wondering if you could make some new canisters for the Taumoeba.. Like, a bunch of them. For… experiments.”
“Yes, of course. I make now, question?” Rocky’s body shifted, facing his carapace towards Ryland. “Yeah bud, that’d be great,” the answer came a little too fast.
Rocky did some internal calculations, perhaps, and decided to give in. As he rolled away, you heard a faint whistling and the translator came back with, “Grace get rid of Rocky, statement.”
You laughed and turned fully to face Ryland, seeing the huge smile plastered on his face. “He’s getting good at reading the room,” you joke. You feel a little nervous, you realize. And he must feel the same way, by the look on his face.
His hand comes up to tuck a piece of hair behind your ear and presses against your cheek. “Hi,” he whispers.
“Hi,” you whisper back. “Can I ask you a question?”
He nods his head a little, “yeah, of course.”
You have some trouble holding eye contact with him, but he didn’t push.
“What, um-what do you want this to be?” You’re still whispering.
“What do you mean?”
“Us, I guess.”
He takes a deep breath and uses the hand still holding your face to turn you towards him properly. He bites his lip and furrows his eyebrows. “I want this to be whatever it is. We only have so much time left, we might as well enjoy each other while we can.”
That stings a little, and you realize you might just be a means to an end for him. You don’t want that to be true, it can’t be true. Before you can say anything, though, he plows forward. “I noticed you on Stratt’s Vat, you know? Thought it was a cruel joke that we would send someone so smart and kind to their death. And I had to keep reminding myself that you volunteered for this. Like, you knew the risks and you decided to do it anyway.”
He might start rambling but you weren’t going to stop him. You know how his brain works by now, he has to talk through his thoughts to be able to land the plane. “I wanted to talk to you more, back then. I wanted to get to know you but I was scared. Because what if you were someone I could build something with? And then we shot you into space? That would have hurt too much, I think.”
It makes your chest tight, hearing how long he’s been thinking about you. “I noticed you back then too. You showed us how powerful the astrophage was and you were so.. Nonchalant about it. I thought you were so cool.” That makes you both laugh.
“I am cool!” He argues.
“So cool, Ryland.” And you laugh again.
He goes quiet for a moment before he leans in, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips. “I’m really cool, come on,” he says against your mouth, but you’re too busy kissing him to respond. Your hands land on his chest again, feeling the muscle hiding there. He deepens the kiss, sliding his tongue into your mouth and bringing his free hand to wrap around the back of your neck. It makes you both moan.
He’s more confident than you imagined he would be.
“I haven’t, um- I haven’t done this in a long time,” he says with a huff, cheeks turning that adorable shade of red you love so much. Okay maybe not that confident.
“I haven’t either, we’ve been busy saving the world.”
“Two worlds,” he says, pulling you closer and kissing down your jaw.
“Two worlds,” you laugh, letting your hands wander a little lower, feeling the way his stomach tenses when you run your fingers over him.
His hands find your sides, rubbing with his thumbs while he kisses his way down the column of your throat. His beard tickles your skin and you can’t help but gasp. The sound spurs him on and he sucks a spot by your ear, groaning at the taste of your skin. You reach for the neck of his shirt, “wanna feel you, Ryland,” and he wastes no time ripping his shirt over his head.
God, yeah he was hot. His torso was all smooth skin and strength, those biceps you’ve admired for so long connecting to sculpted shoulders. He shrank a little under your gaze, and when you realized you were staring you pulled your own shirt off. Figured if you had something to look at, he should too.
And look he did. Ryland wasn’t inexperienced, exactly, but he hadn’t been with many women either. His eyes raked over your body and a quiet breath left him. “You’re so, so pretty,” he whispers, leaning in again to press kisses to your neck, your collarbone, your chest. You run your hands through his hair, scratch down his back a little, letting him take his time.
It’s not long before he’s playing with the clasp of your bra and looking at you for permission. You nod with a shy smile and help him pull it off. “God, fuck,” he’s never cursed around you before, and you want him to keep doing it. He cups your breasts with both hands and kisses your lips with a new hunger. It feels so good having him close, touching your skin. His thumbs swipe over your nipples and you moan softly into his mouth. He wants more of those noises, he thinks.
Ryland laves your chest with attention, working his mouth back down your neck and pressing sloppy kisses across the tops of your breasts. When he closes his lips around a nipple you gasp. He’s good at this, dry spell or not. Warmth is spreading through your body, you feel the way he scrapes his teeth against your bud in your core. Each pass sending electric shocks straight to your pussy.
His hands shift and he’s pressing you back, moving a pillow so it’s under your head and giving you a sweet smile as you lay under him.
Your touch moves down his sides, one hand playing with the waistband of his sweatpants. You quirk an eyebrow at him and he stifles a laugh, “not yet, sweetheart. If you start touching me I won’t last.”
A small, disappointed noise leaves your lips but he’s already kissing you again. He works his way down, down, down until he’s sure he’s kissed every inch of you he can see. He pauses at your own waistband and looks at you for permission again. You’re sure your desire is written all over your face as you nod, but you like that he asks anyway.
You help him slide your pants and underwear down in one go. He sits back on his haunches and just looks at you. “You have a staring problem,” you joke softly. “I just love looking at you,” he says it with reverence and you’re just now realizing how intense his feelings for you must be. He lifts your leg and plants kisses from your ankle to your knee, lowering himself down as he goes until he’s sucking bruises on the inside of your thigh, face level with where you wanted him most.
If we’re being honest, you haven’t spent much time worrying about something as trivial as shaving while you’ve been in space. It didn’t even cross your mind until Ryland buries his face in your pussy and brings a hand up to gently stroke your mound. He whimpers and you’re gone. Alright, Ryland Grace is a bush guy. Noted.
Any insecurity you might have been feeling is gone from your mind when he runs his tongue from your entrance to your clit, stopping to pull the bud into his mouth and suck. He plays your clit the same way he did your nipples, and you feel the shocks through your whole body. Every time he pulls a new noise from your lips he doubles down. He’s a quick study when it comes to your pleasure.
Your hands bury in his hair again, alternating between pressing him closer to you and tugging on his soft strands. The first pull has him groaning into your core, vibrating through you like a shockwave. You tug again and he gets the idea, moaning and whimpering against you with more purpose. If sound was what you wanted, he was happy to deliver.
Ryland eats you like a man starved, implementing what he learns in real time. When he feels you edging closer to your release he brings a hand up under him and circles a finger around your entrance. He presses in and the sounds you both make are downright pornographic. Your eyes screw tight as you gasp with each thrust he gives you.
“Look at me.” It’s a gentle command, said quickly between flicks of his tongue and suctioning lips. You know he feels how hard that makes you clench as you do what he says. The intensity in his eyes makes your jaw drop open. Ryland was looking at you like you hung the stars, you’d never seen such adoration written on someone’s face. It takes your breath away.
He slides a second finger in and curls upward. It sends you tumbling over the edge. Your vision whites out and your moans crescendo as you come undone on his fingers. “Yes, baby, fuck” he whimpers into your flesh. He works you through it, careful not to overwhelm your body. His free hand lets go of yours - was he holding your hand the whole time?
You feel him pull back, he’s placing gentle kisses up your thigh and he’s still looking at you. He sits back on his knees and brings his hand to his lips. You watch him suck his fingers into his mouth and only then does he look away as his eyes roll back in his head. You swear you could come again from the visual alone.
He leans forward over you and rolls so you’re laying on his chest, dragging a blanket over your shoulder and kissing you messily. You snake a hand down his body with clear intent and he stops your movement with a hesitant touch. You look at him and see that he’s bright red, his eyes closed so he doesn't have to see you when he says it. “I um, uh-ah I came too,” he whispers hoarsely.
“You did?”
“Yeah, I was hoping you wouldn’t ask about it,” he says quietly, grinning. You don’t mean to laugh as hard as you do but it’s not your fault he’s so damn cute.
“No,” you manage to get out, “it’s sweet. I love that the hottest man I’ve ever known just came in his pants while eating me out.” He groans and slaps a hand over his eyes. A deep breath later you’re both dissolving into giggles. He turns you both on your sides and buries his face in your neck. “You’re gonna kill me, sweetheart.”
“What’s the rush?” You ask, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “We’ve got all of space and time.”
‐-----‐------------------
my headcanon for this story is that rocky is a good bro and heard a little noise and decided it was a great time to go to sleep for 20-30 hours
Anyways, this was my first smut so if it was weird please lmk 🙂↕️
warnings: home life; stable relationship; budding family; Ryland steals things from school; so much sweetness it makes your teeth hurt; nothing special; something light; no hail mary, I don't want that there; Ryland deserves happiness
note : the life you lead, the family you create. together.
A/N: Some light reading for Sunday. I'll leave this here and go back under the blanket. This week has been long, and next week will be just as challenging… Still, thank you for being here, for reading...
[Ryland Grace masterlist] [main masterlist]
Ryland leaned against the doorway of the faculty lounge, shrugging into his jacket while Martin fished his car keys out of his pocket. Silence reigned in the school building, with isolated laughs and the forbidden running still audible in the distance.
“Come on,” Martin said, straightening up and looking at his friend. “One drink. It’s Friday.”
Ryland snorted softly. “I’m going home.”
Martin narrowed his eyes dramatically. “Wow. A woman really made you soft, Grace.”
Ryland opened his mouth with an automatic comeback already forming — something sarcastic, something easy. But the words caught before they left.
Maybe she had.
Or maybe he’d already been weak long before her. Tired. Angry. Half-living through routines because it was easier than thinking too hard about anything else. Or to plan for the future, something beyond what to eat for lunch or how to prepare for upcoming lessons.
Ryland liked a thought that maybe you had done the opposite. Maybe you’d made him stronger without even trying. The thought sat strangely warm in his chest.
Right now he only shook his head and started toward the exit. “See you Monday.”
“Pathetic,” Martin called after him.
Ryland grinned the entire drive home anyway. He regretted nothing.
The apartment smelled like garlic and butter when he walked in. It wasn't a large apartment, but it was cozy. It was filled with books, plants—you were in the era of "plant moms"—and all sorts of little things that made the house feel cozy.
You looked over your shoulder from the stove. You smiled at the sight of him. “Hey.”
“There she is.” He dropped his bag by the couch and crossed the room to kiss your temple before peeking into the pan. “That smells illegal.”
“You say that every time I cook.” you chuckled.
“Because every time you cook I consider proposing again.”
“You already proposed.”
“Right. Then I’ll propose harder.”
You laughed quietly, nudging him away with your hip. “Go wash your hands.”
"In a moment," he announced, quickly taking off his jacket and loosening his tie. "I actually need to check something first."
That immediately made you suspicious. Ryland disappeared into the bedroom and came back holding a stethoscope. He rolled up his shirt sleeves as if he was getting ready for something serious.
You frowned, not fully understanding what he meant. “Ryland.”
“What?”
“You are not that kind of doctor.”
“I have a doctorate.” he argued.
“In molecular biology.”
He smiled disarmingly. “Still counts.”
You rolled your eyes but Ryland ignored you entirely, already stepping closer with the stubborn determination of a man about to conduct groundbreaking research in the dumbest way possible. You tried not to smile as he crouched carefully in front of you.
“Grace,” you warned. "You know I'm still making dinner, right?"
“Shh. Medical procedure.”
“You borrowed that from school, didn’t you?”
“Temporarily acquired.”
He gently lifted the hem of your shirt just enough to press the cold metal against your stomach.
You inhaled sharply. “Jesus—”
“Sorry.”
Immediately afterward, he frowned in concentration. Completely serious and engaged. The same expression he got while solving impossible problems. Only now he was listening for a heartbeat.
Your heartbeat.
The baby’s heartbeat.
Four months in, and sometimes it still didn’t feel real. The ultrasound photos sat on the fridge. Tiny blurry proof that there was actually someone there.
Ryland adjusted the stethoscope again. Nothing. He frowned harder.
"You know people study for years to do this correctly, right?" you said gently.
“I am literally a scientist. Hang on.”
Another few seconds passed and then suddenly his entire face changed. Ryland froze.
“Oh,” he breathed.
You softened immediately. “Did you hear something?”
His blue eyes lifted to yours, wide with something so open it almost hurt to look at.
“Yeah.”
For a moment, neither of you spoke, as if waiting for some signal or sign. Then Ryland smiled — small, disbelieving, helpless.
“That’s my kid.”
Your chest tightened painfully with affection. “Our kid,” you corrected softly.
“Right.” He laughed under his breath. “Right. Sorry.”
He listened for a few more seconds, as if physically unable to contain himself. You gently stroked his tousled hair. Finally he pulled away.
“It’s a girl,” he announced.
You stared at Ryland in astonishment. "You can't know that."
"I know."
"Scientifically?"
"Emotionally."
"That's not science."
"That's advanced science. A higher level."
You laughed again, and he stood, leaning down to kiss you quickly before resting a hand against your stomach almost unconsciously. Still smiling andl looking a little stunned.
Then, far too casually, he said, “So… you got plans this weekend?”
You turned off the stove and put the spoon down. “Ryland.”
“What? Normal question.” He pressed his lips together, pretending to think. “Okay, maybe I had a small idea.”
“Oh no.” you sighed.
“There’s this place downtown—”
“The courthouse?”
“Maybe.”
You laughed before he could continue. “Ryland.”
“What? We’re already engaged.” He grabbed your hand and lifted it, pointing to the ring as if to remind you of something obvious.
“And?”
“And statistically, we are extremely good at this relationship.” You were.
“That is not how people decide to get married.”
“I think you’ll find most successful marriages involve one incredibly charming microbiologist.”
“Molecular biologist.” You shook your head, smiling despite yourself. “Not yet.”
He groaned softly, letting his forehead fall against your shoulder. “You always say that.”
“Because you ask me every two weeks,” you said.
“That’s persistence. A very romantic trait.”
“You literally asked me once, while I was brushing my teeth.”
“And you still didn’t agree.”
You gently threaded your fingers through his hair. He hummed softly. “I’ll do it,” you murmured. “Just… not yet.”
He sighed dramatically into your shoulder. But after a moment, he wrapped his arms around you anyway, holding you carefully, in a way he’d never held anything from you before.
“Fine,” he murmured. “But by the way, our daughter agrees with me.”
“You don’t even know if she’s a daughter.”
“I know,” he said confidently. “She told me.”
The apartment was quiet except for the low hum of the dishwasher and the rain tapping softly against the windows. Ryland sat at the other end of the couch with a laptop balanced on his knees, pretending to work. Pretending, because for the last twenty minutes, he’d reread the same sentence in a research paper six times and still couldn’t tell you what it said.
You were half-asleep beside him, curled under a blanket with your head resting against the armrest. One hand lay over your belly unconsciously now, like it belonged there already.
Four months.
He still couldn’t believe that. Every once in a while he caught himself staring at the ultrasound picture on the fridge just to reassure himself it was real. You two did it. And although it was a surprise to you, you were truly happy.
You shifted slightly in your sleep, and the blanket slipped from your shoulder. In a second Ryland reached over to pull it back up. You made a soft sound, eyes still closed.
“Sorry,” he murmured automatically.
“You say sorry every time I breathe too hard.” your voice was quiet, with remnants of sleep around the edges.
“That’s because you’re carrying a tiny human. Feels medically important.”
Your lips twitched faintly before settling again. He smiled to himself. Then his eyes caught the glint of the ring on your finger. The engagement ring he’d given you almost a year ago now. And suddenly, painfully, he remembered every stupid way he’d brought up marriage since then.
While grocery shopping. While brushing his teeth. Once during a fire drill at school - he then called you, saying he was in serious danger and this was your last chance to agree. Only a child's voice in the background said, "Mr. Grace, it's just a drill."
You always laughed. Always kissed him afterward. Always said not yet. It wasn't out of anger or uncertainty. Just… not yet.
Ryland quietly closed his laptop and set it aside. For a moment, he just stared at you. At the gentleness in your face. At the tiredness that was now taking its toll on you. At the trust you had in him. At the way, you somehow made his apartment seem less temporary. Less like a place he happened to sleep in, and more like a place where life actually happened. With you.
It scared him sometimes, how much he loved you. Because before you, he’d gotten very good at existing without needing anyone. And now the thought of losing this felt unbearable.
You stirred slightly when he brushed his thumb across your hand, eyes halfway opened. "You're staring again."
"I'm not staring."
"You get strangely emotional at night," you observed.
"That's slander. Definitely not true."
You smiled faintly, still barely conscious. Then you noticed the expression on his face and immediately softened.
"What's the matter, sweetheart?"
Ryland looked down at your intertwined hands for a second before answering. “I think,” he said slowly, “I’ve done a really bad job explaining something.”
You pushed yourself up a little. “Okay…”
He laughed quietly through his nose, suddenly nervous. Which was ridiculous, he talked in front of classrooms full of teenagers every day. He’d presented research to rooms full of scientists. But this? This was somehow worse. Because it was you.
“I know I joke about the wedding stuff a lot,” he admitted. “And I know I keep asking at objectively terrible moments.”
“Very terrible moments.”
You smiled a little, but stayed quiet. And Ryland swallowed before continuing.
“It’s not because I’m trying to pressure you.”
“I know.”
“I just…” He paused. “Every time I think about the future, you’re already there.”
Something in your expression changed. Small, almost invisible, but enough to make his chest tighten. He kept going anyway.
“You and the baby and all the stupid little things.” He gestured vaguely toward the kitchen and the rest of the apartment. “Your coffee mug in the sink. Your books everywhere. The fact that there are suddenly vegetables in my refrigerator.”
You laughed softly, but his voice turned quieter after that.
“Before you, I don’t think I really think about the future.” He stared down at his hands as he said it. “Not a real one. I had work. Research. Classes. Days to get through.” A small shrug. “And I was okay, mostly. And then you showed up, and now every version of my life I can imagine has you in it.”
Your eyes were shining now. Ryland smiled nervously.
“So I think maybe…” He exhaled softly. “Maybe I keep asking because I already think of you as my family.”
Silence fell. Not an awkward silence, but one that felt complete. Then you reached for his hand, fully this time, intertwining your fingers with his.
“Ryland…”
“I know,” he said quickly. “And if you still need time, that’s okay. Seriously. I can wait.”
“You’d keep asking, though.”
“Oh, absolutely. Relentlessly.”
You laughed through a shaky breath. Then you moved closer until your forehead rested against his. And very quietly, you said: “Okay.”
Ryland blinked. “…Okay?”
“I’ll marry you.”
For one full second he only stared at you, like his brain had stopped functioning entirely.
And after a few seconds: “Oh my God.”
You burst out laughing as he grabbed your face with both hands.
“Wait, seriously?”
“Yes, seriously.”
“You’re not delirious from sleep deprivation?”
“Ryland—”
“You said yes.”
“I did.”
“You actually said yes.”
He looked genuinely stunned, overwhelmingly, hopelessly happy. Then he kissed you hard enough to make you laugh again, one hand cradling your jaw while the other instinctively rested over your belly.
“Our daughter was definitely on my side,” he informed you proudly.
You rolled your eyes immediately and touched his cheek gently. “You’re really happy about this, huh?”
Ryland looked at you for a moment like the answer should’ve been obvious. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I really am.”
The honesty of it settled warmly between you. No jokes this time and no deflection. Just him.
Outside, the rain continued tapping against the windows, turning the apartment into something small and safe and separate from the rest of the world. Your quiet space. Just for you.
Ryland leaned back into the couch, pulling you with him until your head rested against his chest. One arm wrapped around you automatically while the other stayed over your belly, his thumb moving absentmindedly against the fabric of your shirt. Protective already.
You listened to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat beneath your ear. “You know,” you murmured, “you’re going to cry when the baby’s born.”
“I am absolutely not.”
“You cried watching that documentary about the octopus.” you chuckled.
“I don't remember that.”
You laughed softly. After a moment, Ryland tilted his head down to kiss your hair. “I know I joke around a lot.”
“A little.”
“But…” He hesitated briefly. “Thank you. For staying long enough for me to get this right.”
Your chest ached at the words. You lifted your head just enough to look at him.
“You already did.”
Something vulnerable flickered across his face then — brief, almost shy. And maybe that was the thing that made you love him most. Not intelligence, not sarcasm. Not even the way he somehow made ordinary days feel lighter. It was this - the fact that underneath all the humor and rambling and badly timed jokes, Ryland Grace loved with his entire heart once he finally let himself.
He tucked the blanket more securely around you before resting his cheek against the top of your head. And for the first time in a very long time, the future didn’t feel frightening to him.
It felt warm. It felt like home. An you were in it.
Professor!ryland been living rent free in my head and there’s not enough of it out there 😩
Your one shot was *chef’s kiss* 🙂↕️ and I’m kindly asking for a part two if possible 🫶🏼
pt. 1 is here.
“Together. I wanna come with you.”
Ryland shook above you, his forehead falling to your shoulder as you pushed your knee up and in between you both, dragging it along the hard outline in his pants. His breath was hot against your bare skin.
“You don’t…that’s not why I…”
Ryland groaned deeply then, your hand replacing the pressure of your knee, cutting off his already weak attempt at forming words. You squeezed his cock, hard. The sensation was still muted through the denim he wore, but the way your fingers cupped him, molding to his length, exploring the way it was trapped against his thigh. It felt you were stroking him right through his jeans.
Ryland didn’t know what to do. It felt too good and it was hardly nothing. Some heavy petting over his pants? The majority of his brain had turned to static. The last conceivable channel of it screams at him to touch you again, so he does.
He raises his head, meets your eyes, your mouth. You are still so fuzzy, riding the endorphins of your last orgasm. So you laugh when he kisses you, again and again. Still soft, but quick, peppered, like he’s impatient to make you feel as good as you’re making him feel.
The fingers of your other hand are threaded through the hair on Ryland’s nape, playing with the strands mindlessly. You just keep caressing him there, holding him and staring up at him, smiling a little drunkenly, eyes bright. They flutter shut when Ryland slips two fingers back through your pussy.
He groans softly, getting a feel for how wet you still are. He plays with your clit again for a moment, before his fingers slip down, and for the first time, pushes them inside you.
You gasp, your back curving off the desk, your mouth falling open. Grace licks into it, tongue tracing your lips. He lets out his own whine, the feeling of your pussy wrapped around his fingers, the heat. He pumps them slowly, breathing against your open mouth, “Suppose to be about you. Yeah? Let me…let me take care of you.”
You blink at him, real slow like, and just when he thinks you’re too far gone to do anything but agree, your tongue is meeting his, out in the open. You lick at him, his lips, his chin. You pull him in by his hair. Grace feels his cock throb. He knows you felt it too by the way you squeeze him in return.
It’s when you sink your teeth into his bottom lip and tug, that Ryland lets out an honest to god whimper. You let go, breathing hard, you say, “You will take care of me. You’ll make me come again. When you fuck me.”
The warmth of your hand on his cock is gone then, replaced by the feeling of your fingers over his belt. He feels you fumbling one-handedly, finally getting a grip on it, but then you pause.
It brings Grace back. He was already looking at you, his mind just racing, but now he’s focused again and you’re staring up at him. You have the sweetest look on your face, almost vulnerable. You whisper, “Is that okay? We don’t have to, if you don’t want to.”
“My god,” Grace exhales hard, letting his forehead fall to yours, “of course I do. I want to.”
You swallow, voice still a little shaky like you’re not convinced, your fingers still paused on his belt. “Yeah?”
Grace leans in and kisses you firmly, sealing his mouth over yours. He slips his fingers from you and brings both of his hands to your face, cradling your jaw. He kisses you until your lungs are burning, and pleading for air.
He pulls away panting, voice low, “I just wanted to make you feel good…if my cock is what you want, it’s yours.”
It’s like it flips a switch in you, hearing him say that, those words. You whimper and then turn your head, slipping the fingers Grace had inside of you into your mouth. He groans, watching you taste yourself. It takes a minute before he realizes the clawing at his belt. Both of your hands now, frantic, pulling at the leather.
He doesn’t try to slow you down this time. At least, not yet. The mere thought of relief, of just getting his cock out has Ryland reaching down to help you. Together you manage.
You pop the button and pull at the waistline so the zipper practically rips down. Grace is the one to reach back and push them down over his ass, and then they’re falling down his thighs. It’s then that he hears your giggle.
His eyes snap to yours, and you press your lips together hard, trying to suppress your smile. Your own eyes are on his lap, his boxers more specifically, fingers lingering on the tops of his thighs, his hips.
Grace lifts an eyebrow, his voice dipping into that teasing tone, “What? You don’t like them?”
“I didn’t say that. They’re cute,” you say, barely getting the words out before laughing again. Grace looks back down. His boxers, briefs actually, are navy blue. There’s little doodles all over them though. Science doodles. Beakers. Elements. Cells.
Grace laughs too, straightening up to his full height. His eyes are still taking in his own silly science themed underwear, thumb snapping the band as he teases, “I’ll have you know, they’re very comfortable.”
It takes Grace a moment to realize you’re not laughing anymore, but your eyes are still locked on his underwear. No. Not his underwear, not anymore. He didn’t realize, but standing up gave you the best view of him you’ve had so far.
And there you are, staring, eyes intensely tracing the line of his cock. Ryland feels himself flush deeply. He’s tenting the fuck out of his dorky boxers, still wearing his fucking button down and tie, and you’re staring at him like he’s a piece of meat.
He’s not ready to unbox why that alone makes him so hot.
You don’t really give him the chance to. Grace would be more concerned with how fast you stood up, clamoring off the desk, if he wasn’t currently concerned with falling backwards. His ass barely meets the chair before you’re crawling into his lap, your mouth on his again.
You kiss him, and kiss him, and kiss him, and Grace can barely keep up. He eventually doesn’t try to. You take control, fingers in his hair, on his tie, tilting his head this way and that. His mind keeps tripping over itself.
You’re in his lap, naked. Completely naked.
It feels different. It feels like more.
He can feel just how warm you are. Every inch of your skin, he touches it. Where your tongue swirls with his, Ryland’s hands sweep over your entire body. He sighs into your mouth as he runs his palms along your bare back. You pull away when you feel him stop, his hands settled right above your ass.
You smile down at him now, from where you’re straddling his lap. Your lips are all swollen and puffy. “You know you are allowed to grab it, right?”
Ryland huffs, blushing still, and then he does, slowly. He lets both hands slip from the small of your back, down to your ass. He’s stoic, as much as he can be when he squeezes, watching you bite your lip and smirk.
His voice drops low again as he keeps kneading, gently at first. He hears the hitch in your breath when he spreads your cheeks though.
“Technically…technically I’m not allowed to do any of this to you, but…is touching all you’ll let me do to it?”
His own cheeks burn like hell when he says it, and he watches yours do the same. He spreads you again, letting the cool air of the classroom hit your bare pussy, your asshole. He brings the tips of his fingers to your slit, and traces it from behind.
“Dr. Grace,” you whine, voice trembling.
He pictures it, the same thing you are. Fucking you from behind like this. Taking you that way. It feels different, being touched from this direction. He slowly pushes two fingers inside, and feels the way you clench around him.
“How do you want me to fuck you?”
You blink at him, cheeks red, eyes glassy.
“My pussy or my ass?”
The back of Grace’s head hits the chair. He has to close his eyes for a second and breathe. “Oh my god, no. Forget I said that. I’m not—.”
“I’d let you.” You say it so bluntly, but it sounds so sweet. Grace feels his cock kick in his boxers.
“Fuck. Don’t,” Grace physically shakes, “Do not say that. Just tell me how you want it.”
“Can I ride you?”
“Oh my…yeah…yes.”
Your fingers, trembling, start unbuttoning Ryland’s shirt at lightening speed. You don’t even take it off completely, or his tie. It’s just left loose and hanging around his neck. You push open the fabric, and run your hands, your eyes, up and down his torso.
You honest to god feel him up, tracing the lines of his faintly defined abdominal muscles. You play with the slightly darker, dirty blonde hair that starts just below his navel and disappears into his underwear.
The way you’re staring is obscene. Like you have him under a microscope. It makes him feel like he’s being studied, like he’s a science project of yours, and Ryland has no idea why that makes his cock start to leak. He can feel it, the stickiness starting to drip out of him.
“Aaah.” He’s ripped from his mind by the pull of your fingers. In your exploring, you’d gone back up. You roll one of his nipples gently, using your short nail to press into the other.
You look into his eyes then, assessing, searching. You pinch one a little harder to gauge his reaction. “Do you like it?”
Grace chokes a little, and he nods quickly. His fingers have long slipped out of you by now, in the name of partially undressing, and letting you do this. Letting you play.
It’s so stark to how you started. Too fast, too quick.
You still got excited. Jumping his bones into the chair, pulling and pushing at his clothes frantically. But when it came to your bodies, you were slow. Intrigued.
You smiled softly, if not a little proud at the way Grace sounded as you played with his nipples. They were sensitive. Pink, and hard now. He could feel them throbbing as you pinch and release, blood rushing and pooling there.
Grace should’ve seen it coming. It was followed so quickly by the tilt of your lips. The cutest, devious little glint in your eyes flashing, before you leaned down and sucked one into your mouth.
Grace’s back arches. His hand shoots up to cradle the back of your head. He lets out a series of whines, and grunts as you flick your tongue back and forth. It’s been so long since anyone’s touched him there.
His other hand slides around to your front, cupping your chest in return. He kneads one of your tits gently, just feeling the weight of it in his palm. And that’s all it is, for the next few minutes at least. The both of you, softly groping each other, your mouth switching to his other pec.
Your sharp teeth sink into the fatty flesh. Grace’s hips lift involuntarily, rolling beneath you. It jostles you in his lap, removing your mouth, and seemingly reminding you of what you’re sitting on. His cock is throbbing, the fabric of his briefs a darker shade where he’s soaked through.
“Please,” Grace mumbles, eyes heavy. He brings his own thumbs to the waistband. Before he can do it himself, you’re pulling, grasping at the material and yanking them down. He barely raises his hips in time.
He knows. Grace knows. He feels himself burning, and blushing like crazy, all the way down his chest. It’s not something he ever goes around boosting about, but it’s undeniable. He watches your face intensely.
It wasn’t like you couldn’t tell before. You could see he was big, but when his cock springs free, bare, it slaps audibly against his lower stomach. It sounds heavy.
And Grace is just a man. A man whose cock you’re staring at, and swallowing so hard at, he can see the way your throat works. He groans, unbelievably turned off and impatient, but equally in no mood to make you rush.
He just watches you, lazily, breathing hard, body sunken into the chair. He watches you stare at him, or his cock at least. He makes it jump. His cock jerks between you, lifting away from his navel as his muscles contract. It swings softly, pulling at a shiny string of pre that connects from his tip to his stomach.
A tiny smirk pops onto his face at the way your eyes blow wide. It disappears just as quickly though, at the way your body starts slipping out of his lap. To the floor.
“Where - what are you…”
It’s like his voice is the only thing to bring you back. You’re already halfway kneeling on the cold floor, naked, before your eyes lift and leave his cock. Grace feels like he’s loosing it. The sight of you on your knees in front of him. It’s too much. You’re too close. Almost face level with his cock. It wasn’t what he promised you.
His voice is wrecked, hands still holding onto your arms, ready to pull you back up. He licks his lips. “This is suppose to be about you. You don’t…you don’t get anything from this.”
The look you give seems almost offended, and then it morphs. You scoff, and roll your eyes. You practically melt the rest of the way onto the floor, settling between his legs.
Your eyes never leave his. “And if I told you I did? If I told you I not only like it, but that it gets me wet? That I love it…”
Grace can’t breathe. His face burns and his eyes sting but he refuses to blink. You lean in, bracing your arms across his bare thighs, running your hands up his body, dodging his cock.
His voice is shot, jagged and rough when he ask, and he can’t believe he ask, but he can’t help it. “You’re telling me you like sucking cock?”
“Mmh, I do.” You laugh so smugly. Breathlessly, beautiful. Grace feels like he’s been punched in the gut. Your warm breath breezes across his skin. It fans over his balls, his cock.
“I like watching too, but I think you already knew that.”
Your voice sounds like velvet, and if Grace thought the best thing you could do was to start touching him next, he thought wrong. You punctuated your sentence by grabbing one of his own hands, and leading it between his legs.
Ryland was already shaking his head, your smile growing wider as you curled his own fingers around his cock, and then you repeated the words he said to you earlier. “Show me.”
It was wrong. It was so, so filthy. This wasn’t even you sucking his dick. It would be him, jerking off right in front of your face. Grace feels his whole body cave a little, his chest, his stomach. He searches your face, and then slowly, bashfully strokes himself once.
You beam up at him, eyes bouncing from his face to his cock. Grace lets out a shaky exhale. You track the way his fingers tighten, how they spread and how his wrist moves.
“When was the last time you…”
Your voice trails off, distracted by the new wave of pre that starts leaking out, trailing over the back of his knuckles.
Grace knows what you mean. He strokes himself again, and pushes anyway. “The last time I what?”
Your eyes flicker up to his. You smile. “Jerked off. I told you about mine…and my toys. Do you have toys?”
“Oh my…” Grace groans at your unbothered tone, your playfulness, letting his head fall back. He hears you laugh.
“Well…”
You prod teasingly, and Grace guesses you’re right. It’s only fair. He breathes heavily through his nose. “Day before last, and no. No, just my hand.”
You hum, and Grace isn’t sure if it’s meant to be a reward for his answer or not, but he chokes outright when he feels it. His fist tightens and stops mid stroke. Your tongue drags against the back of his knuckles, lapping at the tacky pre-come.
“Oh my god,” he calls out, his eyes rolling back a little.
He feels the curve of your mouth against his hand as you smile, your lips glistening in the low projector light.
“Keep going, and here.”
You pull at his hips. Grace goes. He sinks a little further down in the chair. It allows his legs to spread more, and it pushes his crotch outward, towards your face. He feels so stupidly drunk. You’re right there, your mouth. The only thing in the way is his hand, but you don’t let him stop.
You lean in, positioning your mouth right at the tip. Grace’s breath stutters in his chest. With each stroke, the head of his cock brushes your slightly parted lips, leaving them wet.
“C’mon…I want you to do it,” you whisper.
Grace whines, sweet and desperate, “Do what?”
“Take charge again…I told you I wanna suck your cock, so make me. Take care of me like you said you would.”
He lets out a sound he’s not sure he’s ever made. Something keen, something broken. You know, can see clear as day how bashful he is, how much the dirtiness of all this gets to him. You want that. Both. To watch him blush and squirm but also make you take it.
Grace’s hand shoots out to cup the base of your skull, tilting your head. He finally stops stroking himself. His fingers stay loosely wrapped around the base, just enough to swipe his cock back and forth. Dr. Grace actually paints your face now. Not gentle, teasing brushes. He fully rubs the head of his cock across your mouth, your chin, your cheeks, leaving behind trails of wetness.
“This is what you wanted?”
You whine and nod like hell, licking your lips clean.
“Open your mouth.”
Grace doesn’t take his hand from the back of your neck. He just lets his thumb come forward, resting at the hinge of your jaw. He pushes there, knowing you’ll have no choice. What he doesn’t anticipate is the way you hold your tongue out. Expectant.
His cock throbs, knowing exactly what you want. He whimpers. His whole body feels too fucking hot. He feels like he could cry.
He takes his cock and slaps it on your tongue.
It’s so filthy, degrading. Grace feels his tummy swoop. The way you’re whining for more. He slaps your cheek with it next, and then the other, watching you chase it with your mouth.
That makes something in Grace snap. Suddenly both of his hands are on your face, cradling your jaw on either side, and the next second he’s shoving his cock into your mouth.
“Mmph!” You choke in surprise.
Grace whines.
His hips are moving, thrusting. It’s not dominant, or overpowering. If anything it’s desperate, pathetic. Sloppy and shallow. He’s not using you. He’s giving you exactly what you wanted.
Grace too. It’s like you’re letting him borrow your mouth.
His white converse are planted solid on the floor, thighs trembling, his whole body pulled taunt. You keep your eyes and your mouth open, staring up at him.
Grace cries, gasping as he fucks up into your mouth. It sounds nasty. You get lost in it. That warm fuzzy headspace settles over you. The familiar spark relights between your legs too.
You reach up, gently touching his balls, hoping to push him farther. He groans, and unintentionally puts a little extra behind the next roll of his hips. His tip punches the back of your throat. It’s still so gentle, but enough to make you gag.
“Oh! I’m sorry, ‘m so sorry,” Grace starts apologizing immediately, pulling his cock back. He’s cut off by the moan you let out around him. He shivers at the vibrations, and then stares down at you in disbelief.
He stares at the way your eyes are watering from the intrusion but how you still want more, and then he spots it, your hand moving between your legs. Your fingers are playing with your clit, all because he made you choke on his cock.
All the air leaves his body. He barely gets out the words out. “Are you…”
Grace’s cock is gone. His hands, his warmth, the cold tile floors too. A wave of dizziness hits you hard as you’re lifted into the air too quickly. He picks you up completely, and slams you back down onto his desk, pinning you beneath him.
“I need to fu—.”
“Now. Now Grace,” you start begging, demanding, before he’s even finished.
He’s hovering over you, out of breath already, sweating. His shirt is still hanging off his shoulders, tie swinging between you. Hell, his shoes are still on, jeans around his ankles.
He loops his arms underneath your knees, and leans almost all the way down, pressing them to your chest. His hands clasp behind your neck.
You’re practically bent in half, folded open for him. Forehead to forehead, nose to nose. You growl impatiently, your hands sliding against his slick skin.
“Okay, okay,” Ryland shushes you, and the teasing is done.
He starts pushing in, the head of his cock spreading your pussy open. Grace isn’t teasing anymore, but he still goes slow, feeding you inch after inch of his cock.
The stretch makes you feel high, and full. So so fucking full. You try to remember to breathe. It comes out like a choke.
“I know, I know,” Ryland whispers. It only makes you whine again, the sound of his voice causing you to clench around him. He gasps at the feeling, his hips falling forward.
He sinks inside your pussy completely.
It feels like you both stop breathing for a moment. Frozen still, adjusting. You’re the first to move though. Ryland’s face stays hidden in the curve of your neck, his body locking up hard. You can hear his unsteady breathing, feel it.
“You can move,” you whisper, coaxing Grace. It’s like he doesn’t even hear you though, and the unmoving pressure of him inside you is becoming unbearable.
Your muscles flex and fight, pushing against the iron hold he has you in. With his head still tucked into your neck, you move your palms to his ribs, his abs…and you hit him.
You smack him, again and again, his own muscles coiled tight. The sound of your hits, they echo, like tiny thumps as you sob. “Dr. Grace, please…please you have to move. You have to fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck me. Fuck m—.”
He punches the air out of you with one thrust. Pulling out before you could finish, and pushing back in. A sob of his own racks out of him.
He trembles, his voice cracking, “Slow. We go slow.”
It is slow but deep. He’s so fucking deep. It feels like he’s in your stomach, your chest, poking between your lungs. You’re scrambling, hiccuping, hands sliding all over his body, nails digging in.
“So pretty like this,” he chokes out.
You whimper. You’re barely hanging on, eyes slipping closed. He doesn’t let you. Won’t. He grips your jaw harder, and angles your head down. It’s a stretch.
He smacks your cheek softly. “Open. Open your eyes, baby.”
You do. You see his cock, visibly wet, and shiny. You watch in awe as it disappears, and reappears, as Grace softly bullies it into you. Your pussy looks obscene. Raw and puffy. It opens, forced to swallow Ryland’s cock every time he pushes in.
“You said you like watching. Watch us. Watch me fuck you.”
He sounds so far gone. His words are so filthy but the way they’re spoken, it sounds like he’s the one begging.
The angle changes then, and Grace slows down even more, but there’s more pressure. He’s grinding now. He’s dragging his cock along your walls, searching for that spot.
You hiccup, weakly pushing at his chest, “So, ‘s big. Ryland!”
“Bigger than that fake you got stashed at home beneath your pillow, sweetheart?”
Sweetheart. Sweetheart.
You’re not sure if it’s him taunting you about your dildo, the way his cock catches on that ridgy spot in your pussy, or the sweetheart of it all that sends you over the edge, but you go regardless.
You come hard. Your ears fill with a rushing, whooshing sound. Everything goes muted. Everything but the endorphins exploding and spreading through your body. Everything but Dr. Grace and his cock.
He never stops. He fucks you through it, and you know he’s talking, saying things to you, but they sound far away.
You come back enough to realize he’s babbling, a mix of you come so pretty, that’s it, and see, you can come, you did it, ‘m so proud you.
You think he might be crying. No. He is crying.
You try to blink your way back, just enough to make out Grace’s face. His eyes and cheeks are wet, and his whimpers are another constant stream now.
It melts you. The look on his face, the way he’s staring at you like you’re something special.
Your fingers slide into his hair, and you lean up gently, brushing your mouth along the tracks of his tears, over his eyes. You even swipe your tongue across his cheek.
“Thank you,” you whisper, your own voice breaking. You let it. Your own tears come as your arms loop around his neck. His thrusts become sloppy.
“Thank you. Thank you…thank you for taking care of me.”
You ramble, hiccup, crying into his shoulder. You pepper more kisses all over his face. His eyes, his nose, his mouth. You kiss him deeply, and with your words and the taste of you and himself, and salt on his tongue, Grace comes harder than he ever has in his life.
He buries himself balls deep. Your pussy pulses around him. He feels his balls contract hard, pumping you full of his come. Fuck. Fuck, he just came inside his student. His best student.
You’re still licking into his mouth, in a very much one sided kiss. His jaw is slack. He just hums and lets you. It’s not until his arms finally give and the real weight of him settles on top of you, that you laugh, right into his mouth. Grace smiles.
“OoOh,” his voice cracks when he finally speaks again, like a pre puberty kind of crack. The pitch gets stuck in his throat and goes all wonky, and it only makes you laugh harder.
Something that should be so far from a comfortable silence, but isn’t, settles around you. It’s sweet and warm, gentle. You comb your fingers through Grace’s hair, holding him as you both come down. What you ask next, it’s laced with shyness. “That was…it was…good, right?”
Ryland’s eyes find yours, and he looks almost shocked that you even feel the need. “I think you broke me.”
It makes you snort, but you roll your eyes and look off to the side like you don’t believe him. He slowly brings his hand to your face, taps your jaw with his thumb. Your eyes find his again immediately. “No. I’m…I’m serious. That was…”
He trails off. There’s no word for it, for you. From the moment he saw you sitting in his lecture hall, something about you seemed inevitable. Grace hadn’t even considered to run from it. If anything, he’d always wondered, calculated when not if.
The look you’re giving him right now lets him know you’re not just looking for reassurance about sex, but for him to put his last chip out there. To lean into the inevitable.
He leans in and kisses you. The purest you’ve shared today. “You were perfect…can I make you dinner sometime?”
—
(This became a lot longer than I anticipated. If there’s any mistakes it’s because I have a killer headache. Tag your favorite part! Mine is when he tells her he’s proud of her for coming on his cock 😮💨 I would’ve died.)
Summary: After saving the universe, Rocky asks you and Ryland about Earth's celebration customs, which leads to you and Ryland dancing together.
Word Count: 1.3k
Warnings: fluff, mutual pining, dancing together, an almost kiss, a certain alien interrupting things
AN: This is my first Ryland fic! This man has bewitched me, body and soul, and I wouldn't want it any other way. This idea popped into my head after seeing the movie for a second time. I hope you all enjoy!
Fireworks burst into sparkling colors on the giant screens in the media room in celebration of your success. You had insisted on festivities once Rocky and Ryland were on the mend, and upon confirming that the taumoeba would in fact kill astrophage, the two of them were on board to celebrate as well.
“You look great, Rocky. The hat really suits you,” You smiled as Ryland placed the paper hat he’d made on top of Rocky’s ball.
Rocky held himself up so his head reached the top of the ball, to make it look like he was wearing the hat, “Rocky look beautiful!”
“You sure do, buddy,” Ryland gave Rocky’s ball a pat.
“Is this normal celebration outfit on earth, question,” Rocky asked.
You took the party hat Ryland offered you and placed it on your head, and Ryland put one on his as well, “Yup.”
“What other earth celebration customs, question.”
Ryland sat down next to you and thought for a moment, “Well, we have what we call parties. There’s usually food, conversation, music, sometimes singing and dancing.”
“Dancing,” Rocky repeated.
“You know,” Ryland created a wave with his arms.
“Yes! Yes! Rocky remember. Grace do dancing at one of first meetings!” Rocky moved up and down excitedly, “Grace show Rocky more dancing!”
“Yeah, I’m not much of a dancer, Rocky,” Ryland shook his head, trying to dismiss the idea, but he knew it was in vain.
Rocky stomped his leg onto the ground in a commanding stance, “Grace show Rocky dance!”
“Yeah, Ryland,” you added in a teasing tone, “show Rocky dance.”
Ryland let out an awkward, sheepish laugh and started to do something that resembled a slow-paced Charleston mixed with moving his elbows up and down as if he were doing the chicken dance.
Rocky turned towards you, “Does dancing always make humans look stupid, question,” the snort that came out of your nose was involuntarily.
Ryland ceased his dancing and placed his hands on his hips, “I told you I’m not a dancer.”
“What if I dance with you?” You offered without hesitation.
“Um,” Ryland ran his hand over his face in an attempt to hide the blush he could feel starting to spread, “I-I guess.”
With an excited clap of your hands, you jumped up and ran over to speaker system, “I know the perfect song.”
The gentle synth-pop beat caught Ryland by surprise, “This isn’t a dance song.”
“Not with that kind of attitude it isn’t,” You began to spin and jump around, not caring how ridiculous you looked.
Ryland’s face softened as he watched you, a gentle smile working its way into the corner of his mouth. The look of joy on your face warmed his heart. He would have happily watched you dance the whole night if you hadn’t taken hold of his hand and pulled him over to join you. He followed your lead, jumping around, doing the running man and other silly dance moves. None of the dancing fit the song, but neither of you cared, and it wasn’t like Rocky would know.
Ryland took your hand and spun you around, eliciting a laugh from you, which caused a flutter to rush through Ryland’s chest. He spun you again just to hear it once more. You squeezed his hand when Ryland expected you to let go, and in an act of boldness, though Ryland felt it could have been foolishness in the moment, he pulled you closer. You moved your free hand to his shoulder and his moved to rest on your waist. Your joined hands moved to intertwine your fingers. Something shifted, you could feel it, Ryland could feel it. The unspoken feelings between the two of you hung in the air, each waiting for the courage to make a move. You smiled, and Ryland felt as though he could melt. You each leaned forward to rest your foreheads together. You began to tilt your head, ready to risk it all and finally feel your lips upon his.
“Is dancing human mating ritual, question.”
You both pulled away from each other as if you had been burned. You had gotten so caught up in the moment, neither of you remembered that you had an audience.
You scratched the back of your neck, the heat of embarrassment creeping into your cheeks, “I’m gonna go check on the samples in the lab.”
Ryland watched you walk away, wishing more than anything to have you back in his arms. He removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.
“You didn’t answer question!” Rocky stomped his foot on the ground impatiently.
“No, buddy,” Ryland let out deep sigh and placed his hands on his hips, “Not in this case, at least.”
~
You weren’t entirely sure why you had walked away from Ryland earlier. You didn’t want to, but the moment had been ruined, though you knew Rocky hadn’t meant to spoil anything on purpose. It all suddenly became too much. If running away from your feelings were an Olympic sport, you would be a gold medalist. Granted, you couldn’t run far, there were only so many places you could hide on the Hail Mary, and none of them were exactly seclusive. You had been pushing down what you had been feeling for Ryland since you first saw him back on Earth, but you didn’t want to run and hide away anymore. Not from your feelings or from Ryland. Dancing together had been even better than you imagined it would be, the feel of his hand in yours, the look in his eyes when he pulled you closer, the way your heart skipped a beat when he took hold of your waist. It was everything and more. If Rocky hadn’t interrupted, you knew you would have kissed him. And from what you could tell in the moment, it seemed like Ryland wanted to kiss you too, though you knew that could have just been wishful thinking.
You idly pushed around one of the xenonite figurines Rocky made, trying to decide if you should go find Ryland and finish what you started, or if you should cut your losses and chalk it all up to getting lost in the moment. It was getting late though, and you were exhausted.
Just as you let out a yawn, you heard Ryland walk into the lab, “You should get some sleep.”
“I’m fi—” You cut yourself off with another yawn.
“Saving the universe is tiring work,” Ryland looked at you with a soft smile, “come on, you and Rocky can sleep. I’ll take the first watch shift.”
He held out his hand and helped you stand up. You expected him to let go, but he didn’t. The two of you walked down the corridor to the sleeping pods hand in hand.
You stared at your joined hands, watching Ryland’s thumb stroke back and forth against the back of your palm. It caused a warmth to bloom within you. Your eyes trailed up to Ryland’s face, and you noted the content expression. The usual trace of anxiety since waking up in space seemed to be gone.
A familiar feeling began to bubble up in your chest. It was similar to how you felt when you and Ryland were dancing. You were too scared to try and kiss him, but you wouldn’t let your cowardice take complete control.
“I liked dancing with you earlier.”
A light pink blush began to spread across Ryland’s cheeks, “I did too.”
“We should do it again sometime.”
“How about I take you dancing when we get back home?”
The offer made you smile, “Promise?”
“Yes,” he squeezed your hand, just as you had squeezed his earlier, “it’s a date.”
You leaned your head on his shoulder, “I’m gonna hold you to that.”
He pressed a soft kiss to your forehead, “I don’t plan on changing my mind.”
Ryland Grace and a suggestive coworker with a sweet tooth!
You liked Ryland. He was intelligent without a doubt, but lacked the abrasive seriousness of your usual cohort. So, as two scientists thrown into astrophage research, you stuck together. (Okay, he might've been attractive too, but that was unrelated.)
(Additional) Bonus: he brought candy. Mostly sour Skittles and Twizzlers. Suitable. Not like you were particularly picky – the end of the world will do that to a person. Having the budget of several world powers' treasuries combined had its perks.
And it was so, so fun messing with him.
*ੈ✩‧₊˚
"Ry," you greeted, entering the lab for the first time that day. Usually he called your name in response, but his mouth was preoccupied today. He still looked up, nodded in acknowledgment, though with a half-eaten Twizzler dangling between his lips.
You swiped it with a quick hand as you passed, his loss accentuated by a sputtered yelp. "Hey–" his indignation ended when he saw you were eating it.
You rolled the rope around to the side of your mouth, a fluid motion you noticed his eyes caught on. "What?" His gaze snapped back upwards. You shot him a sly grin. "I can't have a snack too?"
His throat bobbed, cheeks flushed a faint pink. Such a sweetie. "Yeah, sure, but do said snacks have to be the things I already have in my mouth?"
₊˚ ✧ ━━━━⊱⋆⊰━━━━ ✧ ₊˚
Your tongue is sticking out and you're asking him if it's dyed. You liked this game – guessing what color it was based on whatever Skittle flavor you'd favored that day. You wouldn't give him the opportunity to refuse to check beforehand.
"Why are you like this?" He'd grumble, lacking heat. Not like he always looked for you anyway. Not like he scolded you – no cheating – when you didn't want to be wrong and tried sneaking peaks in mirrors. Not like your antics kept his mood light.
Today was already an unproductive day. He did not need to be imagining the other scenarios where you'd be opened wide, so pretty, for him right now. Said like a man already too far gone.
After you've deemed his inspection complete, you close your mouth and hum thoughtfully. "Red?"
Immediately, you know you're wrong by the glint in his eyes. "Green."
You groan, throwing your head back for dramatics. "I haven't been right in days, Ryland. Days. Do I really pay that little attention to what I'm eating?"
He pats your back in faux sympathy – which, hey, that's new. Are you imagining things or is he laughing too? "Yeah, yeah. Don't act like you won't try again tomorrow."
Oh, you definitely will.
And who knows? One of these times, if he plays his card right, maybe he'll get to taste your sugared tongue for himself.
